Chapter 15
Fifteen
The scene was chaotic with people everywhere, creating a low hum of scattered conversation, as assorted boots crunched over dirt, along with the occasional radio squawk from comms, pretty much destroyed the early morning quiet.
Every local cop car and Finn’s troopy were parked in a loose cluster near the stables. No sirens, no flashing lights, just the efficiency of the police doing their job like ants spilling over a disturbed nest.
Except this wasn’t just any investigation—the Stock Squad were in charge.
And this was Porter’s property. His home.
Standing at the edge of the mess, hands on his hips, with his jaw locked tight, trying to swallow the irritation rising in his throat, Porter was used to seeing crime scenes like this. Normally, he’d take notes, give out orders, and control the flow.
But standing here as a victim?
That ticked him off way more than he cared to admit. Because this wasn’t just about him, either…
Poor Amara.
The frustration in his chest twisted into something else—something heavier. Sure, Amara was on the case, moving like a machine, methodically gathering up evidence like she wasn’t personally bleeding from this loss.
But he knew this was Amara’s worst nightmare playing out all over again. Which sucked big-time, especially when she’d been so happy about riding again. He’d seen her smile of pure joy—that had dazzled him only yesterday—which was now long gone.
Montrose was doing a stellar job of burying her emotions.
Deadset, if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was unaffected, distancing herself from everything and everyone as usual.
He could see it in the tightness of her jaw.
The way her hands curled into fists when she thought no one was looking.
The flicker of something raw in her eyes before she buried it beneath duty and professionalism.
And that burned.
Poor Montrose was standing in her own crime scene, where it looked like the last of her happiness was scattered in a trail of hoofprints that had long left the yard.
And all he could do was watch her pretend that it didn’t matter.
Screw that.
Territory cop or not, he wasn’t letting the Feds make him sit this one out—not when it was Amara, and not on his home turf.
He moved in, caught Finn’s eye as the man ended his call, and gave a tilt of his chin towards her. ‘Is Montrose okay?’
Finn’s brows pulled together. ‘The constable is handling it.’
‘She’s got her cop face on, sure,’ Porter muttered, already moving towards his boss. ‘But that doesn’t mean she’s fine.’
And he wasn’t going to stand back and let her deal with it all alone.
‘Porter.’ Marcus, his boss, met him head on, dropping a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Let Finn and his team do their job.’
Porter clenched his jaw. ‘While we just stand around like outback garden ornaments having a picnic, yeah?’
‘You know the drill.’
‘Yeah, but this—’ Porter waved a hand at the cluster of officers from his local cop shop. ‘We didn’t need to involve everyone, Sarge.’
‘Yes, we did.’ Marcus’ tone left no room for argument. ‘This is a policeman’s house, and a theft like this sends the wrong message to the community. You feel me?’
Porter’s teeth ground together, but he gave a sharp nod. ‘Loud and clear.’
‘Good.’ Marcus turned to Finn. ‘What do you need from us?’
Finn ran a hand over his stubble, eyes bloodshot from last night’s drinking session, but his voice was sharp when he spoke. ‘Craig and Amara are handling forensics—boot prints, tyre tracks, fingerprints, photographs. Standard drill.’
Finn then gestured towards the sky, where a helicopter rumbled overhead in slow, sweeping rows. ‘Stone’s got eyes from above. Romy’s running the drones for close footage. It’d be handy if we had some bikes to follow that wallaby track.’
Marcus glanced at Porter. ‘Like a hunter’s buggy.’
Porter’s frustration stilled for a second.
Marcus knew exactly what he was doing—giving Porter something tangible to sink his teeth into.
‘Yeah, what have you got?’ Finn asked Marcus.
‘Porter, take Cowboy Craig and run the broken fence line. Find me some decent tracks.’ But it’s what Marcus didn’t say that was just as clear—Do what you do best, just don’t make a mess of it, and for god’s sake, call it in before you go cowboy.
Fine. He’d play the game.
But if they thought they’d could just shuffle him aside, they had another thing coming.
Porter strode over to his newly renovated man cave.
The roller door peeled back, the scent of oil, fuel, and hot metal wrapping around him like an old friend.
There were a few cars, a few dirt bikes.
An old leather couch, and lots of metal benches, toolboxes, and a fancy beer fridge to suit his handmade bar.
It was the place for vintage tin signs, a few beer-named mirrors and all his trophies.
He walked past the rack of helmets, part of the stash of his old speedway gear—along with the scuffed leathers from his junior days, a fire-retardant racing suit, and a stack of racing gloves, each with its own story of near misses and hard-won victories.
He vaulted into the driver’s seat of a blended beach buggy, bull catcher, and a rally racer, combined into a beast built for speed and survival in the harshest terrain.
It sat high on all-terrain tyres, tough enough to claw through deep sand, bulldust, and rocky creek beds, without breaking a sweat.
The suspension was reinforced for hard landings, the bull bar and roll cage custom-welded for safety.
And under the hood? A roaring V8 engine with enough grunt to outrun a cyclone.
Stitched together with outback ingenuity, it was practically a Frankenstein on wheels filled with an ex-speedway racer’s ambition and a feral hunter’s know-how of bush practicality.
And of course, it needed a name. Something fitting for a beast that tore through the Territory like it owned the place. It was… the Hellhound.
The key turned, and the Hellhound answered with a deep, delayed growl. That familiar low lump-lump-lump of its V8 idled under his hand, the supercharger letting out a soft, high-pitched whine like a breath held too long.
He hadn’t fired it up this past week, not with Tempest in the yard.
But now the shed echoed with nothing but engine rumbles.
He drove up to Cowboy Craig.
Craig pushed back the brim of his cowboy hat, while giving the beast an appreciative once-over. ‘Please tell me you’re taking me for a spin in that?’
‘Wanna see what we can find on the road?’
‘Hell yeah, I’m in.’ Craig leaped into the passenger seat.
With a final nod to Amara, Porter gunned the Hellhound down the dirt track, dust spitting out behind them. Craig rode shotgun, one arm hooked on the roll bar, already scanning the terrain.
Porter locked onto the tyre marks ahead—tracks that had no business being on his land.
Further along he eased off the throttle, letting the buggy cruise as they rolled over various rocks, cracked washouts and churned through the bulldust. They veered towards the fence line, and they were back on the main road where dust settled slowly in the morning heat.
They both climbed out and searched the ground for clues. But this morning there was more traffic than normal, thanks to Marcus calling in everyone from the station.
‘Too many cars now to see where it went.’ Craig crouched down, squinting at the ground.
‘Yeah…’ Porter couldn’t get mad at Marcus. He knew his boss was just as ticked over this situation as he was. They weren’t just a squad of cops, they were like family, and this theft situation was personal.
But the thieves never went near the house, they never travelled down his driveway. They came in through the land next door, cutting the fence closest to the stables. That much he’d been able to work out from the tracks.
But Craig had a genuine gift for reading the story in the soils, especially for vehicles.
‘What do you think it is?’
‘It’s not a Hilux,’ Craig muttered, nudging at the deep impressions in the dirt track with his boot.
Porter crouched low to the track, where the tread was clean and heavy. ‘These tyre tracks are wider than my patrol ute. And there’s a deeper drag at the rear axle like it was carrying a load.’
‘I agree. The weight’s sitting over the back wheels, which says it’s a ute. But it’s bigger than your standard ute, but smaller than a truck.’
Porter ran a hand over his jaw. ‘It’s not one of them American pick-ups? The Ram?’
‘Not a fan?’ Craig squinted at the sun as he adjusted his cowboy hat that shaded his blond curls.
‘I’ve picked up plenty of Ram side panels as road hazards from getting shaken free just from the corrugations.’ Porter remained crouched beside the tracks.
Craig snorted, shaking his head. ‘Only a fool—or a bloke with too much cash—drives one of those out here. They hate the heat, guzzle fuel like they own their own oil well… but they do have the towing capacity.’ He traced the edge of the tyre tread.
‘I don’t think this is just any Ram. It’d be a 2500 or bigger.
Diesel. Towing something heavy—one of those long horse floats. ’
‘Those horse floats are everywhere. But the Ram, well…’ Porter’s jaw ticked as he stood beside Craig, their shadows stretched long onto the road, rolling out like a red carpet that disappeared in the watery haze.
Whoever had stolen Amara’s horse had come prepared and was brazen enough, or stupid enough, to steal from a cop’s house.
Craig kicked at a stone, it tumbled for a few paces until it stilled. ‘Amara told me her horse’s brand had been tampered with.’
‘Yeah. That reminds me, I sent it to Bree for her opinion last night.’ Porter dragged out his phone, hoping for some answers. ‘I’m going back to the office. Tanisha and I can run a vehicle check on any Rams registered in the region.’
‘In this buggy?’
‘No, police van.’ He was still in the same uniform from last night.
‘Can I go with you?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sitting in the car with Finn. The booze is coming out of his skin now.’
That didn’t give Porter much confidence in Finn’s ability as a leader of the Stock Squad, not when one of his own needed him. ‘Do you know what triggered his drinking?’
‘Wish I did. Because Finn’s a good guy under all that ink.’
‘Maybe someone needs to have a word with him.’
‘I’m not. You can.’
‘Pfft. I don’t have a death wish. But we both know someone who can handle Finn,’ Porter said with a sly grin. ‘It might be the brutal medicine he needs.’