She could just hear David Attenborough narrating this himself:Here we have the lesser-spotted Territory ringer—dust-covered, and unbothered.Watch closely as he blends seamlessly into the scrub, communicating only through nods, cattle movement, and the occasional grunt.
He’d stand out in the city like a goat at a board meeting.But out here?He is camouflaged perfection.
‘That’s Bob.’Bree nodded at the phone’s screen.‘Or as some like to call him, Two-bob Bob.’
Taryn frowned.Two-Bob Bob.Just like that truck driver Tooley had mentioned.‘Is that name for real?’
Bree gave a dry huff.‘It’s his nickname,buttons.’
Taryn rolled her eyes while Finn shot her a questioning glance.
‘His real name is Samuel Ward,’ continued Bree.‘He’s Seery’s cousin, if I remember correctly.’
‘As in Sawyer Dixby?’Finn asked.
Taryn had read the name.He’d been the missing overseer of Dixby Downs on the Wild Stock case.
Bree nodded.‘Bob was lead ringer, running muster crews out near Tinderflats Station.Quiet as a shadow, he is.Always looking like he’d just rolled out of the scrub.But don’t let the looks fool you, he’s good, too.Bob knows cattle like most men know their footy stats.I’ve seen him read a mob and tell you which heifer would throw a good calf, and which one would cause havoc going up the rails.’
‘What else do you know about him?’Finn dragged a pillow from his swag and tucked it behind Bree’s back.
She eased into the chair with a wince, one hand on her baby bump.‘By rights, Bob should’ve made head stockman out at Tinderflats.’
Finn dragged over another chair, and lifted Bree’s feet to rest.Then passed her a glass of water without her even asking.
And not once did Bree complain.
‘Bit young to be a top hand, isn’t he?’Taryn asked Bree.
‘Believe me, Bob’s got the skills.And it was promised to him.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, the owner of Tinderflats—the Colonel, who never served a day in the military in his life—liked to run Tinderflats like it was a battalion until he semi-retired.’
‘And Bob was to get the job?’Finn asked Bree.
‘That was until the Colonel’s son came home, fresh from another failed business venture in Darwin.As a kid, the guy has zero stock sense and a chip on his shoulder the size of a rusty water tank.But word is, the Colonel gave him the job, hoping being head stockman would straighten him out.But now they’ve got long-time stockmen looking for work elsewhere, leaving Tinderflats to hustle for contractors.’
Stockmen that angry, overlooked, and ready to walk—it was the perfect conditions.Especially if the Colonel had handed the reins to someone unfit, because then Tinderflats Station wouldn’t even know if their stock was missing.
‘Do you know the name of the contractors?’Finn asked with that deep rumble.
‘No.Why would I?’
And then it clicked.Bob, or Two-bob Bob, was Samuel Ward.SW.The initials on the dockets for stolen stock.SW Rural Contracting.Her fingers itched to do a search on her laptop.
Before Finn or Taryn could ask another question, an engine roared down the track.
A black, beastly ute, the top-of-the-range kind, slid to a halt with dust curling in waves behind it.
‘And that,’ Bree muttered with a sigh, as she dropped her feet from the chair, ‘would be the cavalry.’
Finn helped Bree to her feet.‘Did you tell him you were coming?’
Bree grinned.
‘Great.So now I’ve got to deal with Ryder Riggs.’
