Chapter 5
Five
The noise was unexpected. There was the thundering roll of a road train, the roar of a swooping helicopter, the grumble of motorbikes and quads, and the mewling of cattle pressing against the fences—stockmen yelling, whistling, shouting, while their sturdy stockhorses held the line, neighing and pawing at the dirt to block the herd.
Dust filled nostrils and stung eyes as hundreds of assorted livestock took their places in the Elsie Creek Stockyards.
It was a cacophony of organised chaos.
And the livestock auction hadn’t even begun.
Amara, wearing her federal police vest that held her cuffs, pepper spray, taser, and other tools, with her handgun holstered to her hip, felt like the odd woman out under the scrutiny of the surrounding stockmen.
But she was proud of her position on the Stock Squad’s team. She’d fought hard to be here—unlike Craig and Stone, who just got the tap on the shoulder from Finn, and they were in.
Carrying over the coffees from the busy food van, she spotted Cowboy Craig. He was hard to miss with his blond curls brushed under his hat’s wide brim, along with the swagger and shiny rodeo belt.
‘Morning, Craig. What brings you here?’
‘The auctions.’
‘As a livestock inspector, or for your farm? If you’re here for the job, you need to wear your badge.’ Like she had hers clipped proudly to her vest.
‘Mostly as a look-see.’
‘Huh?’ Sometimes she’d swear they were just making words up to confuse her.
Craig grinned. ‘I’m just looking. Where’s Finn?’
‘This way.’
‘Heard he had another bender last night. What is that, three this week?’
‘Who told you? Porter?’ Who’d asked her to move in. Just housemates, he’d said. But seeing how Porter dressed, and hearing how his dog destroyed his couch, it wasn’t very promising.
But he did have a stable.
And being a cop, he was on shift work, so they might not actually spend that much time together.
They could be housemates. Right?
Which also meant being polite to Porter after hours.
Yet, she missed having a private space, which she didn’t get from living at the pub. Which is why Porter’s proposition tempted her so much. But mostly because he had a stable.
So really, she didn’t need a horse.
Just in case, she mentally went through her Not-to-Love List. Designed to save her in situations like this, where her mind mattered more than her heart—that only got her into trouble. And trouble was the last thing she needed when she had a job to do.
Let’s see, Porter was an incredibly laid-back lawman. That’s a red flag right there. Easygoing meant unreliable. Strike one.
Good.
Financially independent—but on a lowly cop’s salary. Which also put him into the territory of being married to the job, like Finn. Strike two and three.
Good. Really good.
Porter was also a slob. She hated the disrespect he showed the uniform in the way he’d casually stroll into the police station while in various stages of getting dressed.
She had yet to see his work boots polished, and his uniform never saw an iron.
How his superior officer let Porter get away with it was impossible to fathom.
And that was a big slash off her list, as a big fat no!
Which meant he’d be impossible to live with.
But…
He had a stable.
And a room that came with the stable for a horse she hadn’t yet seen. It was stupid to even contemplate such a thing. Especially when she was not going to buy a horse.
Nope. Not gonna happen.
Besides, living with Porter would only become fuel for the town’s local gossip.
‘It’s a small town, Amara. And no,’ said Craig, ‘it wasn’t Porter who told me about Finn. I haven’t seen Porter today.’
‘Who, then?’
‘One of the stockmen, camping in the back of the pub, spotted Porter carrying Finn to the troopy, and then gallantly drop you back twenty minutes later. So your reputation as the untouchable duchess is safe.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Hey, you knew Finn before he was a cop?’
‘As a stockman, sure.’ He then patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Amara. Finn will bounce back. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll pass. All he needs is another job, or is he still obsessing over the Stock Agent?’
In all honesty, both Amara and Finn were obsessed in their hunt for the elusive Stock Agent, now responsible for two known cases of stock smuggling. Genetic materials were so much harder to chase down than a truckload of stolen steers.
‘Here we are, sir.’ Amara passed Finn his coffee. He’d barely said two words to her this morning, with his eyes hidden behind his dark sunglasses and his black stockman’s hat topping off the ensemble.
Finn nodded at Craig.
Who nodded back in some secret stockman’s language that usually came with a caveman’s grunt.
‘Is this your first livestock auction, Amara?’ Craig asked.
‘In Elsie Creek it is.’
She took a sip of her coffee. It was top notch, despite coming from a food van. She’d become their first customer every morning for breakfast and coffee to take on her way to work. And she loved that walk down the main street in the morning.
After months of working on the road with Finn, before settling in this town, Amara had discovered she had a thing for small-town main streets.
Somehow, the whole place had that homely, cosy feeling—like freshly mowed lawns and sprinklers ticking in summer.
Except this town came with a friendly water buffalo named Cecil, who greeted her daily wearing a headdress of flowers and ribbons.
And yet she was still an outsider, with a job to do.
Craig nodded to someone in the crowd, then tossed out that laconic, one-fingered salute they all did driving past each other on back roads. ‘The Elsie Creek Auction is a lot different from ones down south.’
‘I’m pretty sure you’ll find cattle and a lot more sheep in the southern auctions.’
‘I doubt they’d have buffaloes?’ He pointed to the yard, filled with assorted water buffalo. ‘But it’s more than that…’ His smile faded into something sullen. ‘This small-town auction isn’t just about buying and selling livestock, Amara. It’s a heartbeat check for the district.’
‘How so?’
‘Blokes who’ve been working solo for months finally get a chance to talk, shake hands, and have a yarn over a beer.
Deals are made, sure—but so are friendships and favours.
A lot of them don’t come for the stock, they come for the company.
Because out here, knowing you’re not the only one doing it tough, that’s worth more than any cattle sale. Don’t you agree?’
Amara barely nodded, but she got the message loud and clear. It was more than an auction—it was a mental health check. Making her look at the auction with a different set of eyes.
The local nurses had set up a blood donor tent beside the food stalls, tucked in like part of a fair. But Amara knew exactly why it was there. She was all too aware of how high the suicide rates were among the men in the Northern Territory. Well, within the farming community as a whole, really.
There was a group of old stockmen propped up in wheelchairs and walkers, swapping memories like currency.
The next generation of kids, with hats too big for their heads, scampered after their fathers.
Around the cattle pens, stockmen leaned on the rails, their boots scuffing the dust, nodding, pointing, comparing notes on breeding lines and market prices. But mostly, they were just talking.
Because out here, connection mattered just as much as the cattle.
And for a girl a long way from home, she’d never felt lonelier.
‘Lydia?’ Craig waved over a middle-aged woman in jeans and the same stockman’s shirt everyone else wore, except she was carrying a clipboard and a handheld radio.
‘Hey, stranger.’ Lydia, smelling of lavender, leather and sunshine, bundled up Craig in a hug like a mother.
Close behind her, stood a lanky-legged teenager, in a big old hat and even older boots and dirty jeans, carrying a box.
‘Finn, have you met Lydia Galloway? She runs the clerk’s office and knows everything about the stock in this yard.’
‘Hush now, you.’ Lydia humbly patted at her neck as if to tidy her hair, while the shade from her stockman’s hat darkened the blush.
‘We met a while back. Good to see you again, Lydia.’ Finn held out his hand.
Lydia wiped her hand down her clean shirt, just like the other men did out of habit, before shaking Finn’s hand. ‘Well done on catching that road train of stolen steers.’
‘Thanks.’ Finn was a man of so few words, he’d mastered the art of creating the awkward silence.
‘And this is Brodie Cross, the muscle of the yard,’ Craig introduced the teenager.
‘That I is.’ The kid gave a cheeky grin, playfully flexing his skinny arm like a body builder while balancing his box of stationery items with the other.
‘And this is Amara. She’s part of our team, too,’ said Craig. ‘Amara is like you, Lydia, our paperwork queen.’
At least Craig didn’t call her Duchess.
She shook hands with Lydia. Anyone who could manage an event like this had to be a managerial mastermind, which meant she probably didn’t have time for chitchat, especially on days like this.
‘What do you know about lot 728? This horse.’ She tugged her tablet free from the custom-made pocket in her police vest and, with a quick swipe, showed the screen.
‘Hmm…’ Lydia’s brow ruffled. ‘Is this about a criminal case?’
‘Um. No…’ Amara pinched at her collar, smoothing the fabric over her perfectly pressed creases—like it’d never dare wrinkle in public.
‘It’s for me. Maybe?’ If the horse was as good in real life as on paper, maybe. And that was a big maybe. When she should be saying no and not even ask about it.
‘Really?’ Craig grinned at her. ‘Have you seen it yet?’
‘No. I’m good.’ No, she did not need a horse.
‘You should.’ Finn’s tone was brisk. ‘Craig, go with the constable and use that picky stock inspector’s eye. Here, give me this, Brodie. You can show Craig and Amara where it is, while I help Lydia.’