By the time we reach the creek, the sun’s high enough that the back of my neck feels fried.My thighs ache from gripping the quad.My wrists are stiff from manoeuvring the throttle.The radio’s looped onto my belt now, coated in the same fine film of red dirt that’s now in my mouth, ears and probably my soul.
We edge them towards the water – a shallow stretch that cuts a lazy line across the land.The cattle hesitate.A few low moos echo as they bunch up at the bank, snorting at the water.
Luke rides up alongside me, face shaded by the brim of his hat, sweat gleaming at his temples.‘They don’t love crossings.Keep them calm.Let the dogs do the work.’
He whistles twice and the kelpies dart into motion again – one flanking left, the other right, nudging the herd from the sides, keeping them tight and steady.
The first cow dips a hoof into the water.Then another follows.A slow chain reaction begins, and soon they’re trudging through – splashing and sloshing, reluctant yet cooperative.
Luke glances at me.‘See?River gods are merciful today.’
‘I was about five seconds away from offering a human sacrifice.’
His eyes flick to me.‘Would’ve offered you first.’
‘I would’ve gone willingly to escape the sun.’
We push on.The sun climbs higher, the breeze loses its edge, and the sweat down my back becomes a permanent feature.The cows scatter once they’re past the creek and Luke canters ahead, cutting off two rogue steers before they disappear into the bush.
The hours pass in a rhythm: circle wide, herd them in, keep moving.The dogs start to lag, tongues lolling, bodies moving on pure instinct and adrenaline.
By the time the final gate comes into view – tucked between two fence posts in a clearing – I’m half hallucinating.The herd slows again, stubborn to the end, hooves dragging.I reckon they’re as over it as I am.
Luke swings off Banjo in one smooth, practised motion and unlatches the gate.He slaps the timber post with one hand and clicks his tongue, and the dogs surge forward, ushering the cows through with a final burst of energy.
The cows shuffle into the yard in clumps, dust coating their hides like frosting on a sad rural cake.The last one ambles through, tail flicking lazily, and the kelpies finally slow to a trot, panting hard.
Luke turns to me, chest rising and falling under his sweat-streaked shirt, his hat tipped back enough to show the creases in his forehead from frowning into the sun.
‘Nice work, B1,’ he says, voice warm and a little rough around the edges.
I pull up beside him on the quad and kill the engine.My legs wobble as I swing off.‘You doubted me.’
‘I did.’
‘I resent that.’
He smirks and closes the gate, his boots kicking up dust with each step.The heat is at full force now, pressing in from every direction.Even the birds seem too tired to make noise.The sun’s a giant, uncaring fireball above us, and everything buzzes with the dry, baked silence that only comes when the hard work is finally done.
‘Admit it,’ I say, wiping dust from my forehead with the sleeve of my t-shirt.‘You’re impressed.’
Luke glances over, expression unreadable.‘You didn’t crash.’
‘I’ll take that as high praise.’
He lifts two fingers to his lips and whistles once more, and the dogs trot obediently to his side, dirt-smeared and utterly spent.One of them flops onto the quad bike.
We ride back towards the homestead in tired silence, me on the quad bike trailing behind Banjo, dust rising in our wake in lazy golden clouds.The heat shimmers off the fence posts that guide our way.The radio crackles once, then goes quiet again.
My hands are raw.My shoulders ache.I’ve got at least four new freckles and probably heat rash in places I can’t discuss in polite company.
And still, somewhere between the creek crossing and that final whistle, I decide this beats any reformer Pilates class.
TWENTY-SEVEN
By the time we roll back to the house, the sun is directly overhead.I kill the engine of the quad bike and slide off like a corpse coming out of rigor mortis.Luke dismounts Banjo beside me, pats the gelding’s neck and murmurs something affectionate to him.It’s the kind of tone I wouldn’t mind being on the receiving end of, if I’m honest.
I lean against the fence, half in admiration, half because my legs are jelly and I need to be propped up.
