Fourteen
It had taken all day for the police to conduct their investigation inside the cave hidden at Cattleman’s Keep. They had taken photos, methodically boxing and bagging up all the items, before finally zipping the skeletons into a pair of black body bags and taking them away in the town’s one and only ambulance.
By the time Ryder drove Charlie back to the homestead, the sun was long gone. The deep rumbling engine of the Razorback announced their return to the sheds behind the caretaker’s cottage, where he parked it beside Bree’s bright yellow Kombi van.
A rich, savoury aroma of something baking filled the air, releasing hints of butter and herbs that blended beautifully with the subtle smokiness of roasting vegetables. Together, the scents created a mouth-watering medley, that was enough to make Ryder’s tummy rumble.
‘Smells like the kid is back from the muster.’ Charlie grabbed his trusty tin mug and thermos from the back of the old bull catcher.
‘They must have finished that muster in record time.’ Carrying the esky and water cooler, Ryder followed Charlie down the concrete path lit by a row of solar-powered bollard lights.
‘Bree doesn’t muck around when she’s head stockwoman. Come on, you must be hungry.’ Charlie’s bandy-legged swagger was heavy, reflecting how tired they both were as they passed the silent blacksmith shop on their right. The stables stood on their left with the grand view of the lush paddock, called Drover’s Rest, that lay between them.
Through the wrought-iron gate, they entered the complex vegetable garden, with its crazy paved rock paths that led to the back of the stone cottage’s entertainment area, which was lit up with outdoor fairy lights.
Ryder had been lucky enough to score an invitation to their Saturday pizza nights, twice. On those nights, the large pizza oven was ablaze, with Charlie using a long paddle to tend the pizzas, in between stoking its flames like a blacksmith’s furnace.
Ryder had heard Bree call that pizza oven Charlie’s outdoor oven, and some mornings the aroma of baking bread reached them all the way at the farmhouse to torture them.
It’s where they found Bree working with a sizzling cast-iron frypan in the outdoor kitchen, with the large table set for dinner. ‘Beer or gin?’
‘Beer.’ Ryder was grateful for the offer.
She handed them both an ice-cold beer.
Ryder thirstily chugged the bitter-tasting ale. It was just what he needed after a long day.
‘Got enough tucker for the boss man, kid?’
‘The boss, no. For Ryder, sure. Do you eat fish? Got some fresh barra.’
Ryder nodded. He’d gladly eat anything she cooked. ‘I hear you guys go fishing in the mornings.’
‘You betcha. That’s when we’re checking our cherabin pots in the Scary Forest, that’s got some red claw, too. But this time of the year, them freshwater crustaceans like to burrow under for a bit. In a few months we’ll have feasts again.’ Charlie washed his hands at the outdoor sink.
By the time Ryder had washed and dried his hands, Bree had dished out plates of baked sweet potato, a fresh garden salad and thick barramundi steaks coated in garlic butter with a basket of fresh crusty bread. It was a struggle to stop salivating.
‘Dig in, we deserve it.’ Charlie sat at the head of the table. Bree was on his left, with Ryder opposite her.
As the outdoor widescreen played in the background, dinner conversation was light, as Charlie explained to Bree what had happened with the police. ‘… And I’ve asked Ryder to take a gander at the murder file.’
‘Why?’ Bree delicately placed her cutlery down on her empty plate, to sip from her glass of gin.
‘Because I don’t believe my brother is a murderer. Harry just never had it in him.’
‘Have you read his letter yet?’
‘Nah, I was waiting for you, kid.’ Charlie dropped his cutlery onto his plate, then dragged the envelope out of his pocket. It was dirty and bent from Charlie staring at it all day, but he’d never opened it. ‘The coppers would have wanted it for evidence, so we didn’t tell ‘em about it, not until we’ve read it first.’
Fully satiated, having cleaned up his second serving of food, Ryder went to move. ‘I should go.’
‘Nah, stay, son.’ Charlie held Ryder’s shoulder. ‘It might help you if you’re gonna look at the murder file.’
‘Do you have the murder file?’ Bree narrowed her green eyes at Ryder.
‘Marcus is emailing me a copy. And no, I will not show you the pictures.’
‘I don’t want to see them.’ Bree screwed her nose up. ‘I may seem cold and callous, but I don’t get any macabre kick out of peeking at photos of dead people, thank you.’
‘Did I say you were?’ Ryder grumbled back at her.
‘Says the—'
‘Play nice, kid.’ Charlie pushed the envelope across the table. ‘We should have a port for this. Do you want one, Ryder?’
Ryder hesitated, waiting for that smart-arse response from the redhead seated opposite.
‘Even if you might consider it poor-man’s plonk, it’s a good port. We just don’t do sugarcane champagne and cigars like you do, cupcake.’
Was she deliberately trying to get a rise out of him by using that nickname? Wait a second, what had Charlie said about her like for cupcakes?
Hmm, maybe she did like him, if she’d nicknamed him after her favourite food.
Nope, that cunning redhead did it to make him bite.
So he responded by frowning at her.
Of course, she matched his frown with a don’t give me that look! ‘Hey, what’s that bottle Dex says only comes out for special occasions or commiserations?’
‘The Master’s Keep.’
‘See…’ Bree playfully wagged her finger, giving it a little twist for emphasis. ‘Even the name says it’s a boss man’s drink. So be brave and have some port. It might surprise you.’
‘Well, okay then, I’ll have some poor-man’s plonk.’ He liked it when Bree played nice, with her grin barely curling across her lips.
Bree cleared the plates off the table, following Charlie into the house. Ryder grabbed the last of the serving dishes, to follow them inside. He never did this at the farmhouse, but he was a guest here, plus he was keen to see inside the cottage that was over a hundred years old.
Inside the temperature dropped a few degrees, but there were no fans on the low ceiling. The stained-glass windows that bookended the front door were open, allowing in the sweet scent of florals coming from Charlie’s flower garden.
To his right stood a large kitchen with deep double sinks and a solid timber countertop. The lower cupboards were old and worn, and the overhead cupboards had no doors, but they were full of assorted vegetable and fruit preserves as if he’d stepped back into some homesteading era.
Ryder placed the serving tray on the impressive island bench made from one slab of timber. ‘No dishwasher?’ He’d bought one for Harper to use in the farmhouse kitchen because no one wanted to do dishes.
‘I wish,’ said Bree at the sink. ‘It’s a lifelong punishment, eh, Pop?’
‘You’ve got two hands, kid.’ Charlie winked at her as he grabbed some port glasses. ‘Leave them for tomorrow, kid.’
‘Don’t need to tell me twice.’ Bree dragged out a glass jug, which she filled with water from the large water cooler by the door. Above it stood a long rack of assorted hats and coats, that shaded an assortment of working boots.
‘What’s with you, cupcake? Are you here to do some property inspection as the land baron?’ Bree put the water jug on the bench to cross her arms over her chest.
‘It’s the first time I’ve been inside.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Nope.’
‘Well, consider this your quick two-dollar tour of the caretaker’s cottage.’ She pointed to the open doorway on the right as Charlie rattled around in the kitchen. ‘That’s Charlie’s room. As you can see the lounge and living area commands the centre space, where they used to have a fireplace.’ Bree sounded like a real estate agent. ‘Oh, and that’s the best couch in the world.’ She fluffed up some cushions against the long leather couch that ran beneath the stained-glass windows.
‘So I’ve heard. I bet if I sat in that I’d fall asleep after that meal and this long day.’
Finally, she shared a sweet and soft smile that made it all the way to her pretty green eyes. ‘I’d do the same.’
He then spotted the branding irons resting high on the wall the way someone would display their swords. ‘You know that’s our cattle brand, right?’
‘Pfft. You need to talk to Charlie about that one.’
‘I did. But the old man won’t accept any bribes for it.’
Bree knew that, obviously, from her sly smile. The woman had a catalogue of smiles to suit every occasion—from sweet to sarcastic, sly to positively sinful.
Ryder pointed to a large black-and-white image on the wall of a man on a bucking bull. ‘Is that you, Charlie?’
Rattling around in the cupboards, Charlie peeked over the counter. ‘Yep. That’s me and Buckshot. The bugger who made me retire from the rodeo.’
‘Pop was the king of the rodeo, especially with bulls.’
‘Like local champion?’
‘Three times Australasian Champion, thank you.’
Charlie shrugged with a touch of regret, lowering his head and slowly rubbing the back of his thick neck.
‘The Station Hand mentioned you were a rodeo champion…’ Ryder took another look at the large bookcase, packed with rodeo trophies and shiny belt buckles. A gold-plated set of spurs, were set alongside a set of chaps and a rodeo rider’s leather vest, encased in glass and hung like a prized portrait on the wall.
Yet again, it was the legacy brands that caught his eye. The one that belonged to Elsie Creek Station, that somehow Charlie owned. ‘Who do the other two branding irons represent?’
‘The top one is the Splint family brand. My father made that one for my brother.’ Charlie cleared his throat as he wiped over his face. ‘And the other one is the Wilde brand. I made that one for my, um, great-grandson.’
Neither of them were alive today.
‘Shall we strike while the iron’s hot and open this letter, Pop? So you can get some rest?’
‘Yeah, let’s do it, then we can put this cracker of a day to bed.’ Carrying the bottle of port and glasses, Charlie hobbled outside, his weary walk showing his age, as the strain etched in the crevices of his sun-hardened face.
As Charlie poured the port, Bree turned off the TV, creating a heavy silence. Under the glow of fairy lights, a delicate tinkling sound came from a set of wind chimes caused by a soft breeze that carried the inviting scents from the nearby vegetable garden. It was enough for Ryder to sink heavily into his comfy outdoor chair, feeling the weight of a long day.
He sipped on the strong port Charlie passed to him, the deep ruby liquid coating his tongue. It was rich and smooth, like velvet over his palate, carrying a quiet heat, spreading slowly through his chest. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall asleep here—he hadn’t felt this level of comfort in a long time. ‘Nice port.’
‘Told you it was a good poor-man’s plonk,’ murmured Bree, as she opened the envelope, yellowed with age, that had long since lost its glue. Yet, the pages of the letter itself were surprisingly well-preserved.
‘ Dear brother…’ She gave Charlie’s hand a tender squeeze.
‘Go on, kid. One clean strike, like you said—get it done.’
Bree lifted the pages and read aloud:
Hey, Splinter, it’s Harry.
I’ve never been much for writing, so I’m sorry that I was left with little choice except to put this down in a letter when I really wanted to tell you this in person. But I wanted to avoid you giving me a good bollocksing for falling for a married woman, Penelope Price.
I didn’t mean to fall in love with her. And neither did she. It just happened.
But, mate, that’s what love does. It makes grown men do dumb things, and I know this might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Yet it feels so flaming right.
I didn’t expect to fall in love with her, or the amount of trouble that soon followed.
So, I’m just gonna be as blunt as can be…
Jack Price is not who he says he is. Jack Price was actually born Jake Blackwell. A deserter from the Army, who is wanted for stealing a truckload of shotguns.
‘Wait.’ Ryder lifted his hand. ‘Is that why you’ve got so many shotguns stashed all over the place?’ He asked the redhead sitting opposite him. ‘That shottie of yours I fixed is a 1960 Winchester M12. Commonly used by the Army in that era.’
Bree barely shrugged.
Ryder tilted his head slightly, pressing his lips into a thin line. ‘How many shotguns do you have?’
‘Can we hold off on the questions till after she’s finished reading the letter, please?’ urged Charlie. ‘Go on, kid.’
Bree adjusted the pages and went on:
The problem was Jack—or Jake—had sold those stolen guns to this mob down south. Instead of delivering them, like he’d promised, the scoundrel kept them and drove north. He met Penelope along the way, before getting a job here at the station as a stockman. He’d been a drover, mustering on various cattle stations in Queensland before he joined the Army. You always said Jack Price was a good head stockman for Elsie Creek Station .
‘That I did.’ Charlie gave a short nod.
Without missing a beat, Bree carried on:
‘The only reason we found out that Jack was Jake was because Penelope and I found this huge stash of cash, inside these old army ammo tins, that were hidden in the floor of the caretaker’s cottage. Her husband had been hoarding it from selling those stolen shotguns in the pub.
But now someone is after him.
There are some bad people looking for Jack, and it’s got him worried. He’s been drinking heavily, pacing the front of the caretaker’s cottage with the shotgun at night like an armed guard, waiting for someone or something. And that mongrel has been taking it out on his wife.
Poor Penelope, the bruises he’d leave on her skin, no woman deserves that. So of course, I agreed to help her.
You see, when Penelope found that money, she searched the house for more clues and found Jack’s passport. His real one, showing his true name as Jake Blackwell. She showed it to me on her birthday when I got her a special handbag for a present.’
‘I bet he’s talking about the handbag we found, when we relocated Carked-it,’ said Bree, pausing to take a sip of water.
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ mumbled Ryder.
‘I reckon you’re both right,’ said Charlie. ‘Anyhoodle, keep going.’ He waved his hand in circles at Bree as if to hurry her up with her reading.
Again, Bree flicked the pages of the letter and read aloud:
That’s when we both realised, Penelope had not only married a liar, but if Jack Price didn’t exist, then her marriage wasn’t legitimate.
But finding that marriage certificate is taking a lot longer than we expected, and it’s vital that we find it before we leave.
You see, Penelope believes Jack tricked her into marrying him so he could get a marriage certificate, that he then used to get a driver’s licence under his new name. They were married at the courthouse where Penelope worked as a clerk, believing she was in love, looking forward to the adventure of moving north.
It was only later that Penelope realised that when Jack took her to the local police station, soon after they’d arrived in Elsie Creek, he’d used Penelope, unknowingly, as an accessory to help create his false identity, in a new state, before starting his new job at Elsie Creek Station.
So really, Penelope Price isn’t a married woman.
But the thing is, if she isn’t married to Jack, she’d have no right to any of his property, especially the money she’d found. Whereas I believe Pen bloody well deserves all the cash, just for what the mug put her through over the years.
I don’t think Jack ever loved her. Not like I do. So know this, brother: Penelope is the woman I’m going to marry.
Our plan is to head to Queensland. We’ve got enough to buy a small farm. But first, Pen and I need to go to the police and tell them about Jack. We can’t do that anywhere near Elsie Creek—not with Jack too close for comfort. Worse, I fear whoever is after Jack might use Penelope as bait to get to him.
We both know it’ll take time for the authorities to work out if Pen’s marriage is legitimate or not, and I’m willing to wait for as long as it takes. I’ve left her before to work as a linesman for the new telephone lines, I won’t leave her behind again.
So, I’ve been working on this goldmine. It’s not much, just a cave I’ve reinforced, but it had a rich vein of gold ore. I found it accidentally, chasing a calf when doing the boundary run. Back then it was only a crack in the wall, and being crumbly stuff, it fell away easily to reveal a cave.
It’s where Pen and I would meet in secret. She’d ride through the monsoon forest, and I’d take the long way round. It became our place to be free, and to be together.
But that cave produced enough gold to leave some with you. Don’t worry, Charlie, I’ve got plenty to start my new life with Pen, and well, the lady is loaded. I think she cleaned out Jack’s stash of cash.
Anyhoodle, brother, we’ve got Jack’s papers hidden in Pen’s suitcase. She’s sewn a hidden pocket in there, she’s clever like that.
Just so you know, we haven’t rushed this, because we found that cash in September, the same week I came back to work at the station, that’s when Pen asked for my help to escape. We’ve had our bags packed since October. We have Jack’s passport and all his other paperwork, both fake and real, we just need their marriage certificate. Once we have that, we’ll be making a run for it, fast, which is why I’m writing this now to not forget.
We know Jack is a dangerous man and not to be trusted. I pray he doesn’t take this out on you. So Pen and I reckon you should tell Darcie everything and stay as far away from Jack as you can, little brother.
As I write this letter, you’re out mustering with Darcie, then you said you’ll be droving for a while. Hopefully, you won’t miss me much, until I can send word of where I am. Keep an ear out for the new telephones I installed at the homestead, as I’ll call once we’re settled.
Anyhoodle, the crate of gold I’ve left for you should clear all my debts, even if you wanted none of it back, but you were way too generous, little brother, with your rodeo winnings that you always shared with me. And you did help me buy my car we’re using to run away. Just be sure to save some dosh from the gold, because I want you scrubbing up to be my best man, because, mate, I’m getting married.
In the meantime, take care, little brother. I’ll be taking the family brand, so you’ll always be with me. Keep your chin up, Splinter, and may your arse always sit well in that stockman’s saddle, with that stockwhip whirling like the wind, as you keep an eye on an outback sunrise.
From your big brother,
Harry.
Bree folded up the letter, slid it back inside the envelope, and placed it in front of her grandfather. ‘I don’t know about you two, but that doesn’t sound like a letter from a murderer.’