‘You’re just leaving me here?’
‘I’m not here to hold your hand.’
She scowled at him.
And yet his eyes glistened with a hint of amusement.
The prick.
‘Email me a memo of what you want.Or better yet, send it by courier pigeon and I might actually read it.’And just like that, he was gone.
No goodbye.Just an exit so abrupt it left her blinking in the vacuum he’d left behind.
Taryn was pretty sure she wanted to throttle him.Still gripping her laminated ID with the folded official memo tucked behind it, that was practically an in-house warrant granting her access to all areas.
The only other sound in the room came from the squeak of a fan struggling to rotate the air in the corner.
Taryn turned in a slow circle.Left alone in the Batcave with a suitcase full of wrinkled suits and a truckload of bureaucratic determination.Finn Wilde wasn’t the first hostile to walk away from her during an audit, and he wouldn’t be the last.
She crossed to the desk he’d clearly meant for her, considering it was the only one not buried under gear, maps, or stockwhips and spurs.Another desk held a PC, but it was so military precise with its layout of pens, Post-it notes, and other stationery items, she didn’t dare upset the meticulous feng shui layout.
The small fridge hummed more enthusiastically than the outdated fan as she yanked the door open.Snatching up a water bottle, she downed half of it like she’d just crawled in from the Simpson Desert.
With a long breath, she pulled out her notepad, flipped it open… and froze.
Tucked into the inner pocket, a photo stared back at her.Her cousin, smiling beside her, like sisters sharing a joke.
Justice wasn’t abstract.It was a job—and this job was personal.And if shutting down this so-called Stock Squad was the only way to get that justice?
Then so be it.
Two
Finn let the back door of the police station swing shut behind him with a solid thud.The unforgiving Territory sun pressed down, baking the gravel underfoot.Beyond the meshed fence and token barbed wire, which made up the police station’s small compound, the town’s airstrip shimmered like a mirage.
Mickey, the airport mechanic, was out there in his oil-streaked coveralls, playing valet with his over-sized golf buggy as he towed a light plane toward the hangar like it was a fancy sports car.
Word of the Fed’s arrival had blown through town faster than a dry-season bushfire.And Mickey, with his hate for tourists, would have given Taryn Hayes the fulltour of nothingas the grouchy welcoming committee.He’d, no doubt, made the Fed walk the long way around the airstrip just to make an entrance—suitcase, blazer, heels and all.
Finn smirked faintly.
She’d handled it, though.Didn’t crack.Even looking like she’d just rolled out of a wind tunnel, she still stood her ground with voice steady, and chin high.
Taryn hadn’t said much, but he’d seen enough to know she wasn’t just here to tick boxes and shuffle reports—and she definitely wasn’t here to help.
Which made her dangerous.
And—inconveniently—interesting.
But he had better things to do than babysit a bureaucrat.
Lydia and Brodie were waiting.And if they were right, Red was slipping stolen stock through the yards again.
He climbed into the troopy.The V8 engine rumbled to life, rough but reliable.
On the road, he spotted Cecil, the town’s unofficial mascot and full-time traffic hazard, munching weeds by the roadside like he owned the place.Finn slowed down to pass him.
Only in Elsie Creek would they have a reduced speed sign for a water buffalo.And only Cecil would be the one to ignore the road rules.
