Chapter 41
Forty-one
A fresh breeze rolled through the valley, like the country was clearing the last of its ghosts, as the sun sat low on a fresh new day at Dixby Downs.
Porter leaned against a metal rail, watching the mob of wild stock eye him back like they knew something he didn’t. Which wasn’t too hard, in this case.
The Stock Squad had a plan—portable yards were up, food and water were laid out—to wrap up the last of the overseer’s mess by mustering in the stragglers.
How that all worked? Didn’t matter to him much. Not when Porter was still here. Sun on his back, dust under his boots, enjoying a glorious day outdoors in the country. That was enough.
He’d happily play tourist for once and leave the rest to the experts to play cowboy.
Retrieving stolen livestock was technically part of their job, and there was a whole lot of fancy ponies hidden in the mix that would take weeks for the Stock Squad to sort out.
Today they were mustering the last of them.
Sawyer might be gone, but Red was still wearing the mask of a decent stock agent. Even though they all knew better now, without proof it was business as usual.
But Finn hadn’t let it go. Regularly checking in on Lydia—never when Red was around.
Porter had seen the troopy parked behind the stockyards to know Finn was helping to steady an uneasy woman caught in something deep.
And a man like Finn didn’t let things slide—and neither would Lydia, not when it came to the integrity of those stockyards.
As for young Brodie, he was always watching from the yards, promising to protect Lydia, and the lad was a lot sharper than most gave him credit for.
But they were all waiting, biding their time, watching for Red’s next mistake, hoping it might finally lead them to the big boss behind it all. Who was no doubt licking their wounds, especially now the Stock Squad were effectively shutting down their little way station here at Dixby Downs.
The game wasn’t over yet, but for now Porter could just put it in his back pocket for later and enjoy this big day out to see how the other side lived.
Wearing cowboy boots and jeans, with an Amara-made stockman’s hat. His stockman’s shirt still held the sharp creases from Amara’s ironing—because apparently that was now non-negotiable.
But he’d drawn the line at the jeans, and taught her the gospel of drip-drying. Saving them both from a life of starched denim.
And today?
It was her turn to teach him something: how to ride a horse and play cowboy with the rest of the Stock Squad.
Him. Bah! Porter had never ridden a horse in his life, it had never interested him. But give him fuel and the roar of a V8, and his pulse would kick off like Metallica’s Fuel—loud, fast, and wild.
Why start playing with ponies now, he’d debated heavily against the idea with Amara. But when his lady was on a mission, there was no stopping her. And let’s face it, she pretty much had him bending to her will in return for a simple smile.
It also didn’t help that he’d invested in not one, but two horses for her.
He could blame Lydia and Brodie, who’d shown him the sisters at the Elsie Creek Stockyards—a pair of hacks, they’d called them—but he couldn’t bring himself to split them up.
They were the last ones left in an empty stockyard, and someone had muttered they’d be off to the glue factory if no one took them.
Porter couldn’t leave them there. Not when he had a newly renovated stable to fill.
At first he didn’t know if he’d done the right thing, because Amara had cried when she found them in the stables.
He’d been kicking himself for doing that to her, until he realised they were happy tears. She loved them, even if they were just hacks. Porter didn’t care, and surprisingly, the ex-polo national contender didn’t either.
But Amara hadn’t named them yet. That wasn’t his job. It was hers.
Porter didn’t lose sleep, either, over the new horses settling in, not with the Hellhound roaring past. Because those paddock puppies were his kind of people.
They’d paw at the dirt, itching to race the Hellhound along the fence line like it was a game made just for them, where every damn time it had him grinning like an idiot.
But Amara was the one in charge of saddling, brushing and whatever it was you did with horses. She had a system, and she didn’t want him mucking it up, the same way he’d once told her not to mess with his meal plans.
Now, they shared that too. Working out a menu together, to cook side by side so they didn’t have to think about it again for the rest of the week.
For the Stock Squad’s colour-coded micromanager, she wasn’t too bad in the kitchen they shared. And with his shiftwork, the setup worked just fine.
Their house had no garden, not even a lawn, and it didn’t have a white picket fence either.
But it did have a bright pink stockman’s hat on the wall that made them both smile each morning as they dragged themselves out of bed—slipping into uniforms, sipping on coffees, while tossing around the idea of starting a new cold case like a couple of career cops who loved their job.
And at night?
Well… Going home to Amara truly meant something to him because they shared their hobbies.
Be it a spin in the Hellhound, fixing up the stables, doing some fencing, or setting up her new hat-making studio as part of her she-shed.
There were plenty of times they’d just sit on old crates in the man cave’s open doorway sharing a beer together as they watched their paddock puppies settle at sundown.
He hadn’t planned it this way—but damn if he wasn’t living the dream with the woman he loved, in a way that worked for them both, faults and all, with no need to change who they were underneath.
He’d found that happiness came in many layers.
In the soft smile she’d give him when she tucked her hair behind one ear.
In the way she leaned into him when he’d put a hand on her leg, or brushed at his shoulders, or walked beside him like they belonged to each other in the way their bodies moved together.
And at night, lying with her in his arms, he couldn’t help but thank the stars for letting go of the angel who now shared his bed.
But with horse riding, he wasn’t so sure.
‘Why can’t we do this at home?’ he grumbled.
‘Why? Are you worried everyone’s going to see you fall off?’ Amara grinned as she finished saddling the horse.
A vehicle rolled over the gravelly terrain towards them.
It was Izzy, who rushed around her car to open the passenger door and out came Tilly.
Her long cane in hand, spine straight, stockman’s hat on her head that did nothing to dull the gleam in her eyes, with a look sharp enough to make a bull think twice.
Everyone walked over to greet her—Amara, Craig, Finn, Stone, and even Romy paused from playing with her drone set up.
‘What brings you out here, Tilly?’ Porter asked, leaning against the fence.
‘Just wanted you lot to hear it from me first.’ Her voice carried through the yard, her stance tall, looking twenty years younger from when he’d last seen her.
‘I’m reopening Dixby Downs. Don’t have any family left worth bothering with, so I’ve decided it won’t just be a station anymore—it’ll be a stockman’s school. A place where the next generation can learn from the last. Maybe even somewhere for future Stock Squad members to come from.’
Porter hadn’t expected that, Tilly thinking about the next generation. Not when he’d stood beside Tilly as she buried her son, dry-eyed, gripping that cane of hers, mumbling about how she wished she could have done more to help her son.
Maybe this was her way of doing just that. A second chance, not for her, but for kids who needed direction and a shot at something better.
He glanced at Amara and spotted the flicker of pride in her smile. Even the heavily inked Finn gave a rare nod, the kind that said more than words ever could.
But then Tilly’s expression tightened, and so did the grip on her tall cane. ‘I’m truly sorry that they used Dixby Downs as a way station for stolen stock. There’s nothing worse than having livestock stolen on ya. So, I have to give something back to the community.’
‘You don’t need to—’
‘It’s done.’ She waved a hand, cutting Porter off. ‘Just so you know, I’ve roped in the Station Hand, who’s keen as mustard. Ron will run it like a headmaster. And those retired stockmen out at the Lodge? They’re sick of watching grass grow and are itching for a taste of yard dust again.’
Craig glanced at Stone and Porter, who both shrugged.
‘They’re retired,’ Craig said carefully.
‘Aren’t they too—’
Tilly’s cane cut the air, thumping down on one of the metal rails, narrowly missing Stone’s nose.
‘They’ve still got stories to tell, and plenty of skills to pass on, and this will give them a reason to get up in the morning again. And I want you lot keeping an eye on the place, too—make sure everything’s aboveboard.’ Tilly turned to nod at Izzy.
‘Here, this is for you.’ Izzy handed Amara a folder.
‘What’s this?’
‘The permits,’ Tilly said. ‘Just gotta hassle the fella who does the permits to let them banteng stay on. Can’t catch him, never in the office.’
Porter grinned at Tilly, bulldozing bureaucracy like it was a fallen fencepost.
‘But it’s signed and all official, so we can give that mob of wild banteng a home. I heard they do good on the weeds. And what’s not branded or has an unrecognisable brand in the cattle, they can stay. The Station Hand will take over.’
Amara passed the paperwork to Porter. ‘Your job, not mine.’
‘So... you’re taking the banteng? And the buffalo?’ Holding the paperwork, he wasn’t sure what Tilly would do with them. Hell, Porter didn’t know what he was doing. Yet he was about to saddle up for his first ride on a horse he owned, that didn’t even have a name yet.
Deadset. He was living some kind of cowboy dream.