Maxwell McCarther stood in the judging ring holding his breath. He kept his facial expression blank, not wanting to show the nerves that rattled inside of him like a road train out of control. His grip tightened on the rope which held his prized Australian Shorthorn bull, Godzilla. Max didn’t want a drama of losing his bull during judging. He was all for promoting his breeding stock but ending up on the front page of the Advertiser because he owned a crazed bull wasn’t what he was looking for.
Godzilla moved impatiently. Flicking his tail in a sharp movement that indicated he too had had enough of standing in the judging ring, on the fake lawn, under the marquee, while people sat on the metal stands watching. Max couldn’t help but wonder what the city people thought of this—him standing holding a bull by the rope, in his best cream moleskins, blue Wrangler shirt, and polished RM Williams work boots. Not many of the city folk stayed to watch, but he knew most of the people who sat for hours observing the parade of breeding stock. He tried to forget they were there, his ex-wife used to be one of them. He didn’t want to be reminded of her, and what it had cost him to cut her lose in a long drawn out divorce.
“Easy boy,” Max said softly. He inhaled deeply to settle himself and then used his left hand to rub Godzilla’s broad nose. The bull exhaled heavily. “Not long.” At least that’s what he hoped.
The judge, Frances Knott, had been looking between the two bulls for the past half hour, unable to decide which would be the champion.
Max wanted to win. He always did.
It’s an easy decision, Frances. Hurry up. Just put the championship ribbon on Godzilla, and we can all go for a beer at the Jumbuck.
Instead, Frances walked around the ring, looking between both bulls from different angles.
“He’s always slow,” whispered Nick James, a fellow competitor from Victoria, who’d been breeding cattle for nearly three generations. Just like Max had with his own bloodline, which was started by his great-grandfather and the tradition continued.
Another reason why Max wanted this win. It would put him in a good position before his stud sale in a few months. He had about a dozen of Godzilla’s sons ready to sell for breeding, and he wanted good prices. Money was always an issue on the farm—the house needed some attention, but since it was only himself he didn’t care. He needed the cash to go towards farm maintenance, which always seemed to be an endless money pit.
“He sure is.” Max forced himself to be polite to Nick. He didn’t hate the guy, just that right now he was focussed on the competition. He pushed his Akubra hat off his forehead and rubbed the imaginary itch along his hairline.
It was a close competition. He’d been eying off Nick’s bull, and he could tell there wasn’t much between the two stud animals. Godzilla was a ruddy brown even colour, his body long and broad and full of muscle. If he wanted to, the bull could make a run for it, and Max wouldn’t have the strength to stop him. Hours of walking Max around the cattle yards at night had calmed the one-tonne beast into more of a teddy bear. He rubbed him behind the ears and tried not to think of anything which would unnerve him.
“Can I have your attention please,” said the Steward speaking into the microphone.
About bloody time.
Max prepared himself.
Frances stood holding both ribbons, the champion and reserve champion. Max didn’t want the purple ribbon of reserve champion. He’d left his farm being run by a new manager this year, Tommy, and taken a risk to come to the show. Now he wanted the payoff.
“The Reserve Champion goes to Greenfields, Maxwell McCarther, from Hawker. Congratulations.”
The polite clapping from the spectators grated on Max’s ears. He grimaced as Frances hung the purple ribbon neatly over the back shoulders of Godzilla.
“A fine animal, Max, your father would be proud.”
Max shook Frances’ hand and nodded. He still couldn’t believe people said that to him, he was thirty-four and his father had been gone for nearly ten years. For some, he would always be a little boy to them.
Really, Max just wanted to get out of the ring and go slam down a cold beer. Godzilla was his best chance of a championship, and now that was blown he wasn’t much interested in the rest of the judging. He knew he shouldn’t dismiss the cows he had, but it was the bull he was most interested in receiving the championship prize for. That would’ve given him a boost in stud prices when he came to sell his bulls.
Nick’s bull was sashed with the champion ribbon, photos were taken, and Max stood while the camera’s clicked, all the time wishing to get the hell out the ring before his temper exploded. He hated sore losers, and right now he wished he could get a hold of himself. He’d never been good at accepting second place. And that included when he lost his wife. She couldn’t cope with the isolation. Left him for a bloody trucker. His past haunted him, and he struggled to push it away.
Frances had never liked him, and Max couldn’t help but be bitter about coming second because of politics rather than the actual breeding quality.Fucking stop it,he told himself, while he forced a smile once more at the camera.
He usually had nerves of steel.
Disappointment flooded through him like the Torrens River, and he felt beat. The photos stopped, and the congratulations ended or more like commiserations, the other breeders now crowded around the winner. He could finally leave the spotlight.
Dammit. The risk hadn’t paid off.
“Come on, boy.” He tugged Godzilla, who followed obediently, lumbering behind him as he pushed through the space between people.
What a bloody waste of time.
“Hey, watch it,” some young woman yelled at him, her sharp voice breaking through his self-wallowing like a knife to butter.
She stumbled backward. A young woman, blonde hair perfectly straight that went below her shoulders, she had an oval face, plump lips, and fashionable sunglasses over her eyes, which he suddenly longed to take off so he could look into them. He could tell she worked out, her arms showed a feminine strength, along with her legs as they moved to catch her balance. She was agile, and he couldn’t help thinking she could do a day’s work on the farm. His body stirred, the desires denied so long grew within him with a deep heat.
“Don’t you bother to look where you’re going?” Her words were defiant, challenging. Women he knew didn’t speak to him like that. Not even his ex-wife stood up to him. She’d hid behind a lawyer. Not that he wanted any woman to stand up to him. Max knew he hadn’t been watching where he was walking, but he wasn’t about to admit he was in the wrong. To anybody. No matter how turned on he was.
