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She casually waved off his mention of her caring nature. ‘That’s a mother’s job.’
Connor knew better than to argue with that – his mum had always put him, and Angus, first. ‘It feels so good to be back, hey.’ Unclipping his seatbelt, he stretched his back out.
‘It sure does, give me these wide-open spaces over those ghastly skyscrapers of the city any day.’ Brushing her long salt-and-pepper hair back from her face, she undid her seatbelt too.
They sure had plenty of space, almost four thousand acres of it. ‘Tell me about it, I don’t know how people cope in the big smoke, with all that noise and rushing about.’
‘Uh-huh, life might get stressful here at times, but at least we’re closer to Mother Nature’s heartbeat.’ Sighing thoughtfully, she grabbed her door handle. ‘I’ll jump out and get the gate.’
‘No, you wait right there, Mum, I’ll grab it.’ Wincing as his boots hit the ground, Connor did his best not to let his mother see he was still in a bit of pain.
‘Now remember what the doctor said about taking it easier, Connor, won’t you.’ Her concerned voice followed him. ‘We don’t want you back in hospital because you’re pushing yourself too hard.’
‘I know, and I promise I’ll do my best to,’ he replied over his shoulder.
After jumping back behind the wheel, then rolling over a cattle grid, he got out a little more carefully this time and latched the gate shut. Half a kilometre down the driveway, and he was pulling up at the main homestead.
‘You head inside, Mum. I’ll grab your bag from the back and bring it in for you.’
‘No, don’t worry, I’ll get it tomorrow. I’ll just end up wanting to unpack tonight if I bring it in with me, and to be honest, I just want a nice warm bath, a hot chocolate and then bed.’
‘Sounds good, enjoy.’
‘Oh, I will.’ Leaning in, she pecked his cheek. ‘Nighty night, my amazingly strong, and at times very stubborn, son.’ Her blue eyes twinkled spiritedly. ‘Not that I’d want you any different.’
‘Thanks, but I think you meant … ’ He couldn’t help his grin. ‘… determined?’
‘Nope, I meant stubborn.’ She gave his arm a playful shove. ‘Just like your father, God rest his beautiful soul.’
‘Hmm, more a bit like you.’ And he meant it. His father was a hard worker, but his mother was the one who loved fiercely and fought for what she believed in, tooth and nail.
‘Okay, I’ll give you that.’ She smiled softly now. ‘I hope you have a good sleep.’
‘Yeah, you too, Mum.’ He watched her step out and close the door.
She tapped the window. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Will do.’ He made sure she was safe and sound inside before he drove on, another couple of hundred metres down the road.
Pulling up in his carport, he killed the engine. He decided to do the same as his mum and leave his bag for the morning. At least, for now, there was always tomorrow. A quick glance across the house paddock confirmed their hired help, an old stockman who went by the name of Oyster because his last name was Kilpatrick, was home and awake; the gas lantern hung beneath the awning of his caravan was still flickering. He’d catch up with him tomorrow – if he headed over there now, Oyster would rope him into drinking a whisky, or three, and he didn’t want the haze of it come morning. As he climbed the four steps, his footfalls clomped rhythmically across the timber verandah. Reaching the back door of his modest farmhouse, he slipped the key into the lock as he kicked off his boots, relishing the squeak of the wooden door as he opened it, and the slap of the flyscreen door behind him as he stepped into the heart of his home, the kitchen. Being a cattleman was his true calling; good food and the cooking of it was his passion. He flicked on the overhead lights, and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust. Ahh, it was so good to be home. He needed a shower, and an icy-cold beer, in that order. Striding down the hallway, he headed towards his bedroom where the creak of the timber floorboards beneath his socked feet was music to his ears. Tomorrow was going to be his first day back here after almost two weeks away and he couldn’t wait to welcome it with a steaming cuppa on the back verandah before immersing himself back into this glorious countryside as slowly-does-it as he could.
***
Forty-eight hours of taking it easy almost drove Connor to the brink. And that’s when he had to put down his foot, or boot in his case. Gently, but confidently. He may have had a run-in with testicular cancer, but he wasn’t dead yet, and with a good outcome he could quite possibly have another sixty-odd years left in him, so he had to do the only thing he knew and get on with life. His mum’s concerned counsel came from a good place, and he loved her for it, but he just couldn’t help himself when it came to the running of Gunn Station. If anything, he believed the work would help him heal faster, better, stronger. Just as long as he didn’t overdo it.
Squinting into the mid-afternoon sunshine from beneath his weatherworn wide-brimmed hat, he eased the lowing mixed mob of yearlings, heifers, steers, a couple of their prime breeder bulls and their trusty leader cattle along the earthen trail. Off to his left, Oyster moseyed along on his sixteen-year-old bombproof stockhorse, Ol’ Mate, man and horse doing a good job of making sure the cattle stuck together. Dust hung in a shimmering cloud over the mustered herd, and the sun-baked landscape surrounding them glistened with heat. The sweet scent of golden wattles drifted from the myriad trees swathed in bright yellow flowers. It was mindboggling how such vivid trees could survive, and flourish, without a drop of rain. They’d had a couple of weeks without even a sprinkle from the heavens, uncommon around these parts, but, fortunately, the weatherman had announced on the radio at five this morning that the monsoon season was finally on its way. As Connor’s father would have said, it was better late than never.
Feeling as parched as this part of the station was, Connor took a swig from his Camelbak. After a couple of hour’s droving, they were now only five hundred metres from the holding-yard gates. But if his previous experiences were anything to go by, he wasn’t about to relax just yet. When it came to livestock, everything could turn south in an instant. Especially when they were so close to their destination; it was as if the rebellious cattle could smell it.
And just as suspected, being so tuned into his surrounds, he sensed the anarchy mere seconds before the rogue bull broke ranks, for the second time that day, and made a final dash for freedom. Warning him, Oyster hollered from the wayside. Fastening himself to the saddle, Connor spun his stockhorse in an impressive pirouette and rode hell for leather across the flats, toward the rocky ridges. Veering out wide, he cut in just in the nick of time and, with his horse’s skilful footwork, drove the bull back toward the scattered mob. Oyster met him at the edges, and worked alongside him, both men pushing the cattle back into order. They shared a nodding glance from the shade of their hats – a stockman’s way of thanks – and got back to it. A ripple of unrest had settled over the herd but with a crack of his whip, Connor quickly urged the loiterers and breakaways back into line.
Allowing his dependable horse, Banjo, to take the lead while he sat easily in the saddle, his thoughts went back to his role as best man for Jack and Shea’s big day. With his mate’s wedding now only a couple of weeks away, Connor tried not to think about the fact that he was going to be the last man left standing in what had once been the handful of eligible bachelors of Gum Tree Gully, nor did he want to consider that the woman to be paired with him was the one and only Samantha Evans. God only knew what was going to transpire once they met up. Hopefully, they could leave the past where it was, and move on as mates. That would be a great start. But after all this time, he honestly had no idea what to expect.
By the time they reached the holding yards and had sorted the cattle, sending some lucky ones back out to pasture, it was nearing the end of another day as twilight began to descend upon Gunn Station. His saddle creaking beneath him, Connor smoothly reined Banjo in and stole a few moments to breathe in his surroundings. Tomorrow, the road train would arrive to ship his cattle off to the abattoir, and he felt the same way every time he watched his branded cattle being loaded onto a truck – both proud and downhearted. It was all part of being a stockman. Closing the rustic timber gate of the yard, he was happy his efforts were proving lucrative and knew his father would be proud, but he also felt the pinch of knowing his latest herd was about to be led to the slaughter.
Oyster and Ol’ Mate met him. ‘Are we done and dusted for the day, boss?’ A half-smoked rollie hung from his bottom lip.
Connor lifted his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘Yeah, thanks Oyster.’
