‘Blokes who’ve been working solo for months finally get a chance to talk, shake hands, and have a yarn over a beer.Deals are made, sure—but so are friendships and favours.A lot of them don’t come for the stock, they come for the company.Because out here, knowing you’re not the only one doing it tough, that’s worth more than any cattle sale.Don’t you agree?’
Amara barely nodded, but she got the message loud and clear.It was more than an auction—it was a mental health check.Making her look at the auction with a different set of eyes.
The local nurses had set up a blood donor tent beside the food stalls, tucked in like part of a fair.But Amara knew exactly why it was there.She was all too aware of how high the suicide rates were among the men in the Northern Territory.Well, within the farming community as a whole, really.
There was a group of old stockmen propped up in wheelchairs and walkers, swapping memories like currency.The next generation of kids, with hats too big for their heads, scampered after their fathers.Around the cattle pens, stockmen leaned on the rails, their boots scuffing the dust, nodding, pointing, comparing notes on breeding lines and market prices.But mostly, they were just talking.
Because out here, connection mattered just as much as the cattle.
And for a girl a long way from home, she’d never felt lonelier.
‘Lydia?’Craig waved over a middle-aged woman in jeans and the same stockman’s shirt everyone else wore, except she was carrying a clipboard and a handheld radio.
‘Hey, stranger.’Lydia, smelling of lavender, leather and sunshine, bundled up Craig in a hug like a mother.
Close behind her, stood a lanky-legged teenager, in a big old hat and even older boots and dirty jeans, carrying a box.
‘Finn, have you met Lydia Galloway?She runs the clerk’s office and knows everything about the stock in this yard.’
‘Hush now, you.’Lydia humbly patted at her neck as if to tidy her hair, while the shade from her stockman’s hat darkened the blush.
‘We met a while back.Good to see you again, Lydia.’Finn held out his hand.
Lydia wiped her hand down her clean shirt, just like the other men did out of habit, before shaking Finn’s hand.‘Well done on catching that road train of stolen steers.’
‘Thanks.’Finn was a man of so few words, he’d mastered the art of creating the awkward silence.
‘And this is Brodie Cross, the muscle of the yard,’ Craig introduced the teenager.
‘That I is.’The kid gave a cheeky grin, playfully flexing his skinny arm like a body builder while balancing his box of stationery items with the other.
‘And this is Amara.She’s part of our team, too,’ said Craig.‘Amara is like you, Lydia, our paperwork queen.’
At least Craig didn’t call her Duchess.
She shook hands with Lydia.Anyone who could manage an event like this had to be a managerial mastermind, which meant she probably didn’t have time for chitchat, especially on days like this.‘What do you know about lot 728?This horse.’She tugged her tablet free from the custom-made pocket in her police vest and, with a quick swipe, showed the screen.
‘Hmm…’ Lydia’s brow ruffled.‘Is this about a criminal case?’
‘Um.No…’ Amara pinched at her collar, smoothing the fabric over her perfectly pressed creases—like it’d never dare wrinkle in public.
‘It’s for me.Maybe?’If the horse was as good in real life as on paper, maybe.And that was abigmaybe.When she should be saying no and not even ask about it.
‘Really?’Craig grinned at her.‘Have you seen it yet?’
‘No.I’m good.’No, she did not need a horse.
‘You should.’Finn’s tone was brisk.‘Craig, go with the constable and use that picky stock inspector’s eye.Here, give me this, Brodie.You can show Craig and Amara where it is, while I help Lydia.’
Lydia’s eyes widened as she gazed up at the sheer size of Finn, who’d made the box seem small as he led her the other way.
‘This way,’ said Brodie.‘Your boss looks mean with all them tatts.’
‘Finn’s all right.’Craig gave a casual shrug as they walked through the maze of fenced yards.‘What do you know about this horse?’
‘Nothing.It’s just one of ‘em midnight specials.’
‘The what special?’Amara scampered to catch up, passing various pens of white and brown Brahman cattle of differing ages.Their mewls rolled in waves.One would call to another, then over the other side more would chorus in, as they shifted their big hooves, stirring the dust to create a red haze in the air.
