Chapter Twenty-Six #3
Amara’s breath hitched, but she kept her expression neutral. ‘Is that surprising?’
‘It is.’ Lydia’s voice dropped lower. ‘It’s not just SW, luv. Red’s signed off on plenty of other legitimate work. My husband’s record as a stock agent is impeccable. And he knows how strict I am with the stock coming into those stockyards.’
‘But SW still doesn’t sit right with you, does it?’
Lydia barely nodded as she swallowed nervously, her fingers fiddling with her pearl necklace. ‘I don’t want to alert anyone, but I’m worried if I ask too many questions…’
About her husband.
Lydia didn’t say it, but Amara heard it anyway.
‘I get it,’ Amara glanced towards the Stock Squad’s table, thinking fast. ‘Can we meet elsewhere? Maybe Porter’s house? I live there and I can have Finn meet you there.’
Lydia hesitated for a moment, squeezing her lips together before replying. ‘Okay.’
‘Great. I’ll call and set up a time.’
Just as Lydia seemed to settle, an unfamiliar male voice slid into their conversation.
‘Well, look at this—who might my favourite lady be in such deep discussion with?’
Lydia stiffened, plastering on her smile. ‘Red, darling, this is Amara. We were just discussing her gown. The material is just exquisite. It sparkles just lovely. From Sydney?’
‘Adelaide.’ Amara played along. ‘A small boutique. My mother helped me pick it out years ago. It was one of those wasn’t-looking-but-just-had-to-have-it kind of sales.’
‘Oh, I hear you, hon. I’m like that with my handbags.’
‘Amara who?’ Red sidled up beside Lydia, resting a hand easily on her lower back, his smile all charm. His long, rustic-red beard was neatly groomed in a bushman’s style, the kind preferred out here where razors were rarer than rain.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Red, this is Officer Amara Montrose from the Stock Squad. We met when talking about stockyard paperwork in the office. And it was her horse that got...’ Lydia gave her a tender motherly pat on her arm.
‘Lydia told me about your horse. Bloody rough luck, that. If I get wind of anything, I’ll pass on the word.’ Red may have sounded sympathetic, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of assessment, as if he was feeling Amara out.
‘Thanks.’ But now he’d opened the conversation, Amara was going to take her shot. ‘Who’s SW? It was on the paperwork of my stolen horse that had been rebranded, after it was stolen from a top-tier polo stud in Queensland.’
‘Just some contractors. They do fencing, mustering, and move stock. They’ve got a few teams that work for plenty of stations.’ Red barely hesitated with his response, while stroking his big red bushman’s beard. His answer seemed too well prepared.
‘What is the SW contractor’s company called?’
‘SW Rural Contracting. Nothing fancy. And they’ve been around for years. Their bills go to their Western Australian post office box.’ The grin curled on his lips. ‘Why? Are you chasing a fencing job? Or want a hand at mustering the mob?’
‘Oh, hon, Amara’s a policewoman, from South Australia. Craig tells me she’s originally from a sheep station, so I’m sure she’d know a thing or two about fencing.’
But Amara had a one-track mind, keen to continue questioning Red. ‘Who’s the one you deal with, Red? Who is SW?’
‘Like I said, SW stands for the contractors who sign off on behalf of the station owners. Plenty of contractors do it for lots of stations, it’s almost common practice. Isn’t it, Lydia?’
She awkwardly nodded, while nervously fiddling with her delicate handbag.
Amara wanted to push it, but poor Lydia looked downright uncomfortable. She couldn’t do that to Lydia, so she went for a different tack. The more direct approach. It’s who she was. ‘Back to the stolen horse. Didn’t the brand look like it had been altered to you?’
‘Look, I’m sorry that happened to you, I really am.
’ For a moment Red looked genuinely sorry, too.
‘But you’d be surprised how often brands get botched.
You’ll get bad fire brands, blokes rushing freeze brands, animals kicking or reacting—it happens.
Half the time, it’s just a sloppy job, not a crime…
Come on, I see thousands of head come through every month.
If I flagged every blurred brand, I’d get nothing done.
Lydia’s the same,’ he said, squeezing his wife’s shoulders. ‘Aren’t you, love?’
Lydia smiled, but it never made her eyes.
‘My wife just makes sure my paperwork passes muster, dotting i’s and crossing the t’s. I swear she gives me a harder time than the other stock agents to make sure it’s correct. Don’t you, sweetheart?’ He tenderly kissed her temple.
‘Aw, I have to Red.’ Lydia positively melted into her husband. ‘You know there’s no favouritism, not with livestock. That’s people’s livelihoods we’re looking after.’
‘I know, babe. That’s what I love about you, your impeccable integrity.’ But then Red glanced back at Amara. ‘You should talk to the vendor about that horse. I just move the stock, I don’t breed ‘em.’
‘Where can I find this SW?’
‘I think a crew were heading for a station on the other side of Alice Springs. I can ask around for you.’
Which felt like he’d warn them of her coming.
‘Montrose.’ The deep drawl cut through the tension like a knife. Porter.
He slid in smooth and easy, standing just a little too close, she could feel his body heat at her side, while backing her up—or to pull her back.
‘Didn’t peg you as the type to talk business at a ball.’ He flashed his lazy grin at Red. ‘Or do you bring your work home with you, too?’
Red laughed—his attention shifted to Porter. ‘Guilty as charged.’
‘I get it,’ Porter said easily. ‘Nothing sexier than stock movements and branding records. Which is all a different language to me. But we’ve got places to be, don’t we, Montrose?’
Amara didn’t argue.
‘Nice meeting you,’ she said to Red, though the words tasted like dirt.
Red nodded, but his attention lingered on Porter for just a second too long, as if sizing him up.
Porter’s hand skimmed the small of her back as he steered her away, weaving her through the crowd. Only then did Amara exhale. She didn’t realise she’d been that worked up.
‘You looked like you needed saving,’ Porter murmured.
‘I had it under control.’ She gave him a frown.
‘Sure, Montrose. You looked real comfortable back there.’
Before she could snap back, a small whistle cut through the air.
It was Brodie. Standing near the edge of the ball, beckoning them over. ‘Out here…’ Brodie led them further into the shadows.
‘What’s up, mate?’ Porter asked with concern.
Brodie wiped the sweat from his brow, exhaling heavily as if he’d been running. ‘You told me to find you if I saw that pick-up, yeah?’
‘Did you?’
‘Lookie there.’ Brodie nodded towards the road, where taillights of a vehicle could be seen, heading for the main street of town.
It was the Ram.
‘He’s just been visiting the stockyards,’ explained Brodie. ‘I had to race down here to tell you.’
Amara’s stomach flipped.
‘Did you get the number plate details, Brodie?’ Porter asked.
‘Nah. I didn’t get that close. I jumped the rails, so he didn’t see me. But I saw him speaking with Red earlier.’
‘When?’ Amara asked.
‘Just before Red went and spoke to you and Lydia.’
Amara squinted hard to try and read the number plate. It was too far, but it was going slow. Thank goodness this town had a crawling speed limit—courtesy of the wandering pet water buffalo. It was giving them the precious time they needed. ‘We should—’
‘Tell someone, Montrose.’ Porter grabbed her wrist.
‘But if we stop to get Finn, we’ll lose the ute. We could just tail them for a bit, to see where they’re going, and then report back.’ Especially when she saw her car, right there.
She couldn’t wait. And wasn’t going to wait, either. ‘I can do this on my own.’
‘No, Montrose. There are rules—’
‘Coming from you, that’s rich. And we don’t have time to spend debating this.’ She patted Porter’s pockets and dug out her car keys.
‘Can you drive in a ballgown?’
She took off her heels and sprinted for her car. ‘Watch me.’