Chapter 12
Twelve
In need of a distraction from the unease over her horse’s brand and the frustration of waiting, Amara followed Porter into the Lodge, where the scent of old leather and saddle soap greeted them.
An odd combination for an aged care facility, that was probably filled with a lifetime of stories.
Somewhere beneath it all, the faintest trace of baking bread and custard wafted down the corridor.
Retired stockmen with faces carved by decades of sun were scattered around the large open room, which had a stunning view of the night sky towering over a slumbering outback.
Some residents were slumped in worn-out armchairs, boots propped on stools, while others huddled at tables shuffling cards or nursing enamel mugs of billy tea.
A few polished their old saddles, running weathered hands over the leather as if feeling the memory of every mile they’d ridden.
Others worked their stockwhips, oiling the braids, checking for cracks in the lash, or flicking them lightly against their boots to test the feel.
One old ringer sat with a bridle stretched across his lap, carefully threading new reins through the bit.
Another ran a cloth over a pair of well-worn spurs, the rowels clicking softly with each careful turn.
In the corner, a wiry man looped a length of rope between his hands, tying and untying knots with practised ease, the muscle memory keeping his fingers busy, even if he no longer had any cattle to muster.
They might have been past their days in the saddle, but their hands still knew the work, and their eyes still held the sharpness of those who’d spent their lives reading the land.
At the centre of it all stood a grand piano, the glossy polish of its shell highlighted by the lighting, where a group of women had gathered to sing old-time show tunes while sharing a laugh, like karaoke without the beer.
The piano stopped and an elderly woman, in a Cinderella-style ballgown, waved at Porter. Her tiara sparkled under the interior lights as she skipped towards them, her gown rustling as it slid across the floor. ‘Porter. So nice to see you.’ She crushed Porter into a hug like a grandmother.
‘Hello, Esther. You look well.’
‘I remember who I am today. So that’s a good thing— Oh, new girlfriend?’
‘Work colleague. Constable Amara Montrose of the Stock Squad.’
‘I’m Esther Bennett, of the Bennetts. Montrose… Montrose.’ Esther tapped her chin in thought.
Amara held her breath, waiting for the Montrose name to spark some sort of recognition—the kind that came with tight-lipped smiles and sideways glances.
The sniff of pity. The pursed lips filled with judgement.
Or that flicker of something ugly in their eyes, like they couldn’t wait to whisper about the downfall of a family who’d once stood too tall.
‘Do I know that family name?’ Esther asked Porter.
‘Not unless you do sheep?’
‘Can’t remember the last time I actually saw any sheep.’
‘Esther, do you know where Tilly Dixby is?’
‘Um…’ Esther spun around with a rustle of her petticoats. ‘Tilly was there… No, wait…’ She spun with a wide twirl of tulle to face the other side of the room. ‘She’s over there past the card players. She likes that chair with the corner view. Did you know her son went missing? The overseer?’
‘Did you know Sawyer?’
‘He was a student at my school here in town. Were you in my classes, Amara?’
‘Um, no. Had a governess, did boarding schools. But you knew Sawyer Dixby?’
Esther brushed her hands over the fine skirts of her ballgown. ‘I won’t talk out of school, dear.’
‘You can talk to us. Show her your ID, Montrose.’
‘Oops, I forgot.’ Which was a first for her. Pulling out her federal police badge, she made a mental note to never chastise Craig and Stone about it again.
‘Oh, you’re a policewoman.’ Esther clapped her hands together with her eyes so bright. ‘Aren’t you a clever little cookie? Are you here to talk to me?’
‘Tilly.’
‘Right. Did you know her son went missing? The overseer?’
‘We do. It’s why we’re here,’ said Porter, delicately. ‘Do you remember Sawyer Dixby?’
‘As a child. He used to cheat on his exams. Wasn’t the brightest, but he was cunning. But I know Tilly, she’s over there…’ Esther pointed. ‘No wait, she likes those chairs in the corner.’
‘We’ll find her, Esther. Why don’t you go and play the piano? Your friends are waiting on you to dazzle them.’
‘Oh, of course. Got any requests? We’re practising for the…’ She tapped her chin. ‘Some show? I think. Have you seen my Cecil?’
‘He’ll be in bed by now.’
‘Good. Best I go check on him.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Tell that grandson of mine to visit me soon. It’s been a while.’
‘Will do.’
‘And find yourself a nice girl. You’re too good a man to be alone, Porter.’
Porter bit back the grin. He’d better not glance at Amara for help. ‘This way.’
‘You seem to know Esther well.’
‘She’s Luke’s grandmother. And Cecil’s owner.’
‘The water buffalo that wanders the streets. The road hazard who demands a pat.’ It had been part of her morning routine when she lived at the pub and walked down the main street to work, to always stop to greet Cecil—not that the big beast would let her past, otherwise he’d follow her to work like a stray dog.
‘That’s him. He’s got a fancy stall out the back.’
‘Why do they let a water buffalo wander the streets?’
‘Because no one can stop him. Cecil’s an escape artist—broke every latch they ever tried. These days, he wanders with purpose. Visits the school. Joins birthday parties.’
‘And advertises shampoo specials on his sides, like he’s a mobile billboard.’ It was odd yet endearing.
And so was Porter’s easy smile, with the shimmer in his eyes. ‘Esther would take Cecil to school and use his sides as a chalkboard to keep the kids interested.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Deadset. We’re talking bush kids, so used to being outdoors all the time that they struggled to sit inside and focus. And it worked. Except Cecil never got the memo about school holidays—or retirement. But the town looks out for him.’
‘So that’s why the speed limit is at a crawling pace on the main street?’ A strict ten kilometres. After doing over 130 on either side of town, then down to that speed, it felt like you could walk faster. But it seemed everyone obeyed that speed rule in town. ‘It’s a bit slow that speed—’
‘Everyone in town voted on it.’
‘For an animal?’
‘Yep. For the water buffalo advertising toothpaste and meat tray draws. And we’ve never booked any locals breaking that speed limit either. Just the tourists—and Sarge’s wife, Wren, that one time.’ He flashed her a grin filled with hometown pride. ‘Makes the place kinda special, don’t you think?’
It did. But she wasn’t going to share that with Porter. ‘I’ve heard people call this the new lodge. Where is the old lodge?’
‘Luke’s place. Esther’s old home.’
‘That’s your friend, the fireman?’ She nodded towards the window, where the fire station sat across the road, right beside the police station. ‘He doesn’t visit Esther?’
‘Trust me, Luke’s here most days. And not just during his shifts.
He and his partner run a flower business.
They meet the plane or the train before dawn for deliveries, then swing by here to have breakfast with Esther.
They supply all the flowers, and Luke’s partner runs free floristry classes for the residents.
’ He gestured to the vibrant arrangements scattered throughout the Lodge—bold sculptures in tropical colours like living art.
‘That’s why Cecil is always wearing flowers around his horns?’
‘So hunters don’t mistake him for a feral and shoot him.’
She gasped at how casually he’d said that.
‘The sad part is, Esther doesn’t remember Luke visiting anymore. She usually thinks he’s Walden—Luke’s dad. But she’s never forgotten to brush down Cecil and decorate his horns every morning—no matter how bad her memory gets.’
‘Oh…’ She turned back to Esther in her gleaming ballgown, with her tiara catching the light, as she launched into a lively tune on the grand piano with the small group singing along with her like it was a concert or a jazz and blues bar.
‘She seems happy,’ Amara said softly, ‘And so shiny in that ballgown.’
‘Don’t judge.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yeah, you are. Not that Esther would care. She wears ballgowns and tiaras all the time like stockmen wear jeans and boots, and she loves entertaining.’ He nodded back at the singers.
‘Esther helped put this place together for the locals. And if I ever end up in a home, this is where I’d want to be. ’
‘Why? What makes this place so different?’ Except the large open room with the view of the outback.
‘All those men there with their eyes on the sky? They’re stockmen.
And most stockmen are bachelors who don’t have any family.
Esther explained to me that if you put a stockman, who’s lived his entire life on the land, into a city home, it crushes their spirit.
Here, in this place, they not only get to watch over the outback with that view, they’re also close enough to go hang out at the stockyards—’
‘Like the auctions. Some of those men were there.’ She recognised a few of them with their walkers and wheelchairs. ‘Craig told me that the livestock auctions were more than just sales.’
Porter nodded. And it wasn’t one of his know-it-all nods or smirks that went with it, either.
‘These guys love Train Days. You should see them sigh when they watch a road train roll along the highway, dragging in a load of stock for the stockyards. The excitement and spring in their step as they lean over the rails and peek at the cattle, as if to guess its story. It’s good to see.
Especially when the younger stockmen stop to have a chat, or shout them a beer in the pub, letting them know they belong.
Like they still have a purpose, you know. ’
‘It’s impressive.’ Amara was just starting to realise the deep level of community cleverly laced within this outback town.