Hamish caught each in turn, pinning it against the rails with one knee, then sliding the gun into the corner of the sheep’s mouth, behind the teeth so that the aluminium tube went over its tongue to deftly administer a dose of oral ivermectin. After thousands of doses, he had the procedure down pat, but still, it wasn’t a speed test. He had to be careful not to damage the back of the sheep’s throat with the nozzle and the gun had to be positioned perfectly so the sheep couldn’t spit the dose out nor could the liquid go down to the wrong stomach, where it would be useless. He and Lachlan swapped roles frequently so their backs didn’t cramp from the hunched position.
‘There you go, Jemma,’ Hamish said, releasing the ewe and giving her a rap on the rump to hurry her along the passage.
‘I was waiting to see how long that would take you,’ Lachlan called above the bleating sheep.
Hamish shrugged. ‘Clear ran out of names.’ It was a game he and Lachlan had played when they were kids whenever they had to work through the flock, giving each sheep a name as though they’d remember one animal from another.
‘Yeah, right. After only a couple-dozen sheep?’
‘I’m out of practice. Take it the worm burden was high in this lot?’ he said, changing the subject. As far as he recalled, they didn’t generally drench in winter. He was enjoying reacquainting himself with the farming practices. Even worm infestations. And Lachlan was a good teacher: never big-noted himself, didn’t preach. Just laid it out there and got on with the job.
‘Yep. These are the new ones from the market last week. Got Jack to do a faecal count on ours, as he reckons overuse of drench sets up resistance in the flock.’ Hamish had read the studies, but Lachlan relied on word-of-mouth and set great stock in input from Jack Schenscher, although their greenie mate ran his property on far more bio-sustainable lines than the MacKenzie family holding adopted. ‘They’re good, but this lot clearly has an issue, so I figure we’ll treat and isolate before they go into the regular paddocks.’
‘You’re the boss. On your way, Macey.’ He pushed another sheep along the run.
‘Thought you’d know enough girl’s names to keep us going for hours,’ Lachlan teased. ‘We’ll shift this lot to the far west paddock, the one with the longer grass, when we’re done. That way they won’t pick up more eggs while they’re grazing. What do you reckon?’
‘Sounds good, right, Mabel?’
‘Can’t use that one, bro. That was Mum’s favourite cow’s name when we were kids, remember?’
‘It’s either that or I’m starting with Playboy Playmates.’
‘Retro.’
Hamish grunted as the sheep he’d grabbed bucked against his grasp, clamping her jaw tight as he tried to ease it open with his thumb. ‘Awkward bitch. Should have saved Jemma’s name for this one.’
‘Man, you’re really dark on her. She must have shot you down in flames.’
‘I promise you, there’s nothing even vaguely related to flames going on there. Total ice queen. I’ve never in my life met someone so uptight.’
‘Yet it sounds like you’re kind of invested. Swap.’ Lachlan reached for the drench gun. ‘Bodie, go with Ham.’ As always, the kelpie was attached to Lachlan like Velcro.
Hamish slid his arms out of the backpack and handed the rig to Lachlan. ‘Hell, no. Maybe intrigued. But not invested. I like a woman who can at least crack a smile. Everyone knows lawyers are barely human, but she’s next-levelling it.’
‘Barely human?’
‘It’s all about the money for them, isn’t it? No morals, no ethics, just bowing down to the almighty dollar. I mean, she reeks of money.’ Or very expensive perfume, anyway. ‘The hair, the clothes.’
‘Can’t say I noticed,’ Lachlan replied, wiping sheep snot onto his jeans. ‘But God forbid someone hangs around Settlers in anything other than a flannie.’ He nodded at Hamish’s plaid shirt. ‘Besides, what about Gabby? You get on fine with her, but you can’t tell me she wasn’t fancy when she moved here.’
‘Yeah. But we fixed her.’ The elegant woman with a French accent had been the talk of the town when she’d moved there three years earlier with plans to restore a dilapidated riverfront inn. ‘Jemma wore bloody Connies onto the boat. White ones, too.’
‘Connies?’
‘Leather sneakers. Easy hundred-and-fifty a throw.’ He’d noticed the shoes when he’d made an excuse to hold Jemma’s hand for a long second, helping her off the boat. It had seemed for a moment there that perhaps she would thaw just the tiniest bit. But then she’d snatched her hand back and marched off.
‘She probably thought she was going on a nice Sunday cruise, not down the creek with some yahoo.’
‘Upriver, if you don’t mind.’
They worked in silence for a while, Hamish sectioning the sheep and pushing them through with Bodie’s help, Lachlan wielding the drench gun.
‘Thing is,’ Hamish said, unable to help himself, ‘why would anyone want to be like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘I dunno. Bitter.’
