Chapter 2
The Mustering
The mustering started before dawn. Elara was woken by the sound of a motorbike and men's voices, low and purposeful in the pre-darkness. She pulled on the old pair of moleskins and a work shirt she’d found in her childhood wardrobe, the fabric stiff and smelling faintly of dust and camphor.
In the yard, Jax was already astride a solid bay stockhorse, his form silhouetted against the paling sky. He didn't look at her as she approached, just gestured to a sleek, restless chestnut mare tied to the railing.
"That's Ember. She's smart. Don't fight her."
Another man, lean and weathered, tipped his hat. "G'day. I'm Mick." He offered a gloved hand. Elara shook it, feeling like an imposter.
"Right," Jax said, his voice all business. "We're bringing in the mob from the western paddock. Mick and the boys are on the bikes. You and I will flank on horseback. Just follow my lead. And for god's sake, stay out of the way of the lead steer."
And with that, he turned his horse and moved off at a brisk trot, leaving Elara to struggle into the saddle.
Ember shifted, sensing her rider's nerves.
It had been ten years since she'd been on a horse.
The memory of the freedom, the connection, was a distant echo.
Now, it just felt awkward and high off the ground.
The sun rose as they rode, painting the land in hues of fire and gold. The air was cool and clean. For a moment, the sheer, brutal beauty of it stole her breath. This was what she had loved. This was what she had run from.
The mustering itself was a controlled chaos of dust, noise, and instinct.
The motorbikes buzzed like angry insects, herding the slow-moving river of cattle.
Jax was a part of his horse, moving with a fluid grace that was both command and partnership.
He whistled, called out, his voice a calm, steady force in the din.
Elara tried to emulate him, but she was stiff, her commands a beat too late. Ember, frustrated, began to ignore her subtle cues. They drifted too close to the herd, and a young, skittish heifer broke away.
Without a word, Jax wheeled his horse around.
He didn't yell at Elara. He just gave her a look that was more cutting than any reprimand—a look of pure, disappointed expectation.
He and Mick effortlessly cut the heifer back into the mob, their movements a silent, efficient language she no longer spoke.
By midday, the cattle were in the holding yards, and Elara was exhausted, every muscle screaming. She was covered in a fine layer of red dust, her hands raw inside the borrowed gloves. She slid off Ember, her legs buckling slightly.
Jax dismounted beside her, his own fatigue hidden behind a mask of competence. He took Ember's reins from her. "I'll see to the horses. There's food in the kitchen."
It was a dismissal. She was just extra labour. A nuisance.
Humiliation burned hotter than the sun on her neck. She stumbled towards the homestead, the gulf between her life in Sydney—of air-conditioned offices, client meetings, and almond milk lattes—and this raw, physical world feeling impossibly wide.
Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she found him on the veranda, a beer in his hand, staring out at the darkening plains. The scent of grilled meat from the barbecue Mick had cooked hung in the air.
She stood in the doorway, unsure of her welcome.
"You hungry?" he asked, not turning around.
"I'm fine."
He finally glanced over his shoulder. "Suit yourself."
She stepped out onto the veranda, the ancient floorboards creaking under her weight. "I'm sorry about today. About the heifer."
He took a long swallow of his beer. "It's been a while. You'll remember."
"It's not just that, Jax." The words tumbled out, raw and unplanned. "It's everything. This place… it reminds me of who I was. And who I hurt."
He was silent for a long time, the only sound the chorus of crickets beginning their nightly song.
"I know," he said finally, his voice low. "It reminds me, too."
He didn't say what it reminded him of. The good, or the bad. The love, or the leaving. But for the first time since she'd arrived, the wall between them felt less like a fortress and more like a scar—something that had healed, but would always be there.
The mustering had been a failure. But in the quiet of the evening, surrounded by the vast, forgiving land, the first fragile thread of understanding had been spun.