She tried to speak, but no words came out. Why hadn’t she taken the threats more seriously, instead of being placated by Tien? ‘It … it’s meant for me. I think.’ It was absurd to hope that someone else had the lightweight blue paper that probably no one used anymore. Who wrote letters, nowadays?
Who, other than her stalker, that was.
‘What?’ Dad barked. ‘Why would it be for you?’
‘I got a couple … before,’ she admitted.
Dad looked confused, then held out the paper-bound rock to her as though he wasn’t certain whether the claim made it her property.
She shook her head. She wasn’t touching it. What had been a disconcerting mystery, an almost-imaginary focus for her ire and stress, was suddenly all too real.
Dante strode forward and grabbed the rock.
‘No, Dan, leave it—’ Dad started, but Dante had already snapped the string.
He unwound the note.
Jemma shut her eyes. One last prayer, one last hope that this had nothing to do with her.
‘“Three strikes, you’re out,”’ Dante read aloud.
14
Hamish
He stood shoulder to shoulder with Lachlan, surveying the corpses. Worse than the dead animals were the sheep writhing in their death throes. Hamish hefted the .22 and put another of the beasts out of its misery. Tried not to add up the financial loss of wool, meat and breeding potential.
‘What do you reckon?’ he asked Lachlan. His brother had more years of experience on the farm than he did.
Lachlan blew out a frustrated breath. ‘If it was summer and only one sheep, I’d have put my money on it being a nope rope.’
Standing a couple of metres to the side, their father snorted. ‘But it’s not summer and you’ve lost five of the buggers. So, not a brown snake.’ It wasn’t a huge number, but depending on what was causing the issue, their flock could be decimated.
‘Nothing like stating the obvious,’ Lachlan muttered, and Hamish tensed. A few months back, their dad’s remark would have been enough to spark World War III, but lately,the animosity between the pair had dialled back a bit to a simmering ceasefire. Lachlan scowled as an obviously pregnant ewe staggered in tight circles. ‘I’m thinking maybe it’s listeriosis.’
Hamish squinted as he tried to recall the specifics of the malady. ‘Brain inflammation? Bit left field, isn’t it?’
The ewe blundered into the right-angled join of the wire fences, thrusting her head through and huffing in distress. ‘See the head tilt? Puffy eyes? Reckon I’ve heard them mentioned as listeriosis signs. You can check up on it. But I think we’re going to have to get Matt Krueger out.’
Calling the vet out to a flock would be an expensive operation.
‘We’ve never bloody had listy here,’ Dad grumbled.
‘Nope,’ Lachlan agreed. Hamish caught the tic in his brother’s jaw, and knew he was reading judgement into the comment. According to Dad, everything had been done better before the boys took over the farm. ‘But the sheep I picked up at the market the other week might have brought it in.’ He kept his gaze on the paddock, and Hamish knew Lachlan was waiting for his father’s condemnation.
‘That’d do it,’ Dad said without raising his voice, and both Lachlan and Hamish looked at him in surprise. ‘We’d better set to burning the carcasses, then. I suppose the vet can test a live one—if we have any left, that is. He won’t need to do a necropsy?’
‘I’ll give him a call and check,’ Lachlan said, reaching for his phone.
‘Let your brother do that,’ Dad said. His blue-eyed gaze swung to Hamish, deep lines weathering the pale skin that harked back to their Scottish ancestry. ‘That buggered-up arm makes you bloody useless for shifting this lot,’ he said to Hamish, with a nod toward the dead sheep. ‘But at least youcan get on to Krueger, find out what we need to do. Check whether PIRSA has to be involved. Let’s hope the hell not, or we could lose the lot of them.’
Dad had spent years telling Hamish he was useless, but this was different. His father was not only evincing a modicum of concern about his injured arm but also recognising his strengths in the administration of the farm. It wouldn’t do to acknowledge the unusual display, though. ‘I can lend a hand here first,’ he said.
Dad held out his hand for the rifle. ‘You’ll be more use in the office. Lachlan and I’ll take care of this lot.’ He turned to his eldest son. ‘The ones that are shoving themselves into the fences are goners.’ Four of the sheep had now forced themselves between the wires, evidently driven mad by the brain swelling. ‘Reckon we’ll split out those that can walk straight, though, shift them to another paddock?’ Unusually, his words held the inflection of a question, and the plan implied a collaboration rather than the terse orders the brothers had become accustomed to over the years.
‘Yep.’ Lachlan whistled up his kelpie, Bodie. ‘And cross our fingers bloody tight they’ll pull through.’
‘You move them. I’ll put down the others. Can’t let the stupid animals suffer.’
