Chapter 4
Four
The sun hadn’t fully risen when Taryn stepped out of the pub with her workbag over her shoulder, ready to get on with it.
‘Morning, Miss.’ Billy tapped his hat brim in a charming salute, falling into step beside her as they crossed the road, becoming her unofficial chaperone. He waved at nearly everyone they passed, introducing her with a cheerful volume and zero shame, ‘This here’s the Fed—don’t hold it against her.’
It helped. A little.
Pfft, who was she kidding?
It was clear everyone already knew who she was as she made her way to the brightly lit food van at the train station.
With the stockyards stretched out behind it, the food van was a busy place at this hour, where the stockmen gave her a wide berth.
And the station owners, seated at the outdoor tables, sent glares her way like warning shots.
Even if the whole town saw her as the enemy, she was used to it. The side eye and the suspicion came with her job. Besides, she wasn’t here to make friends—she was here for justice.
But to make peace at the office, she loaded up on warm lamingtons and bush-spiced sausage rolls and headed for the Batcave. Because today she started the interviews.
First, she had to get past Cecil…
Nibbling on the fire station’s perfect green lawn, the town’s walking billboard was dressed in blue ribbons and a tasteful display of assorted paper flowers. Today’s announcement scrawled across his black sides was:
DANCING CLASSES:
TONIGHT @ THE LODGE
ALL WELCOME
Cecil raised his enormous head. The ribbons fluttered around his wide horns as he sniffed the air. But then his whole body shifted to face her, effectively blocking her path, showing off the impressive flower display he wore like a crown. He’d be perfect for weddings.
‘What are we doing, Cecil?’ Eyeing him warily, she took a slow step sideways. ‘I’m not a good dancer…’
Again, Taryn crab-walked away, trying not to spill her coffee and pastries, while maintaining some dignity.
But now her heels were coated in red dust, again, and the pastry bags had started to sag from the heat—but she was still on a mission to make it to the office.
Tanisha wasn’t in yet, but the receptionist’s desk held photos of some cats, assorted glitter in tiny plastic jars, and a cactus mug that said Don’t Be a Prick.
Taryn set the pastry box down on the large table near Tanisha’s workstation and scribbled out a sticky note:
Thought the team might be hungry, Taryn.
She headed down the hallway, hearing David Attenborough narrate her approach in that hushed, reverent tone usually reserved for nesting sea turtles: And here, the lone female ventures into the heart of unfamiliar territory—a space referred to by locals as the Batcave.
A curious habitat, eerily still at dawn.
Biding its time to attack this unsuspecting female…
Taryn rolled her eyes.
Heaven help her, if anyone ever heard the inside of her head, she’d be sent on a permanent vacation.
At her temporary desk, she dropped her workbag and opened one of the pastry bags to prepare a small plate for the first interview.
She glanced at the clock. Right on time.
With a plate in one hand, her laptop and notebook in the other, Taryn made her way to the interrogation room—armed with caffeine, carbs, and the misguided hope that sugar-coated diplomacy might coax a few honest answers from her first contestant.
Inside the interrogation room, Constable Amara Montrose was already seated with a simple tablet on the table.
Not lounging. Not waiting. But positioned.
With her back straight, arms just as straight on either side of her tablet, and as crisp as the ironed creases in her shirt.
Her expression unreadable, but the clear message radiating from every inch of her regulation-perfect posture screamed: this is my turf.
Taryn offered a polite nod. ‘Constable Montrose. Thanks for making the time to see me today.’
‘It was on the memo I wrote.’
‘Right. Of course.’ Taryn set the plate of pastries down between them as a peace offering.
Amara glanced at the plate. But made no move to take anything.
‘Just thought I’d bring something, to keep things casual.’ Taryn offered a smile. ‘We’re just having a conversation.’
Amara said nothing.
Taryn sat across from her, flipping open her notebook. ‘You’ve been with the Stock Squad since its creation, correct?’
‘Nearly. Finn worked alone for about six months, but I was the first to team up with him. It’ll be eighteen months now.’
‘And before that, you were with the Northern Territory Police?’
‘No. South Australian Police. I’m on secondment while working with Finn—at least until the Stock Squad is made permanent.’ The t at the end of permanent was very pronounced.
‘Transferred by choice?’
‘Yes.’
Taryn lifted her pen and waited for more.
But Amara just held her stare and said nothing as the pastries sat untouched between them.
Of course, Constable Montrose would be like Finn, who’d mastered the skill of saying nothing. Amara was his shadow, the eager apprentice to the wizard.
But this wasn’t Taryn’s first interview, or her first investigation.
Again, Taryn clicked her pen. ‘So how did you become part of the Stock Squad? Did you apply for the job? Do up a resume? Have a board interview?’
Amara stifled a laugh. ‘No. Nothing like that. I had to beg.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’d overheard someone talking about Finn starting a federal stock squad in the station. He was in Adelaide, getting permission to visit the existing set-ups down south to gather intelligence. Look for the holes. The gaps.’
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Amara’s mouth, her full lips were the kind botox lovers could only dream of. ‘No one had heard of Finn Wilde. He was just some federal badge carrier—’
‘Is that what we’re calling Feds these days?’ Taryn raised an eyebrow, having been called a Fed since she’d landed here.
‘Back then, it meant someone who didn’t belong.’ Amara then gave a quick shrug. ‘Funny, I guess I wear the same badge now.’ She didn’t take it back—but the edge in her tone softened. Just slightly. ‘Are you really a federal police officer? Exactly what is your rank?’
Taryn met her gaze. ‘I’m a Senior Federal Agent, with the Financial Crimes Unit, on ministerial secondment. I’ve got a badge and a gun I rarely use these days, since my job mostly involves asking annoying questions that’ll ruin most people’s day.’
Amara raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you outrank Finn?’
‘Technically, we’re on equal footing. Except Finn leads the squad, and I get to decide if it survives.’ Taryn took a slow sip of her coffee. ‘Think of me as the accountability officer… with the nuclear button.’
Amara said nothing, but something in her eyes flickered. Not fear, not exactly. More like recalibration.
Taryn had seen that look before.
The moment someone realised you weren’t just passing through—you were the one with the power to blow it all up.
‘So, where were we?’
Amara re-straightened her posture. ‘Finn came through the police stables. Don’t ask me why, but that’s where I was posted.’
Taryn waited, pen still.
‘He wasn’t hiring. Wasn’t even building a team yet.
But I offered to help. Figured if he was collecting data, he’d need someone to turn it into something useful.
So I helped him collate the stock theft stats, cross-referenced locations, livestock types, and transit routes.
All the stuff you’d need for a case study. ’
‘For the Commissioner?’
Amara nodded. ‘Finn was trying to create a proposal to prove why they needed to invest in a federal stock squad to assist the various state police departments. To help bridge that gap, especially since livestock is regularly transported interstate or overseas. I just made sure it didn’t look like a pile of scribbles in a notebook. ’
‘This was while you were working for the equestrian division in Adelaide?’ Taryn had done her homework on paper, but she needed to see beyond the data to learn about the players in this game.
‘I was nothing more than a uniformed stablehand, who was going nowhere there. But I know how to do paperwork.’ Amara sighed as if letting her guard down. ‘I had to chase Finn for the job. I even volunteered to work without pay.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I wanted in. It’s why I joined the police in the first place—to get those who steal livestock… But Finn wasn’t interested, he didn’t want a female on the team. Said he needed a stockman with the same skills I had for paperwork. But I showed him I could be all that and more.’
‘So, he’s against women—’
‘Not like that.’ Amara frowned. ‘Finn said we’d be on the road.
And we started mobile, with no base or station, just Finn’s troopy.
Carting a couple of duffel bags, his laptop, my tablet and a satphone.
We’d use Finn’s gas cooker for coffee in the mornings, while rolling up our swags, towing his two Harleys in the trailer.
We worked out of borrowed rooms in whatever police station would have us.
Most of the time it was in roadhouses, or empty small-town stockyards.
Once we camped in an empty horse float to escape the rain. ’
Taryn raised an eyebrow.
Amara shrugged.
‘So, how did you end up at Elsie Creek?’ Taryn asked.
Amara paused, the nostalgia perhaps softening her pose.
‘I didn’t even know this town existed until Finn told me we were heading here.
It was my first time in the Northern Territory, too.
But he’d been called in over some stolen stock at Elsie Creek Station…
’ she trailed off, brow furrowing. ‘Huh. I only just realised it was Bree who called him. That’s why we hauled interstate, taking turns to drive nonstop, except for fuel and food, to get here in record time, too. ’
Taryn lifted her head. ‘Who called?’
‘Bree. Finn’s ex-wife. She’s a blacksmith, who runs the local stock brand register. But back then she’d been accused of cattle theft by the station owners, the Riggs brothers, and Finn came to help.’
Taryn made a note. ‘Did he now?’ Her voice was level, but internally—ah, hello… Ex-wife. Cattle theft. A road trip for justice.
How noble.
‘Sounds like a personal call,’ she added casually.
‘Finn didn’t see it that way. Because the stock theft—it was a big one.
And it mattered.’ Amara leaned closer, the excitement in her voice.
‘We’re talking eighty head worth close to a million dollars.
Prime stock, tied to an illegal fighting pit that Finn and Marcus shut down in one hit.
It was a big enough win for Finn to take back to the Commissioner to ask for a bigger team and a permanent posting.
Here…’ She patted the table. ‘At Elsie Creek.’
‘Why here?’ Was it the ex-wife, perhaps? Especially if Finn had hauled butt to the other side of the country like that.
‘The Northern Territory Police don’t have a stock squad—though they should.
Cattle is the second biggest industry out here, after mining.
And Elsie Creek is the heart of it, with the stockyards just across the road making it a prominent position to have as our home base.
’ Amara pointed in the direction of the yards.
‘Plus, the people in this place made it possible. They’re happy to have us here, and they’ll help if you’re here for the right reasons.
’ Amara’s look was sharp enough to draw blood.
There it was. The territorial warning wrapped in rural diplomacy.
Taryn offered a cool smile. ‘And your position? Surely it came with a set of duties?’
‘No.’ Amara shook her head. ‘The job evolves all the time. There are no set duties and no set hours. Sure, there may be long days from sunset to sunrise, but seeing it stretch over the outback is… special.’ She sighed again, this time with her posture softening.
‘Knowing I’ve done the paperwork to send that prized stolen stallion home makes it all worth it.
’ Amara’s mouth curved slightly to surprise Taryn.
‘You know he called you his paperwork queen?’
Amara blinked a few times, shifting in her seat. ‘He did?’
‘High praise, coming from a guy like Finn.’
Amara leaned back, arms crossing just slightly.
‘Finn never says much. And he thinks on the move. Even when he can’t move, he’ll follow the lines on a map like he’s moving to think.
But when he shares his plan… it counts. Finn does great work.
He’s tough, fair, precise and I’ve learned a lot from him these past eighteen months.
Even though the Stock Squad has only been officially running for a year, I hope it continues to serve in the long-term future. ’
Constable Amara Montrose wasn’t just loyal, she was earned loyalty. A young officer with a quiet strength. Smart. Focused. And clearly capable of corralling more than just paperwork. The constable loved her job and respected her boss by the bucketloads—and that was rare.
Taryn clicked her pen closed, sitting back. ‘One last question.’
Amara tilted her head as if ready for the worst.
Taryn pulled out a crumpled set of fuel dockets, held together by a rogue paperclip that may have been made from fencing wire.
‘Any chance the paperwork queen can help me decipher these?’ She slid them across the table.
‘Someone labelled one just: Fuel for the Hellhound. And this one: snacks and sand for the rodeo tanks.’
Amara smiled, for real this time. ‘That’d be Cowboy Craig. He likes to play on words.’