Chapter 34
Thirty-four
She recognised a few faces from the food van’s queue by the train station, men who’d nodded at her over lukewarm coffee and bacon rolls. Now they stood shoulder to shoulder, boots scuffing the floorboards, as the tension in the air thickened it could’ve cracked glass.
‘Back in my day, we’d have chained rustlers to a micky bull and let the Territory sort him out…’ muttered one guy to a huddled crew of hats.
‘Strap ‘em to an ant mound and pour a tin of black treacle over the top. Let him feel every bloody bite,’ said another man, two rows back.
‘Red knew exactly what he was doing. Turned on his own. On Lydia. That’s why she’s in the hospital,’ grunted a third group.
Taryn muscled through the wall of testosterone and tension, her suitcase doing the heavy lifting against men in long-sleeved shirts, deep suntans, and assorted wide-brimmed hats. ‘Excuse me. Move… I swear, if one more elbow hits this case—’
The crowd reluctantly shifted, like she was a fly interrupting a cattle sale.
A pair of cattle dogs lounged beneath a corner table, tongues lolling, eyes half-lidded like they were unimpressed by the lot of them. One gave a single thump of its tail as she passed, the only welcome she got from all these blokes in boots.
But the tension coming off this lot of hotheads, it was like something was about to snap. And soon.
Behind the bar stood Mean-Rene. Beside her stood Billy, dressed like an old jazz player, his fedora tilted low as he hooked a thumb under his suspenders and hitched them higher on his shoulder.
‘You’ve opened early,’ Taryn said to Billy, dumping her case down with a thud.
Billy nodded. ‘What are you doing back?’
‘I’d like to get another room…’ But did they have any with this many people in town?
Taryn’s eyes swept the front bar again, then locked onto the one person who wasn’t panicking.
Samantha.
The publican, who the locals called God.
Amara said the woman was smarter than she ever let on. Silently standing at the back of the room, casually sipping her coffee like this happened every day of the week.
‘Watch my case.’ Taryn made her way over. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Red and Two-bob Bob were caught stealing cattle from Warraga Downs.’ Samantha gave a slow nod at the crowd. ‘And there’s nothing this mob hates more than someone stealing cattle.’
‘I can see that. But the anger?’
‘That’s because Lydia and young Brodie were the ones who caught Red and Bob in the act. But then Red rammed his ute into Lydia’s car to stop them.’
‘Are they okay?’
‘Lydia is in the ICU, and we’re waiting on news.
Brodie got pretty banged up, too. Poor kid’s been through hell, that one…
’ Samantha sipped on her coffee, as if to swallow her emotions, while keeping a watchful eye on the room.
‘And with no Lydia or Brodie around, there was no one to open the stockyards this morning.’
‘So you opened the pub instead?’
‘I’ve got a special licence for emergencies,’ Samantha added. ‘I use it during floods, bushfires, or cyclones on Christmas Day. We don’t have a town hall for them to share their grievances, so they come here.’ She nodded at the crowded room.
Taryn’s brow lifted. ‘You’re making money off this?’
Samantha smiled, slow and unapologetic. ‘I do have a business to run. But a large per cent of today’s sales are going straight to Lydia and Brodie, should they need anything. There are a few hats going around if you want to add to the cause.’
Samantha then leaned over and said with a seriousness Taryn had never seen in the publican, ‘You’d better cross your fingers that Lydia makes it or there will be no holding this mob back.’
‘Why?’
Samantha looked out over the room of grumbling men and their coiled fists. ‘You do know what this is, don’t you?’
Taryn arched an eyebrow.
‘It’s not just a pub full of angry stockmen. It’s a bedside vigil. For her. For Lydia.’
‘Is this normal? Remember I’m from the outside.’ And Taryn felt every bit the outsider.
‘Lydia’s not just the clerk—she’s the mother of the stockyards.
She’s been there thirty-five years and never took a sick day.
Through heatwaves and floods, Lydia is the one they all see first thing in the morning.
She’s that voice on the radio telling them where to go, who to sign off with, and what to do.
She’s that warm, motherly voice in a place full of blokes who don’t know how to ask for help.
The one who holds their secrets, handing them their stock cheques, while she pats their hands when they’re too proud to cry.
She’ll scold them when they’ve mucked up with their missus, and then tell them exactly how to fix it.
And I’d bet she’s told over half the men in this room what to buy their wives for Christmas. ’
Samantha’s voice softened, but it didn’t waver.
‘Lydia has a thing for making leather goods. And she’s probably made leather belts and muster-ready radio holsters for every man in this room.
She’s fixed more buttons on their shirts and patched more barbed-wire tears on their jeans, than anyone would dare count.
‘You see, Red didn’t just betray Lydia. He betrayed all of them.
’ Samantha tipped her chin toward the crowd.
‘They trusted him because she did. And Red hurt Brodie, too—and that boy,’ she said with a glare loaded with such absolute fire it made Taryn step back, ‘has already been through hell. And if Lydia dies? You’ll have a lynch mob on your hands before the sun’s fully up. ’
‘They need someone to speak to them,’ Taryn implored. ‘It’s your place.’
Samantha peered over the room, arms folded, reading the crowd the way some people read weather patterns—like she already knew which way the wind would turn. ‘If I stand up now, it’ll stop being a legal matter. This room? Sure, it’ll listen to me. But that’s not how this should go down.’
‘Why not?’ Taryn scrutinised the young publican.
‘The police need to show they can handle this. Because if they can’t, then everything we’re holding together out here—the law, the processes, and the peace—starts looking optional.
And that’s a terrible idea in a place that is considered the last frontier, where lawlessness can thrive in the wilderness, and where rules are easily forgotten. ’
Taryn realised then… Samantha wasn’t just a player at the table. Not even the dealer.
She was the house.
The one who set the rules, where those house rules mattered, because the house always won.
In Elsie Creek, the mayor might wear the sash—but Samantha wore its dusty crown, pouring the beer, holding a kind of quiet-queen energy that kept the game honest… all while cleverly letting everyone think it was their idea to play.
Samantha was protecting the town for the good of its people. No wonder they called her God.
‘Just so you know, you’re the only badge left in town. The rest are out on a manhunt. So, I suggest you tell them that there’s a better way to handle this than spilling blood on my floor built for beer, boots, and mateship—not revenge.’
‘Me?’ WTF!
Samantha just raised an eyebrow at her, like ordering Taryn to do what had to be done.
Annoyingly, the young publican was right.
‘Don’t get me banned from my beer if I do this.’ Taryn had no choice. She nodded at the publican, who only grinned at her.
Taryn had never talked down an angry mob of stockmen before. But she’d walked into boardrooms with a badge, a warrant, and zero patience.
She’d made plenty of arrests with a speech to match—enough to watch those smug suits speed-dial their lawyers, while the office girls looked ready to cry, and some pimply kid by the copier turned so pale his zits passed for freckles.
Her mother once told her the trick to commanding a room full of men in uniform was to speak like you owned the mission, not just the paperwork.
That it didn’t matter if they wore brass buttons or dusty jeans and stockmen’s hats—men were still men.
Prone to pride, and generally allergic to being told what to do by a woman.
And right now, this room didn’t need a speech from a cop like Finn—who didn’t do speeches and would level people with a stare that said don’t make me talk.
Lord help her…
She took a deep breath and marched straight to the bar—because of course the bar was the stage—and, without a word, climbed on top, praying she didn’t stack on the way up and face plant into someone’s dusty boot.
A few heads turned. Someone muttered. Probably wondering if she was there to confiscate their beer or worse, shut the pub!
Wouldn’t that start a riot.
‘Well, here goes nothing…’
Taryn pulled in a breath, shoved two fingers into her mouth, and whistled so piercingly sharp it cut through the conversations like a knife.
The pub fell quiet. A chair scraped. One of the muster dogs sat up alert, tail thumping, like it knew things were about to change.
But all eyes were on her.
She scanned the crowd, offering them a dry smile. ‘Ladies. Gentlemen. Stockmen. Sleepwalkers. And whoever left their saddle outside—your horse is currently blocking a Hilux.’
A few chuckles gave her a foothold with their attention.
Taryn then reached into her pocket for her badge and snapped it into place on the hip of her jeans with a crisp flick. ‘I know some of you have heard of me. The Fed.’
She raised a brow, letting the silence ride for a beat.
‘Look, I’m not here to ban you from your beer or tell you how to brand a beast. I’m here because I’ve seen what this town stands for. What it fights for. And this—’ she gestured around the room of gathered hats, ‘is something worth fighting for. The people in this town. And that includes you lot.’
She made eye contact with the hard men who lived weathered lives in a pub that was this outback town’s parliament of power. The hallowed front bar that was thick with tension as if the walls were waiting for permission to breathe.
‘I’m so sorry about Lydia and Brodie. I truly am,’ she said with a hand to her heart. ‘I get that this town, you, have all suffered a blow. But this,’ she said with her hand sweeping over the room. ‘This isn’t justice. And I’m sure Lydia would only want the best for all of us.’
‘What would Brodie say?’ she asked, then huffed. ‘Actually, knowing teenagers, he’d probably mutter something sarcastic and pretend not to care. But he would care. Because Brodie knows what this place is made of.’
The bar filled with silence now. Real silence.
‘I may be that outsider, but what I’ve seen of this town?
It’s something rare. Something layered with this incredible ingrained community spirit.
Like the red dust doesn’t come off easy, but it gets into everything and somehow it makes you stronger.
You look after each other in ways I’ve never seen before.
Not in city offices or federal buildings.
Not even in families that say they’re close. ’
That earned her a few quiet nods.
‘You build things here. You fix things. You carry pain with your heads high, and you don’t ask for help until someone’s handing you a cold beer and a fresh bandage for a wound you didn’t even know was showing.
But that mate beside you, willing to give you a hand, and you them?
That’s not weakness. That’s the great Aussie spirit and something to be proud of.
So if you want to honour Lydia, do it by being who she believed you are—good men, who don’t need to raise a fist to prove they care.
And if you want to help? Great. Then help. ’
She pointed toward the front doors. ‘Let’s start by getting those stockyards open. That’s what Lydia would want—trucks moving, cattle sorted, and all that yard dust back in the air where it belongs. So, who usually helps when Lydia goes away on holiday?’
A voice shouted from the back: ‘Bree!’
‘Call her!’ someone else shouted.
‘Only if you’ve got some cupcakes,’ said another, ‘she’ll drag the baby with her, no sweat.’
Laughter rippled through the room like relief cracking at the tension.
Taryn grinned. ‘You heard ‘em. Someone call Bree and order a double batch of cupcakes for her, and someone to help her with the baby.’
Baby.
Nope, not the time!
She forcefully put her hands on her hips, and not on her belly.
With her badge catching the pub’s light, she refocused on the crowd.
‘If any of you have any information, sightings, or whispers? Please report it to Tanisha at the station. And if you’re the type who doesn’t want to dob in a mate…
there’s a confidential tip line for that too. No need for names. Just your truths.’
She eyed the room one last time with a lot of them nodding back at her.
‘Now, let’s get those stockyard gates open. And let’s show Lydia we’ve got this covered until she’s back behind that desk, bossing everyone around with a cup of coffee and clipboard in hand.’
A few cheers rose as the crowd started to scatter.
She jumped down, heart thudding like she’d just mustered a thousand head on foot. As laughter, along with the scuff of boots and a renewed purpose, filled the pub behind her.
She didn’t see him—not until he was there.
Finn.
Tall, dust-worn, eyes locked on hers like she was the only damn thing that mattered in the entire world. His hand wrapped around her wrist, and without a word, he pulled her into the small storeroom behind the bar. The door swung shut behind them with a thud.
‘What are y—’
But the words never landed.
Because Finn kissed her.
No hesitation. No build-up.
Just one hand sliding to her nape, the other curving around her waist like he’d done a thousand times in her dreams and wasn’t letting go again.
He kissed her like he’d waited too damn long and wasn’t about to waste another second with words. It was a kiss that was full of heat—wild, outback heat—and something deeper. Like home.
Taryn had no hope of resisting. She simply melted. Completely. Into their kiss.
Their boots were toe-to-toe, as her heart thudded against his chest, her hands fisting into his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
He wasn’t just kissing her—he was claiming her in a way that made time blur, and everything she was feeling made sense.
By the time they broke apart, her lungs were burning, her lips tingling, and her brain was off traipsing somewhere halfway down the hallway.
‘Well,’ she whispered, breathless. ‘That was…’
‘Hello,’ he murmured close. ‘It’s about time you showed up.’