TWENTY-TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-SEVEN
By the time we roll back to the house, the sun is directly overhead.
I kill the engine of the quad bike and slide off like a corpse coming out of rigor mortis.
Luke dismounts Banjo beside me, pats the gelding’s neck and murmurs something affectionate to him.
It’s the kind of tone I wouldn’t mind being on the receiving end of, if I’m honest.
I lean against the fence, half in admiration, half because my legs are jelly and I need to be propped up.
‘Was that the final boss?’ I ask.
Luke wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘No. That was level two.’
He disappears into the shed and emerges a moment later holding a large white milk bottle with a long rubber teat on the end. He doesn’t say anything, just hands it to me and jerks his head towards the side of the house.
‘Oh,’ I say, my face breaking open with delight. ‘Is it Cutlet time?’
Luke smiles and nods before I head across the yard, bottle in hand.
I duck into the shade of the small pen where Cutlet waits.
She barrels towards me the second I step into the pen, her gangly legs wobbling as if she’s made of pipe cleaners and caffeine.
She headbutts the bottle with the enthusiasm of someone who believes food should be a contact sport.
‘Easy, girl.’ I laugh, bracing myself as she latches onto the teat and suckles.
Luke stands at a distance in the stable doorway, arms crossed, sweat clinging to his neck in a way I’m trying not to stare at. ‘I told you not to get attached to your dinner.’
I glance down at Cutlet, who’s making obscene noises as she guzzles. ‘She imprinted on me,’ I say. ‘I’m her weirdly hot surrogate mother now.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re the one who named her Cutlet.’
I shrug. ‘It’s aspirational. She was born small. I thought she needed edge.’
‘Edge?’ he echoes, amused.
‘I’m preparing her for both outcomes.’
He watches her pull at the bottle. ‘You think she’s gonna make it?’
‘She’s persistent. Mouthy. A little intense. Reminds me of you.’
Luke’s mouth tips into a smirk. ‘Only one of us is bottle-fed.’
‘Please.’ I shift the bottle as Cutlet butts into my hip. ‘You love sucking on my nipples.’
That stops him. His smile deepens – slower now, darker. ‘I’m a man of simple needs.’
Cutlet finishes the bottle with a sloppy final suck and headbutts me in the stomach, completely ruining the moment. I stagger back a step, laughing despite myself. ‘Rude,’ I mutter, wiping milk off my hand and Cutlet’s nose.
Luke watches me with that same unreadable expression – somewhere between entertained and something he’s not ready to admit out loud. ‘You’re surprisingly good at this,’ he says eventually, nodding towards the now-empty bottle.
I toss him a grin as I straighten and walk over. ‘Yeah, well. You like my nipples, and she likes my bottles. I’m basically the full-service station.’
Luke laughs. ‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ he says, turning back towards the shed. ‘We’ve got a feed delivery coming in.’
That startles me. ‘Wait – I thought we were done for the day.’
He lets out a single, humourless chuckle. ‘That’s cute. You think time sheets exist out here.’
Sure enough, a battered white truck rumbles up the drive, dragging a trail of dust behind it. The driver kills the engine and climbs out. He’s short and sun-browned, with a sweat-stained singlet and the body language of someone who’s had exactly one type of job his whole life.
Luke walks over to meet him. They shake hands, exchange nods. No dramatic greetings – just the kind of low-voiced conversation that only exists between men who see each other once a month and don’t need to post about it.
I’m too far away to hear the words, but Luke’s head tilts slightly as they talk. The driver says something that makes him smirk. Luke gestures at the silo. More nodding. A short laugh. Then they’re back to business.
The driver swings into the cab and starts reversing with calm, practised confidence, lining the truck up to the silo as if it’s second nature. The chute cranks down with a satisfying clunk, locking into place at the mouth of the silo.
Then – whoosh.
Grain pours from the belly of the truck in a golden, rumbling cascade, drowning the yard in the scent of dry oats and summer heat. Bits of husk whirl into the air like confetti at a barn wedding.
Luke stands by the silo, one hand braced on the metal wall, watching the levels rise. Once the truck’s empty, the driver climbs back out. Another quick exchange – more nods, even a shoulder slap – then he’s off again.
Luke doesn’t miss a beat. He swings into the ute, reverses towards the silo with surgical precision, and hops out to angle the chute. The grain pours into the tray, loud and steady, no hesitation.
I watch him work – his arms braced on the side of the ute’s tray, hat low, completely focused. I don’t say it out loud, but it’s kind of hot in that ‘you know he has a good grip and a tragic backstory’ kind of way.
I linger on the porch, hoping – naively – that I’ve entered the observation portion of the day.
But then Luke tosses me the keys to the ute.
‘You’re driving,’ he says and heads for the passenger door.
I stare down at the keys in my hand. ‘Uh … problem.’
He freezes mid-step. ‘What?’
‘I can’t drive a manual.’
He blinks once, as if the heat warped my words. ‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m deeply not.’
There’s a long pause as he stares at me, processing. Then he sighs. It’s not dramatic – more the quiet deflation of a man realising his day got ten per cent longer. ‘Get in.’
‘Are you deaf?’ I hold the keys up. ‘I don’t know how to do this. At all.’
‘I’m going to teach you.’
‘Oh, great. This will really make us hate each other.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ he says, already rounding the bonnet to the passenger side.
‘No, it won’t,’ I mutter, climbing into the driver’s seat with slow reluctance.
He gets in beside me and says, ‘All right. Left foot’s your clutch. You’re going to push it all the way down first.’
‘Using two feet for a car is unnatural.’
Luke ignores me. He leans over, reaches for my hand and places it on the gear shift. His hand is warm, strong, completely unfazed. Mine is clammy and shaky.
‘First gear. Like this.’ He shifts it into place, guiding me through it, patient but way too close for someone who’s not trying to be distracting.
I glance at him. ‘You do know this is foreplay in most countries.’
‘You’re stalling already and we haven’t even moved.’
‘Thanks, coach.’
It takes five attempts to even get moving. Each time I lift my foot off the clutch, the ute jolts and promptly dies.
On try six, we lurch forward in a violent bunny hop that throws both of us half out of our seats.
‘Fuck me,’ I gasp.
Luke chuckles, hand braced on the dash. ‘She’s moving. Not pretty – but she’s moving.’
After thirty minutes of grinding gears, praying out loud, and accusing Luke of giving me shit instructions, I finally manage a semi-respectable crawl in second gear.
Luke leans his elbow on the windowsill and grins. ‘See? You’re a natural.’
‘A natural disaster,’ I grumble, yet I’m secretly proud. ‘Where to now?’
‘Back paddock,’ he says. ‘Where we left the cattle. No hills. No traffic lights. No intersections. Just steer, don’t kill us, and you’ll pass.’
‘Excellent. Soothing words from a man with no life insurance.’
‘You don’t know that.’
I shoot him a look. ‘You have life insurance?’
He grins. ‘Why? Are you looking to make a claim?’
We bump our way out across the property, the dust kicking up behind us, the tray rattling as if it’s holding loose bones. When we reach the paddock gate, Luke hops out, opens it, then waves me through.
I do my best. I really do. But the second I ease the ute forward, it bunny hops again.
Luke squints at the ground, sighs like a man betrayed, and mutters, ‘Fucking hell.’
I hear it and laugh all the way through the gate.
He swings it shut behind us, but instead of getting back in the cab, he walks to my window.
‘Line her up next to the trough,’ he says, pointing to the long row of metal. ‘Then stop and keep it in first. No accelerator. Ease your foot off the clutch and she’ll creep forward nice and slow.’
‘Cool. Sounds easy enough to mess up spectacularly.’
‘You won’t.’
‘And why can’t you do this?’
‘I’ll be on the back.’ He thumbs towards the tray. ‘Shovelling grain into the trough.’
Two cows wander lazily in front of the ute’s path, looking mildly curious.
‘What happens if they don’t move?’ I ask.
‘They’ll move. They want to be near the grain.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘Then honk. Or flash ’em your tits.’
‘Sick.’
Luke’s mouth quirks.
I chew my lip. ‘Maybe I should shovel. I don’t want to—’
He cuts in gently. ‘You don’t have to drive if you don’t want to.’
There’s no judgement in the statement. Just a genuine offer. And weirdly, that makes me want to do it more. I roll my eyes. ‘Fine. I’ll drive. But if I kill a cow, it’s on you.’
‘Deal,’ he says, and then winks before jogging around the back and hopping up onto the tray.
He knocks on the roof with two firm taps. Go time.
We move slowly. Cattle shuffle aside. Grain pours from Luke’s shovel in steady arcs into the long metal troughs. The air smells of feed and dust and warmth. The engine hums softly. I grip the steering wheel tight, but I’m doing it.
We’re doing it.
And for all the chaos, all the awkward bunny hops and sunburn, there’s a rhythm to this. A type of teamwork. Luke shovels. I inch forward. The cattle crowd in as if it’s the hottest club in town.
I glance in the mirror and watch him – his shirt damp, forearms flexed, eyes scanning the line of cattle as if they’re chess pieces.
How in the hell does one man run this place alone?
By the time we finish the loop, the grain’s gone and so is most of my energy. I shift into neutral and kill the engine.
Luke jumps down from the tray, dusts off his jeans and grins at me through the window.
‘Didn’t stall,’ he says.
‘Didn’t die,’ I say back.
We both smile.