TWENTY-SIX
In the morning, the sheets are still warm when I reach across the bed to find a dent and a faint whisper of eucalyptus.
‘Luke?’ My voice scrapes out, rough and heavy with sleep.
No answer. Just the soft shuffle of denim and the creak of floorboards.
I peel one eye open. He’s standing by the dresser in jeans, shirt, Akubra – waiting.
‘It’s still dark,’ I mumble into the pillow. ‘Why are you up? It’s not The Hunger Games.’
‘The sooner I move the cattle, the sooner I finish,’ he says, voice low and maddeningly alert for how early it is.
I groan and drop my head, blinking into the darkness. Outside, there’s only velvet black sky and a single star that refuses to go to bed.
‘You’re going now?’ I squint.
He shrugs. ‘Yeah. Gotta round up the stragglers before the sun melts what’s left of my will to live.’
‘You want help?’
He pauses, glancing at me with a look that hovers somewhere between pity and amusement. ‘You don’t have to come.’
‘I didn’t ask if I had to. I asked if you want help.’
‘I’ve seen you run from a March fly.’
‘It charged me.’
‘It was a fly.’
I sit up, hair everywhere, dignity nowhere. ‘I’m coming.’
Luke leans against the dresser, arms folded, face unreadable except for the faint twitch of his mouth. ‘You sure? Farm life might bruise your city ego.’
‘Wow. That’s rich, coming from someone with a three-in-one soap in the shower.’
‘Why would I need anything different?’ He gestures at his own face as proof.
‘You’re not selling it.’
He disappears into the kitchen without further argument, and I drag myself out of bed, a woman on a mission. Shorts. T-shirt. Hat?
I stumble out of the bedroom and find Luke waiting with a mug in one hand and a piece of toast in the other.
He offers me both. ‘Coffee. Breakfast. Humility.’
I take the toast and stare at it. ‘Is this …?’
‘Vegemite,’ he confirms, clearly waiting for a reaction. ‘You didn’t strike me as a jam girl.’
I take a cautious bite and immediately recoil. ‘This ratio is intense.’
‘It’ll strengthen your character.’
‘And ruin my appetite.’
He smirks and hands me a UHF radio. ‘Take this.’
Outside, even the birds are still asleep. There’s a thin line of light slicing across the horizon while the rest is still wrapped in blue shadow and a blanket of mist that clings to the ground, not yet ready to let go.
Four kelpies are perched on the back of a quad bike, vibrating with energy as if they’ve already had three espressos and listened to a motivational podcast.
‘That one’s Rusty,’ Luke says, nodding to the older dog. ‘Then Scout, Sandy and Sushi.’ ‘Sushi?’ I ask, eyebrows raised.
Luke shrugs. ‘She doesn’t take kindly to strangers.’
‘Same,’ I mutter, climbing onto the quad. The seat is cold and vaguely damp. My thighs scream in betrayal.
He gestures to the horse tethered to the fence. ‘I’ll be on Banjo.’
‘You named your horse Banjo?’
‘You named your vibrator Derek.’
‘What?’ I laugh. ‘How do you even know that?’
Luke mounts Banjo with casual expertise, clearly very pleased with himself. ‘Ella.’
‘I’m suing.’
He grins. ‘Go ahead. Just don’t crash my quad.’
The dogs bark. The engine rumbles beneath me. Banjo shifts beneath Luke, hooves scuffing the dirt, breath misting in the chill air. Everything smells of dew and dust and the promise of doing something wholly outside my comfort zone.
‘Ready?’ he calls.
I nod. ‘Let’s go, cowboy.’
He spurs Banjo into a light canter, and I push the throttle forward, the quad bike growling beneath me as if it knows I have no business driving anything larger than an electric scooter around Darling Harbour.
The air hits my face like a slap – clean, dry, a little electric. The sky blooms brighter with every passing second, pink and gold unfurling over the red grevilleas. The dogs sit behind me, itching for any signal from Luke to leap off and get to work.
He rides Banjo to the left of me and slightly ahead, his back straight, completely at home. His silhouette cuts clean lines against the sunrise, all angles and motion and that damned hat.
And me?
I’m trailing behind, grinning like an idiot, half asleep, toast in my teeth, radio in my lap, and totally, completely in over my head.
The quad bumps over a divot in the track and jolts me out of my thoughts.
Ahead, the paddocks open up like some slow-motion country epic.
Hectares of red earth stretch to the horizon, where the sun is finally dragging its lazy arse up into the sky.
The mist is burning off now, peeling back to reveal a place so wide and raw it makes my city-girl brain feel very, very small.
I pull up beside Luke, who’s sitting high in the saddle, all relaxed thighs and straight spine as if he was born with reins in his hands. Banjo shifts under him, patient, knowing the real work is about to begin.
Luke doesn’t look down when he speaks. ‘This is where it starts.’
‘This being what, exactly?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice breezy.
Luke lifts his chin towards the fence line. ‘We’ll drive the cattle from here and lead them through the left paddock, past the creek bed, then across to the troughs. The dogs will keep them in check. I’ll lead the herd from the front, you bring up the rear and radio in if there are any strays.’
‘Cool, cool.’ I nod. ‘I once babysat my nieces in a Westfield food court. I assume this is similar.’
His mouth curves. ‘Fewer screaming parents, more cow shit.’
‘Sold.’
He adjusts his grip on the reins. ‘If they split, try circling wide. Don’t panic. Use the horn sparingly.’
‘Panic. Use the horn,’ I recite. ‘Got it.’
Luke finally glances down at me, eyes scanning my posture, assessing. ‘You holding the radio like that on purpose?’
I glance at the chunky UHF awkwardly balanced in my lap. ‘Is it upside down?’
‘Would explain why you’re talking into the battery pack.’
I scowl and fumble with the buttons, pressing one at random. It emits a burst of static.
Luke sighs, reins resting loosely in one hand as he leans over Banjo’s shoulder. ‘Here.’
He reaches down and plucks the radio from my grip, fingers brushing mine – warm and callused and completely casual. He’s close enough now that I can see the golden stubble on his jawline catch the light, the faint crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes from too much squinting into too much sun.
‘This button to talk,’ he says, thumb pressing it. ‘And this dial changes the channel. You don’t need to touch that unless you wanna flirt with truckers passing through.’
‘Tempting.’
He hands it back, his fingers brushing mine again. Definitely on purpose this time. The contact sends a spark skittering down my spine. Which I ignore. Obviously.
‘Got it,’ I say, all false confidence and desperate bravado. ‘I’m Russell Coight.’
‘You’re doing great,’ he deadpans. ‘Proud of you already.’
He lets out a low whistle, sharp and precise. The dogs shoot forward like bullets, disappearing through the open gate with terrifying enthusiasm.
I crank the quad back to life and follow, wheels spinning over the cracked earth. The horizon is a golden watercolour now – light dripping over the hills, kissing every dry blade of grass, every sun- bleached fence post.
And then I see them.
The cattle.
Thousands of them, clustered in lazy formation, tails flicking, ears twitching, heads low. Brown, black, tan – a slow-moving, heavy- breathing herd of muscle and inertia.
Luke whistles again, sharper this time, and the kelpies respond like dancers hitting their marks – looping around the left flank, nipping at heels, shifting the entire herd. Controlled chaos. The cattle start to move.
I try to stay wide, guiding them with soft revs of the engine, minor turns, minimal fuss. One rogue cow breaks from the pack and starts lumbering to the open field as if it’s heard there’s a better party elsewhere.
‘Uh, we’ve got a runner,’ I say into the radio, nearly dropping it in my lap.
‘Then go get her, Maverick,’ Luke’s voice crackles back.
I veer off, kicking up dirt as I circle around. The dog – Scout, I think – cuts the cow off before I can even get close, nipping enough to redirect her.
The cow turns, lowing in protest, and stumbles back into the herd.
‘Good girl, Scout!’ I shout, throwing a fist in the air. She ignores me, obviously. Too cool for praise.
When I glance at Luke, he’s watching me with a look I can’t quite read. Maybe approval. Maybe surprise. Maybe trying not to laugh because that was Sushi, not Scout.
Either way, my heart does an annoying little cartwheel.
He turns Banjo in a wide arc, moving smoothly along the far side of the herd, giving subtle whistles, shifting in his saddle with an ease that makes the whole thing look effortless.
His shirt clings to his back in all the right ways.
His forearms flex with every adjustment of the reins.
He’s not smiling, exactly, yet there’s a calmness in him.
A stillness. He belongs here in a way I never will.
And damn it, it’s hot.
Not sexy hot – capital-H, people-write-fanfic-about-this-man hot.
It’s deeply unfair.
Because I know men like Luke aren’t built for people like me. He rides horses at dawn. I panic if I miss an episode of Severance. He can control a whole herd of cattle with his voice. I once cried in a Kmart parking lot because I couldn’t find my car.
But right now, watching him out here, watching the way he communicates without speaking – with a whistle, a shift in weight, a raised hand – and seeing how everything around him responds …
It makes something pull, tight and dangerous, in my chest.
Not lust.
Longing.
Which is worse. But just this once, I block out the head noise and let myself enjoy the view.
The cows move like slow thunder – one reluctant step at a time.
It’s hours of sunburnt dust rising in clouds around our legs, brittle spinifex brushing at our ankles like nature’s barbed wire, and ironbark trees standing guard in the distance, their charcoal trunks cracked and peeling.
Scrubby, dull green saltbush dots the ground, and every so often a fallen paperbark redirects the herd.
We keep pushing forward while the herd tests our patience by occasionally turning around on a whim because one of them caught a vibe and the rest decided to follow.
By the time we reach the creek, the sun’s high enough that the back of my neck feels fried.
My thighs ache from gripping the quad. My wrists are stiff from manoeuvring the throttle.
The radio’s looped onto my belt now, coated in the same fine film of red dirt that’s now in my mouth, ears and probably my soul.
We edge them towards the water – a shallow stretch that cuts a lazy line across the land. The cattle hesitate. A few low moos echo as they bunch up at the bank, snorting at the water.
Luke rides up alongside me, face shaded by the brim of his hat, sweat gleaming at his temples. ‘They don’t love crossings. Keep them calm. Let the dogs do the work.’
He whistles twice and the kelpies dart into motion again – one flanking left, the other right, nudging the herd from the sides, keeping them tight and steady.
The first cow dips a hoof into the water. Then another follows. A slow chain reaction begins, and soon they’re trudging through – splashing and sloshing, reluctant yet cooperative.
Luke glances at me. ‘See? River gods are merciful today.’
‘I was about five seconds away from offering a human sacrifice.’
His eyes flick to me. ‘Would’ve offered you first.’
‘I would’ve gone willingly to escape the sun.’
We push on. The sun climbs higher, the breeze loses its edge, and the sweat down my back becomes a permanent feature. The cows scatter once they’re past the creek and Luke canters ahead, cutting off two rogue steers before they disappear into the bush.
The hours pass in a rhythm: circle wide, herd them in, keep moving. The dogs start to lag, tongues lolling, bodies moving on pure instinct and adrenaline.
By the time the final gate comes into view – tucked between two fence posts in a clearing – I’m half hallucinating. The herd slows again, stubborn to the end, hooves dragging. I reckon they’re as over it as I am.
Luke swings off Banjo in one smooth, practised motion and unlatches the gate. He slaps the timber post with one hand and clicks his tongue, and the dogs surge forward, ushering the cows through with a final burst of energy.
The cows shuffle into the yard in clumps, dust coating their hides like frosting on a sad rural cake. The last one ambles through, tail flicking lazily, and the kelpies finally slow to a trot, panting hard.
Luke turns to me, chest rising and falling under his sweat-streaked shirt, his hat tipped back enough to show the creases in his forehead from frowning into the sun.
‘Nice work, B1,’ he says, voice warm and a little rough around the edges.
I pull up beside him on the quad and kill the engine. My legs wobble as I swing off. ‘You doubted me.’
‘I did.’
‘I resent that.’
He smirks and closes the gate, his boots kicking up dust with each step.
The heat is at full force now, pressing in from every direction.
Even the birds seem too tired to make noise.
The sun’s a giant, uncaring fireball above us, and everything buzzes with the dry, baked silence that only comes when the hard work is finally done.
‘Admit it,’ I say, wiping dust from my forehead with the sleeve of my t-shirt. ‘You’re impressed.’
Luke glances over, expression unreadable. ‘You didn’t crash.’
‘I’ll take that as high praise.’
He lifts two fingers to his lips and whistles once more, and the dogs trot obediently to his side, dirt-smeared and utterly spent. One of them flops onto the quad bike.
We ride back towards the homestead in tired silence, me on the quad bike trailing behind Banjo, dust rising in our wake in lazy golden clouds. The heat shimmers off the fence posts that guide our way. The radio crackles once, then goes quiet again.
My hands are raw. My shoulders ache. I’ve got at least four new freckles and probably heat rash in places I can’t discuss in polite company.
And still, somewhere between the creek crossing and that final whistle, I decide this beats any reformer Pilates class.