Chapter 7
Frank
Title: Lightning does strike twice
I was twenty when I nearly burned down half of Koolaroo.
Not proud of it. It’s just a fact.
We were in the middle of a biddin war with some dickheads down in South Australia. They were tryin to cut into our Japanese Wagyu market, and profits were being carved to the bone. My old man never told me none of it. Found out the hard way, after he was dead.
But a month before he died in that abandoned mine, I overheard a conversation I wasn’t meant to hear.
Even now, thinkin about it makes my skin crawl.
Dad was talkin to some greasy loan shark from town. I couldn’t see ‘em, but I heard every word.
And Dad wasn’t just talkin.
He was beggin.
In my whole life, I’d never heard him like that.
My mother had already cleared out years earlier. Left me, Willy, and Dad to run Koolaroo. Not that Willy was any use. But my old man was the rock behind this place.
Hearin him beg like that was like watchin the top bull get chased off by a mongrel dog.
The Bransons weren’t beggars. We were the kind of men other families stepped aside for. Fierce. Stubborn. The last ones standin when the dust settled.
No Branson should have to beg to keep what’s his.
So I came up with a solution.
Up on the eastern ridge sat one of our outstations. Old as hell. Probably sixty years, maybe eighty. We used it a handful of times each year when gettin back to the homestead wasn’t possible. Warped timber. Rusted tin roof. Verandah saggin like an old dog’s spine.
But it was insured.
Just like everythin on Koolaroo.
Including Dad.
When he upped and died, I got enough money to pay off that sleazy loan shark and win that damn biddin war.
But that money came too late. I’d already fucked up by then.
When Dad was beggin for time, and that bastard wouldn’t give it, I got the bright idea to burn down the outstation.
Insurance payout would float us till we sorted the rest out.
That was the plan.
Took me two days to ride out there. Told Dad I was checkin supplies. He looked at me all proud, like I was finally thinkin ahead.
My chest swelled ridin out there. I thought I was savin the farm.
Instead, I nearly flattened us.
And the neighbors.
I dumped fuel onto a patch of long grass on the northern side of the cottage. The air was hot, wind pushin steadily from the south. That meant the fire would move north-east, toward the cottage.
That was the theory.
I lit the match.
Everything went to plan for about five minutes. Flames raced through the grass, hit the building’s back wall, and climbed it like it was damn hungry. Roof caught quick. Tin buckled. I stood there watchin, feelin clever as hell.
Then the wind shifted.
How was I to know the damn wind whips up over that ridge? Damn fire took off before I could get a handle on it.
It leaped from the cottage to the windmill. Sparks shot east and tore across the paddock like a bloody stampede. The whole ridge acted like a funnel. The wind built and twisted up there and turned damn mean.
The outstation was fully engulfed by the time I realized I’d lost control. It raced across scrub like it had a vendetta and jumped the eastern boundary fence straight into Henderson land.
They nearly lost fuckin everythin.
Those bastards fought like hell to save their shit.
Still lost three sheds, the horse stables, a year’s worth of grain, a windmill, and nearly a mile of fencing. Nearly lost their damn house.
We were already up to our necks in feuds with those idiots, and I knew I was in a lot a fuckin trouble.
But not with them.
With my old man.
If Jack Branson found out I’d nearly torched the neighbor’s place for insurance money, he’d have whipped me within an inch of my life. Twenty years old or not, I’d have felt that belt.
So, I called Bob Ackerman, told him the truth, and told him to get his ass out there and help me.
He was twenty-two by then and a junior cop.
By the time he arrived, the entire eastern ridge was black. Smoke crawled over the ground like it didn’t want to let go.
He could’ve ended me that night. Bob didn’t say much. But I knew what he was thinkin. If he saved my ass, he’d have one over me.
So that’s what he did. The official report read lightnin strike—dry electrical activity in the region. Old timber structure accelerated ignition. Spread intensified by wind shear over the ridge.
It wasn’t just wind shear.
That damn ridge makes its own weather. Faster. Angrier. It funnels like it’s got purpose.
I did get lucky, though. The insurance paid out.
A few years after Dad was long gone, I rebuilt that outstation with my own hands. Bob helped me a bit, and we had a good laugh over what I’d done.
The Hendersons never laughed, though. Those stupid bastards didn’t have insurance.
What they did have was blind, fuckin rage. I didn’t just ignite a fire. I lit a blaze that fed hatred that’d been simmerin between our families for half a century. But they had no proof. Nobody did. Thanks to Bob.
Lucky Bob did come out to the outstation to help me rebuild it, or I’d have no hope of puttin in the fancy claw-foot bath I found on the side of the road near the pub. Someone was throwin it out. Nothing wrong with it other than a bit of rust. Damn thing weighed a ton, though.
I would never have got it up the outstation stairs without his help. One of the ranch hands was good with pipes, and he made it so the bath had runnin water. That alone made it the best outstation out of the lot of em.
I’m proud of the way that place looked in the end.
Bet you lot didn’t know I could build shit.
There’s a lot you still don’t know about me.
Just like Dad never knew it was me who lit that fire.
Or maybe he just didn’t have enough time to put the pieces together.
’Cause a month later, he rode into that storm and never came back.
And I inherited everythin.
That night taught me two things.
1) when you fuck up, it’s not about ownin it, it’s about how well you cover it up. Kayden, that’s somethin I been trying to teach ya for years, ya damn dickhead.
2) a loyal mate is worth more than any prize Brahman bull.
It’s been good writin this stuff down. Rememberin all the things I’ve done. Can’t say I’ve had a good life. Can’t say it’s been an honest one either.
But it was mine.
At least these notes will teach you boys somethin. You’re gonna need it to run Koolaroo.
If you grow some balls, that is.
Not sure how much longer I’ve got. Feel like death warmed up most days. And that damn shitter’s gettin more action than the pub on Friday night.
But hidin out here these weeks, writin all this down, feels like therapy. Feels like I’m settin the record straight. Like I’m addin to the Branson legacy.
That’s what matters.
Everythin in these pages is the dead-set truth.
And don’t let fuckin Bob Ackerman tell you no different.
I’ll let you in on one more secret. That outstation’s worth a fuck-ton more now than it ever was.
Don’t tell Bob I told ya that.
And don’t tell him about these notes either.
Murder ain’t the worst thing Bob’s ever done.
Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.
Anyway.
That’s it.
Frank Branson.