The Summerfield Saddler

Chapter One

CHAPTER

1

The fields shimmer gold and clouds smudge the sky as I lower my Akubra and gather the reins. When Athena, a silver-grey mare with dapples on her rump, prances and tosses her head, I bring her back to our marker.

‘We wait by the posts,’ I tell the mare as, a hundred metres away, nine thoroughbreds with necks stretched out and tails like banners, charge past a water tank fringed with red-rust rings. There are no riders on these horses, no bridles, saddles or other restraints. Firefly, on the outside, brings the other horses round and they gallop through a stand of ironbark trees. Phoenix, a powerful thoroughbred with a vivid white star, is the first to pass the shack with a tall brick chimney.

When I tighten Athena’s reins, the leather, hand stitched by my grandfather, is soft against my palms. If Grandpa was still at the saddlery, if I could have kissed him goodbye as the sun came up, he’d have taken my hand and smiled. ‘Keep a rein on your spirit, Mackenzie,’ he’d have said. ‘Get yourself home in just the one piece.’

Three members of the film crew dart across the field, cameras and other equipment bouncing with their steps. Drones with cameras, a flock of metal birds, buzz and swoop above us. Leo, the lead horse trainer, standing at the marker between me and the yards, raises a pole topped with a screen. I keep my eyes on the numbers as the countdown begins. Ten, nine, eight … Athena’s hindquarters bunch beneath her, but I keep her close to our marker as the numbers continue to light up the screen. The numeral two comes up and then number one, but …

When Leo briefed me an hour ago, he told me I shouldn’t give Athena her head until Phoenix was less than ten seconds behind us. I count down another five seconds before leaning forward, dropping my hands and loosening the reins.

‘Go!’

The air trembles with hoofbeats as Athena takes off and Phoenix follows. Nostrils flared, neck extended, within seconds he’s at our heels. Adrenaline fires through my body as the ground blurs beneath me. My heart thumps, my eyes water. Like the other horses, Phoenix has been trained to gallop from marker to marker. This scene in The Dragon Slayers movie—the wild black stallion pursuing the smaller grey mare with the boy on her back—is only a chase in theory . Except …

Phoenix has thrown away the script. Unlike the other horses, he’s not looking to the trainers for direction. Did Leo see something I missed? Is that why he signalled that I should start early? The thoroughbred should have backed off but he only has eyes for Athena.

Phoenix is a gelding, not a stallion. He has no interest in adding Athena to his herd. But he’s an ex-racehorse and has reverted to what he was trained for—finishing out in front. Which is why, instead of staying a metre clear of Athena’s side and at least a metre behind, he’s drawing closer to us and further away from the other horses.

The drones flit above us. Crew members pop up like daisies. They’ve been briefed on what should happen—they see there’s a problem.

Leo is holding up a long black whip, signalling that the horses come to him. When he lowers the whip, signalling that the horses slow to a canter, all of them but Phoenix follow his direction. Athena is under my control; she waits for my command. I shorten a rein and increase the pressure of my inside leg to change her trajectory.

‘Stay with me, girl.’

After a moment’s hesitation, Athena responds, but Phoenix comes with us. If he had a halter, I could grab it and shake some sense into him, but as it is I have half a tonne of thoroughbred breathing down my neck. I shoot a glance at Leo, now standing on a railing and waving the horses in. If I pull Athena up now, where will that leave Phoenix? He’s set on his course. He’ll take time to settle. There are twenty or thirty people between us and the yards—not only Leo’s horse-wise team but actors, extras, make-up artists, wardrobe and catering. Some people are already running for cover, but what about those who won’t get there in time? If I end the chase, Phoenix could gallop over them. Even if he didn’t, he could get hurt himself.

‘Mac!’ Leo sweeps his arm in an arc. ‘Get Phoenix out of here!’

Astrid Meyer, the movie director, whippet slim with straight fair hair and dressed in black, shouts out too. ‘Take him to the river!’

‘Onto it!’

My words are taken by the wind as Phoenix, eyes wide, nostrils flared, gallops alongside Athena. The men with cameras remain dotted around the field. Some are still filming; others run for cover. The Akubra, guaranteed by wardrobe to stay on through thick and thin, flies from my head and my hair streams out behind me. Athena is tiring. The river, marked by a long straggly line of red river gums, is a few hundred metres away.

Unlike every metre of ground between the markers—the water tank, iron bark trees and tumbledown shack, the posts where I waited with Athena and the finishing point at the yards—this land hasn’t been combed for rabbit and wombat holes or other hidden dangers. We plough through a thicket of thistles, leap over a ridge of rock. To our left is an upright post. A dilapidated fence? If there’s one post, there’ll be others, and maybe wire as well. A kangaroo hops up the banks of the river, stills for a heartbeat and then bounds away. Fight or flight: he knows what to do.

We’re a couple of hundred metres clear of the yards—enough time for the crew to run clear if Phoenix doubles back. When I shorten the reins, Athena responds but Phoenix, eyes wild and hooves thundering, cuts across us.

Athena loses her footing. She stumbles.

When I throw myself to the side to correct her balance, she scrabbles but stumbles again.

My feet fly out of the stirrups.

Losing the reins my grandfather stitched, I catapult over her head.

Are the cameras still whirring? Am I falling in slow motion? Are they drones or vultures high in the sky? Athena is below me and then she’s behind me and then, as I wrap my arms around my head and roll and roll and roll, she’s far above me and blocking out the sun.

***

Get yourself home in just the one piece. I’m twenty-seven. I don’t parrot Grandpa’s phrases like I did when I was a child, but his favourite expressions—like his knowledge of dogs and horses and leather— are hardwired into my mind.

I’m on my back and unless a horse (or an elephant) is sitting on my chest, I’m winded. Breathing is painful but I can wiggle my fingers and toes. I bend my elbow, struggle onto my side, bring up my knees. There’s a lot of yelling going on. There’s also a deep throaty rumble. Or is that a sound in my head? The film crew vehicles are parked behind the yards. They’d have to drive to the road and take a circuitous route around the paddocks to get to me here. It’ll take a while, but that doesn’t worry me. By then I’ll have my breath. I’ll sit up, brush myself down and—

The rumble gets louder. A motorcycle engine, a powerful one, cuts out. Like the numbers on Leo’s screen, the images in my mind are perfectly clear. Twisted limbs. Broken neck. The saddler’s son is dead.

A whimper explodes from the cramp in my chest. I open and shut my fingers again. I blink a few times, focus on the browns and the greens. A cockatoo screeches and others join in. I turn my head, feel the roughness of the dirt against my cheek. The saddler’s granddaughter lives.

Heavy footsteps. A long stride. Then, ‘Don’t move.’

Deep voice. Two very large and dusty boots. I straighten a leg. Hard-baked earth beneath my knee. I bring an arm under the side of my face.

‘I said don’t move.’ He’s crouching over me now, blocking out the sun. Isn’t that what Athena did?

I breathe in. Not too painful.

He places a hand on my arm. ‘Astrid called an ambulance.’

Shallow breaths. Don’t push it. I roll onto my back and—

Piercing blue eyes. A crease between his brows. Well-defined cheekbones. A firm mouth and a square jaw. Scruffy well-cut dark blond hair.

He’s a Viking.

When a horse whinnies, he looks towards the sound.

‘The horses.’ My voice is a croak.

‘The grey is on her feet.’ His pronunciation is sharp. An accent? ‘The black has bolted.’

I roll to my left side, planning to sit. ‘Oh!’

His hand skirts up my arm to my shoulder. ‘What?’

‘Give me a hand.’

He’s young, early thirties, but the line between his brows appears to be permanent. Does he stand on the prow of his ship and frown into the sun? His stubble and brows are darker than his hair. A scar, a faint white line a centimetre long, cuts across his chin. He opens his mouth as if to deny me but when I wedge my boot against a clump of grass, he holds out an arm.

‘Pull yourself up slowly.’

I’ve seen good-looking actors on the set, but none who look like him. His shirt is long sleeved; his forearm is muscular. Swallowing down nausea, I grasp his arm and sit. Then I pitch forward, my head between my knees. I keep my right arm close to my chest and take a few deep breaths.

‘What is painful?’

‘Collarbone.’ Another wave of nausea. I close my eyes, clench my teeth. ‘Bruised.’

‘Broken.’

An engine cuts out. A car door slams. ‘Mac!’ Astrid, in her late thirties, has an intense and intelligent face. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘She’s winded,’ the Viking says. ‘Broken collarbone.’

I lift my head. ‘You don’t—’

‘Where is your medical team?’ the Viking asks Astrid.

‘Out here?’ Astrid lifts her hands. ‘We rely on local services.’

‘With ten wild horses—’

‘They’re trained.’ I force the words.

‘By you?’

‘Mac’s a saddler.’ Astrid indicates my waistcoat. ‘She does our leatherwork and the designs on our weapons.’

‘Then why is she on a horse?’

Leo asked me to do him a favour. I need someone with your build, Mac. We’ll hide your hair, flatten your chest. It’ll be cash in hand. You’ll have no trouble with Athena—she’s a great little horse.

Athena is a great little horse—Phoenix was the problem. Even so, I’d like to kick the Viking in the shins. As it is … ‘What’s it to you?’

‘It’s a small team,’ Astrid says. ‘Mac troubleshoots.’

The Viking’s eyes narrow. ‘Where is her helmet?’

‘Today, we should have had medics, I agree,’ Astrid says.

As the stabbing in my chest intensifies, I squeeze my eyes shut, lighten my breaths. I yank at my collar. ‘Too tight.’

Swearing under his breath, the Viking unclasps the clips of my black leather waistcoat. Then, swiftly yet carefully, he unfastens the buttons of my calico shirt. His hand stills.

‘What is this?’

‘A chest binder,’ Astrid says. ‘She’s a boy.’

With another curse, the Viking pulls a knife from his boot and flicks out a long narrow blade. He grasps the top of the binder.

‘It’s tied at the back,’ Astrid says.

‘Release your breath slowly,’ the Viking instructs as, wedging his hand between my singlet and the thick ridged fabric of the chest binder, he slices through the garment at the front.

As my chest expands, the pain ramps up. My eyes water. ‘Sheesh.’

After one last glare at Astrid, the Viking eases my left arm free of the clothes. Then, as I bite down hard on my lip, he frees my right arm too. If he looked down, he’d see my nipples through the singlet. I clutch my arm to my chest again.

‘How old are you?’ He frees the calico shirt from the waistcoat and drapes it around my shoulders.

It’s none of his business, but … ‘Twenty-seven.’

‘You don’t look it.’

‘Who are you?’

‘You don’t know him?’ Astrid says.

I glance at the Viking then away. ‘I don’t go to the movies.’

She huffs. ‘That’s not what he does.’

Expression set, the Viking fastens the top two buttons of my shirt and brings the sides in close. A cape. ‘I’m not here,’ he says.

Because he lives in an alternate universe? ‘What do you mean?’

Ignoring my question, he looks over my head. ‘The ambulance. How long?’

Astrid looks at her watch. ‘They said thirty minutes.’

‘I don’t need an ambulance.’ The dirt in my mouth is gritty. I turn my head, wipe my face on the shirt. ‘Astrid?’ I wipe my mouth again. ‘Do you have a water bottle?’

‘I have one.’

As the Viking walks to his motorbike and leans over the seat, a new wave of nausea hits. He said the horses were wild but it’s his bike that’s a killer. As he strides back towards us, I do my best to sit straighter.

Another car, a few of them. More doors slam. I’m turning my head to spit when the Viking unbuttons his shirt. He shrugs out of it, pours water on the fabric. After wiping the neck of the bottle on his singlet, he gives me the bottle and shirt.

I keep my eyes on his but …

Abdomen, chest, shoulders, arms. He works out, he’s fit. As a trio of bull ants march past my boot, I take the shirt and wipe my face. Soap powder. I sip, swish, spit out. And then, slowly because my chest hurts even more when I swallow, I drink.

‘Leo is a liability,’ the Viking says to Astrid. ‘Get rid of him.’

Astrid stabs a finger. ‘Butt out.’

‘I’m on your advisory board.’

A conciliatory smile from Astrid. ‘Leo shouldn’t have put Mac on the horse,’ she finally says. ‘But it’s too late to make changes now.’

Leo and others huddle close by. Over near the river, one of the cameramen holds Athena’s reins. She’s shaky but doesn’t seem to be injured. The trainer who hoisted me onto Athena’s back an hour ago has a halter and rope over his shoulder. He turns and shouts, ‘You okay, Mac?’

I mean to shout back, but my voice comes out as a croak. ‘All good.’

After frowning yet again, the Viking stands. When he strides to Leo, he blocks my view of the trainer.

‘Why was the woman on the horse?’ the Viking asks.

‘Mac’s as good a rider as any I’ve got,’ Leo says defensively.

‘That’s not—’

‘Babe …’ When a tall and slender woman puts a hand on the Viking’s arm, he turns towards her. ‘Astrid will sort everything out.’

The woman’s skin is flawless and her hair skims her shoulders in dark glossy waves. As the wardrobe man flattened my breasts, he pointed her out: Chloe Rochefort, a famous French actress. Is the Viking her leading man? What did Astrid mean by ‘that’s not what he does’?

Arms crossed, he’s still arguing with Leo. The Viking hardly has an accent, but he speaks precisely, bluntly. Why was the woman on the horse?

Chloe, white teeth sparkling, laughs at something the Viking says. ‘No!’ Still smiling, she leans against him and whispers in his ear. He shakes his head, says something back. He has perfect teeth too.

A gap between your teeth gives your face character. Another of Grandpa’s sayings, one he made up himself. I run a finger across my teeth to check they’re firm, then press my tongue into the space between my two front teeth.

The Viking’s attention shifts back to me. Our eyes meet.

‘Where are you from?’ I don’t realise I’ve said the words aloud until he crouches by my side.

‘Norway.’

‘Are you an actor in the movie?’

‘No.’ He takes his shirt from my lap and knots the sleeves. Then, without asking permission, he puts it over my head.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Put your arm here.’ He adjusts the knot to make a sling.

My eyes sting as I ease my arm away from my body and slip it into the sling. Another shaky breath as I pull my arm close to my body again.

‘Are you a medic?’

‘No,’ he says.

‘First aid officer?’

‘I climb.’

Ship masts? Funeral pyres? ‘What do you climb?’

‘Mountains.’ His hand rests firmly on the top of my arm. ‘Drop your shoulder.’

When the sling takes the weight of my arm, the pain diminishes. Our eyes meet again. His are remarkably blue. What does he think of mine? Muddy brown? Murky blue? Middling green? His fingers open and close again. For an instant, his brow clears. His gaze travels over my face, slips to my mouth.

‘Umulig.’

‘What?’

His eyes return to mine. ‘You could have been killed.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Clear the way!’

Everyone stands back as the paramedics jog through the gate. When the curly-haired young man and a middle-aged woman see me sitting in the dirt with the Viking, they slow to a walk.

‘Thanks for your help, but …’ I wave a hand between the Viking and the bike. ‘You’ve done enough.’

He opens his mouth and then slams it shut. Turning his back on me, he addresses the paramedics.

‘Her collarbone is broken.’

The female paramedic is openly staring at the Viking. ‘You’re Kit Thorsen.’ She pinkens, waves a hand in front of her face. ‘Wait till my husband hears about this.’

‘She needs pain relief.’

The other paramedic, eyes as wide as the woman’s, opens his bag before looking up to grin at Kit. ‘Having a break from Antarctic expeditions?’

Mountains. Antarctic expeditions. Norway. Kit Thorsen. Do the pieces slot together? The knot in my stomach pulls tight.

‘I’m Wendy, by the way.’ The female paramedic, neck and cheeks markedly flushed, sends me a smile as she gestures to her colleague. ‘This is my offsider, Geoff.’

‘Took a tumble, did you?’ Geoff crouches in the same place the Viking did. ‘If I’ve got my facts right, you’re a local girl. The saddlery at Summerfield? Can we start with your full name?’

‘Mary Mackenzie Henry.’

The Viking’s boots stir up dust as he pivots. His look is incredulous. ‘What did you say?’

I’m hot. Then cold. Another wave of nausea. Is Kit Thorsen the man my grandfather talked about late last year? Is he Grandpa’s ‘snow bloke’?

Bending my knees, I put my head between them.

I couldn’t be that unlucky.