The Mustering of Courage
The days that followed were a study in excruciating politeness. They were two planets orbiting the same sun, careful never to drift too close. The easy rhythm they’d found was gone, replaced by a script of“please” and“thank you” and“pass the salt.” The memory of the kiss hung between them, a ghost at every meal, a shadow in every shared glance.
Elara threw herself into the work with a grim determination, trying to outrun the ache in her chest. She learned to fix fences with a quiet competence, her hands growing tough and capable. She could now read the cattle’s moods, anticipate their movements. She was becoming the stockman’s partner her grandfather had perhaps hoped she could be, and the irony was a bitter pill.
One afternoon, they were mustering a small, difficult mob from a rocky, timbered area. The work was slow, requiring patience and stealth. Elara, riding Ember, found herself cut off from Jax and Mick by a thick stand of gum trees. She could hear the distant sounds of the bikes and the cattle, but for a moment, she was alone.
It was in that quiet isolation that she saw it—a ewe, trapped in a patch of blackberry bushes, her leg bent at an unnatural angle. She was exhausted, her cries weak and pathetic.
Elara’s heart clenched. Without a second thought, she dismounted, tying Ember to a tree. She approached the ewe slowly, talking in a low, soothing voice. The thorns tore at hershirt and skin as she reached in, but she ignored the sting. Gently, carefully, she worked to free the trapped leg.
It was a long, painful process. The ewe struggled at first, but eventually stilled, as if understanding Elara was trying to help. Finally, with a last, careful tug, the leg came free. It was broken.
“Oh, you poor girl,” Elara murmured, her eyes filling with tears of frustration and pity. She couldn’t leave it here to die.
She heard the crunch of boots on dry leaves and looked up. Jax was there, his horse standing patiently behind him. He’d come looking for her. He took in the scene—the torn blackberry bush, the bleeding ewe, the determined, tear-streaked dirt on Elara’s face.
Without a word, he knelt beside her. He examined the leg with a practiced eye.“Clean break. We can splint it.”
He pulled a knife from his belt and cut a straight, sturdy stick from a nearby sapling. Then, he ripped a strip of cloth from the bottom of his own shirt. Together, their hands brushing in the process, they fashioned a rough splint for the ewe’s leg.
It was the first time they had truly touched since the storm.
When they were done, Jax gently lifted the ewe.“I’ll take her back to the homestead. We’ll put her in the pen near the shed, try to get her strong again.”
He looked at Elara, really looked at her, for the first time in days. His gaze was no longer guarded, but soft, full of a quiet, profound respect.
“You’ve changed, Lara,” he said, his voice low.“The city girl I knew would have ridden on. Or at least, come to get me to do the dirty work.”
“The city girl was scared,” she said, holding his gaze, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.“Scared of getting hurt, scared of being vulnerable, scared of needing anyone.” She took a shaky breath.“I’m not that girl anymore, Jax. And I’m not scared to admit that I was wrong. About everything. About leaving. About us.”
The confession hung in the dusty air between them. It was her muster. The gathering of all her courage to lay her truth before him, with no storm to hide behind, no excuse of heightened emotion.
He was silent for a long moment, the weight of her words settling over him. The ewe bleated softly in his arms.
“I know,” he said finally, his voice rough with emotion.“I’ve been watching you. I see it.” He shifted the ewe’s weight.“Let’s get this one home.”
He turned and walked back to his horse, but the set of his shoulders was different. Less rigid. The wall hadn't come down, but a gate had been opened. And for the first time since the morning after the storm, Elara felt a flicker of hope. She had shown him her heart. Now, she could only wait to see if he was still willing to live in it.
Chapter 8:
The Verandah Light
The ewe, now named Lucky by an unspoken agreement, became a permanent resident in a small pen near the machinery shed. Her recovery became a shared project, a neutral ground where they could meet without the weight of their history. They took turns feeding her, changing her bandages, and as the days passed and the bone began to knit, a fragile new normal began to settle.
One evening, after a long day of repairing a broken water pump, Elara found Jax on the verandah. He wasn't staring out at the land, but was bent over the old, scarred wooden table, a stack of ledgers and a calculator before him. The verandah light cast a warm, yellow pool around him, moths dancing in its glow.
She hovered in the doorway. "Trouble?"
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration she remembered well. "Just the books. It's... a lot. Always is." He looked up, and the weariness in his eyes was more than physical. "Your grandfather had a way with numbers I never did."
"I could help," she offered softly, stepping into the light. "I do run a multi-million dollar marketing budget. I think I can handle a station ledger."
A faint, wry smile touched his lips. "Right. The high-flyer from Sydney." But he didn't refuse. He slid the ledger towards her.
For the next two hours, they worked side-by-side. Elara’s mind, so used to navigating complex data and client demands, easilyuntangled the knotted columns of income and expenditure. She found efficiencies he’d missed, potential government grants he was eligible for. It was a different kind of mustering, a corralling of numbers instead of cattle, and they fell into the same easy rhythm they’d found on horseback.
Finally, she closed the last ledger. "There. It's not so bad. You're actually in better shape than you think."
