Chapter 41 #2
‘D’ya need me to spell it out for ya?’ Tilly glared up at him, but her lips curled to fight the smile. She looked so much lighter without that dark cloud across her face anymore.
And all he could do was smile back at the lady.
Tilly then waved at the stock. ‘But them brumbies have gotta go. Simple. They’re not stayin’ here.’
‘We have to sort through them, first,’ said Amara. ‘There are some fine-looking branded horses among them.’
‘Whatever. They get gone. My husband, lord rest his soul, never liked ‘em. He made me promise to never have ‘em on this land. We grow fodder for the herd, not for the ferals.’
‘That’s fair,’ muttered Finn, with Cowboy Craig nodding beside him, like typical stockmen, where cattle came first.
Before Amara could protest, Porter stepped up. ‘The local ranger runs a private reserve just for brumbies,’ he said. ‘She’ll take them where they’ll be safe.’
Amara shot Porter a questioning look, probably wondering if he was playing dumb. He wasn’t. Truth was, a few weeks ago, he’d barely known a fetlock from a forelock, and still had a lot to learn. But he was getting there—thanks to her.
‘Right, then. That’s sorted.’ Tilly gave a sharp nod. ‘I’ve got more paperwork to sign.’
‘Are you moving back home, or staying at the Lodge?’ Amara asked.
‘Here. Back where I belong, and I have you to thank for that, Porter.’ She patted his hand. ‘You believed me when I told you about Sawyer.’
‘I’m sorry it didn’t—’
‘Stop saying you’re sorry. You were doing your job. You’re a good cop, that this town admires.’ She patted his shoulder, then headed for the car. ‘I’ll still expect you to visit me now and again. I didn’t mind our chats, Senior Constable Porter.’
Finally, someone had said his full title.
He nodded, like he was making her a silent promise to visit. ‘Before you go, Tilly, what happened to the deed? Is it still buried out here? Would you like some help to look for it?’
Tilly gave one of those wry smiles.
‘Did your husband really bury it?’
She barely nodded as she rested both hands on her cane, letting the silence spool out like a thread, waiting for him to guess.
‘He buried it at Tilly’s Crown, didn’t he?’ Porter asked slowly.
Again, she nodded.
‘Do you know where?’
‘I was there when he’d buried it, a long time ago…
’ Her voice didn’t waver, but her stance softened as she looked over the land.
‘Back then, women couldn’t even open their own bloody bank accounts without a man to sign off for them—be it husband, father, brother, didn’t matter.
Just had to have a male guarantor, like we were property ourselves.
Forget putting our names on the deed to a cattle station.
’ The tough, stubborn woman was a pioneer, who had somehow done it all without waiting for permission.
‘My husband reckoned that this land was as much mine as his,’ Tilly continued.
‘And we were married, sure—but back then, the Territory still followed South Australian law, and things weren’t always clear-cut when it came to inheritance.
Rules kept changing, and he didn’t trust the system to look out for me if something happened to him. ’
Tilly tapped her cane in the dirt, to shift her steady stance.
‘So, he buried the deed, out there.’ She nodded towards the heart of the station.
‘He’d said the world would catch up eventually—when it stopped looking sideways at a woman who could stand on her own.
’ She gave a small, satisfied smile at Amara, Romy, and Izzy.
‘So, where’s the deed now?’
Tilly’s eyes glittered with something between pride and mischief.
‘It’s right here…’ Again, she tapped her cane on the ground, only this time, she unscrewed the top and slid out a tightly rolled bundle of aged parchment, with curled edges that had softened with time.
‘I’ve been carrying it with me since I became a resident of the Lodge—like I was always carrying a part of home with me.
’ Again, she nodded at her land. ‘But I’m home now… ’
‘Here…’ Tilly passed the deed to her lawyer. ‘I’m sure you’ll find somewhere safe for that now.’
Porter chuckled, as Izzy tucked the parchment away with the kind of care only a lawyer could muster.
But Tilly stood a little taller, cane planted firm, nodding towards the open paddocks. ‘Well, there’s plenty to do, sorting out this new stock school, and scaring the white ants out of the walls in the house. Let’s go, Izzy.’
Porter watched her go. Tough as nails, and still three steps ahead of them all. ‘Deadset, she’s something else.’
???
‘She is,’ Amara said, adjusting the stirrup. ‘Now it’s time to stop standing around and get your arse in the saddle.’
Porter looked at the horse. Then at her. ‘What if I tell you I’m suddenly allergic to horses?’
She grinned. Amara smiled a lot more these days.
Thanks to Porter. And she’d even gotten used to his humour, which was surprisingly similar to Stone’s.
‘Come on, city boy. You bought them, you may as well learn how to ride them.’ It was the greatest gift she’d ever received.
Not only had Porter renovated her stables, calling it her she-shed, but he’d given her two horses.
They weren’t pedigrees, but they needed a home, like she did, and Porter had been the one generous enough to let them in.
It’s what he did—helped people without them asking.
She knew Porter secretly spoiled their new horses, his pair of paddock puppies, he’d call them.
Sneaking in carrots, having casual conversations with them while he checked their fences, or that grin he’d get whenever he’d race them in the Hellhound.
Their rescue horses loved him as much as Amara did, so it was time for the guy to learn to ride.
Porter placed a hand on the saddle, and hesitated. ‘Um… Where’s the instruction panel on this thing?’
It’s one of the things she admired, besides his ability to make her laugh, Porter didn’t mind asking for her help, allowing her to guide him to climb into the saddle.
It wasn’t graceful. But he got there.
Finn swung effortlessly onto his horse. ‘If Porter falls off, you’re carrying him back, Montrose.’
‘He’ll be fine.’ And then she swung up onto her own horse, beside Porter, settling into her saddle like it was home.
As for Porter, well… ‘Where’s the gear stick on this thing? I’m riding blind here, Montrose.’
She giggled. Yes, she laughed a lot more these days, too. ‘Here, let me show you…’ They turned their horses towards the open paddocks that felt like they were heading towards the future.
‘You know, teaching me to ride, making me wear this stockman’s hat, getting me to help you muster up that wild stock—that’s breaking one of your Not-to-Love List rules, Montrose.’
She side-glanced at him. Should she boost his ego and tell him how hot he looked dressed as a stockman?
‘Rule number six: no cowboys, stockmen, or rodeo riders. Oops.’ He gave a high shoulder shrug. ‘And rule number eight: No one who’s married to his job… Oops again.’
But when you shared a love for the job with someone who got it—who rode beside you, not ahead or behind—well, that rule didn’t matter anymore.
And maybe it was time to throw out all her lists for good.
Except the heavily graffitied house rules list that changed all the time, taking up prime real estate on their fridge that made them both laugh, while making fun wagers to see how long it’d take either one of them to bend or break those rules.
Amara Montrose had always imagined that wearing a tiara and a ballgown would make her feel like a princess. But here she was, no tiara, in a stockman’s hat she’d made with her own hands.
Her hair trailed in a messy plait between her shoulders. With no make-up. No tablet or pen and plans. Just sweat, sunscreen, and two enormous bottles of water strapped to her saddle—because she was never getting caught thirsty again.
This wasn’t some fairytale happily-ever-after. But for the first time in her life, she wasn’t lost.
She didn’t need to fix anything and didn’t need to plan ahead. Through Porter, she’d learned how to be still and soak in the sky above her, with the herd in front of her, and the steady presence of the horse Porter had bought for her—still unnamed—beneath her.
Most of all, she had the perfect blue-collar guy, who suited her, at her side. The man who would always have her back and had no problem carrying her into the future, if need be—he’d already proven that.
It might not be the ending for a duchess in a ballgown. But it was hers. And that made it the only kind of happy ending that mattered...
Not as a crown-wearing princess, but as Porter had told her—the queen who’d finally learned to embrace her inner wild.
THE END
For now…