Chapter 5 #2
Lydia’s eyes widened as she gazed up at the sheer size of Finn, who’d made the box seem small as he led her the other way.
‘This way,’ said Brodie. ‘Your boss looks mean with all them tatts.’
‘Finn’s all right.’ Craig gave a casual shrug as they walked through the maze of fenced yards. ‘What do you know about this horse?’
‘Nothing. It’s just one of ‘em midnight specials.’
‘The what special?’ Amara scampered to catch up, passing various pens of white and brown Brahman cattle of differing ages.
Their mewls rolled in waves. One would call to another, then over the other side more would chorus in, as they shifted their big hooves, stirring the dust to create a red haze in the air.
‘The midnight specials always come in late at night.’ Brodie’s long-legged gait easily chewed up the distance.
‘Is that unusual?’ She gave the kid a meek shrug. ‘It’s my first auction here in this town. I only know sheep.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Brodie nodded shyly. ‘I’ve never seen a sheep, you know. We don’t get them up here.’
‘I don’t miss them.’ The soft smile she offered him seemed to put the kid at ease.
‘Go on, Brodie, explain to Amara what the midnight special is.’
‘Can I call you Amara? Or is it constable? I heard you don’t like the stockmen talking to you in the pub.’
Hell’s bells! Now she’d done it.
No wonder the locals kept their distance.
Which only made it worse, when Finn told her he used Craig and Stone for an in with locals, until they built up a rapport. Meanwhile, here she was, crashing and burning on the whole friendly-neighbourhood-cop front.
Sliding her tablet back into her vest’s pocket, she pretended it didn’t bother her. ‘Amara’s fine, Brodie.’
Brodie’s skinny chest lifted as his smile widened.
‘Amara.’ Just saying her name seemed to give him all the confidence in the world.
Suddenly, he had a swagger—like Cowboy Craig on a good day.
Or, at least, as much of a swagger a lanky kid still growing into his limbs could manage.
He launched into an explanation. ‘Livestock come from all over, day and night. Some owners like to travel in the cool—keeps the stock in better condition, less stress they reckon. Or sometimes the road conditions change and they’ll rock up late. But this one—’
‘Lot 728.’
‘Yeah, he’s nice. I mean, I’ve never seen a prettier horse. And I’ve seen plenty.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I just muck out the stalls, is all.’ Brodie dropped his head as all that confidence oozed right out of him.
Craig plonked his hand on Brodie’s shoulder and gave it a hearty pat, as if boosting the boy’s confidence. ‘You’re more than that, mate. Brodie is the backbone of this place. If you want to know what goes on in these stockyards, and all the stockmen’s gossip, Brodie is your man.’
‘Good to know, Brodie. Do you drink coffee? I don’t mind buying you one for information.’
‘Um, sure…’ Aw, the kid dropped his head, using his hat to hide his blush, that only darkened his dusty, tanned complexion.
‘Here’s my card. You can call me, too.’
‘Sweet.’ The kid’s eyes beamed at the small business card like he was going to frame it or something. ‘I’ll keep it next to Izzy’s.’ Brodie even gave a sigh with a smile that had lovesick teen written all over it. ‘How is Izzy?’
‘My wife is good. Working on her bees today. I’ll tell her you said hi.’
A hefty bull shoved at the gate as they walked past.
‘Hang on, I gotta check that chain’s on.’ Brodie jogged off to secure it.
Craig leaned closer to Amara, keeping his voice low. ‘Brodie’s got a bit of a crush on my wife.’
‘How do they know each other?’ Izzy was a high-class criminal lawyer, and Brodie a stablehand.
‘Izzy helps him with his reading. Gives him little tricks for when the letters won’t sit still on the page.’
Oh. That made her pause.
Letters that wouldn’t sit still? She didn’t need a diagnosis to recognise the weight behind Craig’s message. Poor kid.
‘Which reminds me, yours and Stone’s business cards came in. They’re in the office.’ Amara headed towards Brodie who was waving them over.
‘You know, Stone will probably use his business cards to wallpaper his corner of the office.’ Craig chuckled as they continued to the far edge of the stockyards.
‘Stone would…’ The prick. ‘I never realised how big this place was. The view from the station is deceiving.’ She nodded in the direction of the police station that stood just on the other side of the railway line and outback highway. ‘How big are these stockyards?’
‘Brodie, you tell her.’
‘Um, as the major hub of this here cattle country, the Elsie Creek Stockyards sit on eighty acres. We’ve got holding pens, sorting yards, plus the loading docks for both road trains and trucks, through to the train carriages.
There’s the auction area, quarantine yards, feeding stations, and parking bays, where some days, like today, there are never enough places to park.
’ Brodie pointed to the road trains lining both sides of the highway.
‘These stockyards are bigger than the town.’ Amara glanced at the sturdy steel fencing, the assorted loading ramps, and connecting water troughs. It was not only more complex, but it was easily ten times larger than the livestock auctions she’d seen as a kid.
‘They handle tens of thousands of cattle per year,’ explained Craig. ‘There are days, like today, where the population of livestock outnumbers the people thirty times over.’
‘And Lydia manages all of this?’
‘The paperwork side of it, yeah.’ Brodie nodded. ‘Lydia’s a legend.’
‘You are too, in knowing where everything is in this place.’ Again, Craig patted the teenager’s shoulder.
‘Yeah, I am, huh.’ The kid grinned wide, then pointed at the last yard that faced the open outback. ‘Here we are, lot 728.’
Her hand gripped the warm rail as she peered into the fenced holding yard. ‘No way…’
A steel-grey stallion stood in the yard, its powerful frame shifting restlessly with dark legs, a long, silver-flecked mane, and eyes that held a fierce intelligence in them. This wasn’t just a horse—it was a prince.
‘Damn. Now that’s a horse.’ Craig poked up the brim of his hat.
‘Prettiest horse I’ve ever seen.’ Brodie opened the gate, letting them inside. ‘He’s real friendly, too.’ Pulling out a sugar cube from one of his pockets, he held it out and the steel grey ever so delicately ate out of his palm.
‘Has anyone else looked at him?’ Amara curled her fingers, as if fighting the need to stroke the horse’s coat.
‘Nah. A few peeked over. But he’s not a stockhorse and this mob only wants stockhorses. This isn’t a stockhorse, is he?’ he asked Craig.
‘No. That’s a… Amara?’
‘He’s a Thoroughbred cross Criollo.’ He was a Rolls-Royce among the land of utes, who was just beautiful.
No longer able to resist, Amara stroked his steely grey coat, so smooth and glossy but wintry thick.
‘He may be pretty,’ said Craig, ‘but a horse like that out here, the heat will hurt him in the summer. It’s why stockmen only take stockhorses, that are tough enough to handle the outback’s conditions.’
‘Like you’ve got with Slim, eh?’ Brodie grinned at Craig.
‘I love Slim. Best stockhorse I’ve ever owned. But this… Where did this one come from?’
Brodie shrugged. ‘Got here around midnight, the day before. You’ll need to see Lydia. She does the paperwork. It’ll be in that box Finn’s carrying for her.’ Brodie pointed to the shiny corrugated roof area that towered over the maze of stockyards, the auction area.
‘Are you interested in this one, Amara?’ Craig asked.
‘Umm…’ She didn’t dare hope.
No. She couldn’t.
And, yet…
‘Can you see any obvious flaws?’ Amara stepped closer, her fingers curled tight.
She could be clinical. Right? Just look at this like a horse inspection, the way a rev-head checks over a prestige car that they’d never buy. She could do that.
She checked the line of his legs, feeling the bone structure, checked his hooves, eyes, ears, teeth.
Craig ran a practised hand down the horse’s legs, checking for old injuries, testing the flex of his joints. ‘Strong. Good lines. No swelling... If there’s a flaw, I ain’t seeing it.’
Amara ran her hand along the stallion’s side. He was so incredibly calm, as her fingers brushed the brand. It looked clean—almost too clean. Not the usual deep scar or blotched ironwork she’d seen on other stock. She opened her mouth to ask—
‘Paperwork’s all good,’ Brodie chimed in from the rails. ‘Lydia checked it herself. She lets nothing through that doesn’t pass muster.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ muttered Craig, checking the horse’s shoes.
Amara let her fingers linger a moment longer over the faint lines of the brand, admiring the animal.
Lot 728 wasn’t built like the station-bred stockhorses surrounding him, his frame was compact and powerful, built for speed, not endurance. But it was the way he moved that gave him away. The way the horse stood—balanced, alert, waiting for instructions.
She murmured, ‘Mark-up, boy.’
The horse’s ears flicked forward. His weight shifted onto his haunches, muscles tightening like a coiled spring. Ready. Waiting. Expecting the play.
Amara’s heart clamped tight, somehow swinging on a tightrope between reckless hope and the quiet, familiar place where dreams went to die.
This horse—this chance—felt too good, too perfect. And perfect never stuck around for her.
Craig frowned as he stood beside her. ‘What did you say?’
‘Mark-up is a polo term.’ Finally, it was her turn to interpret the words for the locals. ‘It means hold your ground, defend your rider.’
She swallowed hard as the realization hit home. ‘Craig, this horse has been trained for polo competitions. Someone has bred him for the sport.’ The sport of kings she’d once lived for, that had once been her entire world.
Most of all, it made this horse valuable… to her.
She exhaled heavily, her voice barely a whisper, ‘You don’t belong here, do you?’
Funny, neither did she.