And the cattle—hundreds of them—were putting on a full vocal performance.
One let out a deep, throaty bellow.
Another joined in from somewhere across the yards, slightly off-key.
Then a third chimed in, and suddenly it was all happening, sounding like a choir rehearsal on the wrong end of a pub night—all full of baritone bravado and no conductor.
She stared out the window, lips twitching despite herself.Half of her brain still bristled with anger.The other half?
Well, that part was waiting to see if Mr Personality beside her would suddenly break into some gruff stockman’s solo.
The thought was so absurd it made her grin flicker.
Finn shot her a sideways glance.‘What’s your problem?’
‘I was just wondering,’ she said, oh so innocently, ‘do stockmen really sing lullabies to settle the cattle?Or is that only on special occasions?’
His look was pure stone.
‘Riiight… So, what’s your go-to?Bit of Slim Dusty?Or are you more of a Dolly man?’
He said nothing.Naturally.
‘So,’ she said, resting her elbow against the passenger window.‘Do you do music?’
He still didn’t answer.
‘Or do you just sit in silence while the show tunes play in your head?’
That earned her the smallest twitch of his mouth.Not a smile—never a smile—but something.
They pulled up behind a rusting fence panel that blocked them from the yards, as a shadow darted from the edge of a shed.It was a teenager, tall, with wiry limbs, running straight to Finn’s open window.
‘Hey, Brodie.What’s up?’
The boy paused spotting Taryn.
‘Ignore her.I do.’
Charming.Not.But she’d promised to behave, even biting her tongue to stop the backchat.
‘Yeah, okay…’ The boy wiped the sweat and dirt from his face with the sleeve of his even dirtier shirt.‘Red’s sniffing around and I mean bad.’
‘How bad?’
‘He’s checkin’ Lydia’s phone, Finn.Like all the time.’The boy’s voice was filled with worry, as if he was talking about his mother.‘I heard them arguing in the office just before.I don’t think she’s safe.’
Taryn leaned slightly forward to get a good look at Brodie.He was thin and covered in dust, like it was part of his skin and suntan.But there were burn marks—pale scars that barely blended against tanned skin.Some on his neck, too.
Her stomach twisted as she recognised them.Cigarette burns.
Finn’s voice, which always had that hard edge, had softened.‘You did the right thing telling me, Brodie.’He even tapped the boy’s shoulder in reassurance.‘I won’t let anything happen to her.Not on my watch.’
Even though the boy nodded, he still looked worried.
Hold on.Why was a kid, this young, Finn’s informant?
Especially when he barely looked old enough to drive, let alone be dragged into a backdoor op for the Stock Squad.Sure, teens gave statements all the time—but this wasn’t a witness.This was a source.And Finn was treating him like a seasoned CI.
