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‘Good.’ Oyster’s gap-toothed smile was lopsided. ‘Bright and early on the morrow?’
‘Yup.’ Oyster being a man of few words, Connor gave his old mate a nod. ‘Catch you at six.’
Without wasting any more breath, Oyster turned his horse around, gave Connor a wave over his shoulder and headed towards home.
Connor chuckled to himself as he watched the eccentric oldtimer clip-clop away. His father had hired Oyster on the spot when he’d turned up after the town’s publican had mentioned Gunn Station was looking for a ‘jack of all trades, master of one’ – in other words, an experienced stockman. After a firm rap to the front door, and a genuine handshake in greeting, Oyster had announced in his gravelly voice that he wanted a job where cattle outnumbered people, reiterated that he wasn’t afraid of hard yakka, and said instead of the going pay rate he just wanted a place he could live out his days in his caravan with enough money to get by.
That was eighteen years ago now, and Connor was thankful for Oyster’s hard work and even-tempered company. And in his own unique way, Oyster had been there for him when he’d lost his father, offering a reassuring slap to the back, taking on more of the workload when Connor was at his lowest, and giving him short, sharp, wise advice whenever the time was right. In more ways than one he was like the uncle Connor never had. Not that he’d say it to Oyster’s face, for fear of copping a swift clip to the chin, but he loved the old bloke with all his heart.
He heaved a breath, then made sure everything was in order at the holding yards before heading towards the stables. After a hard day’s work, he was going to treat his horsey mate to some molasses. Alighting from the saddle, and with his boots now on solid ground, he felt his belly grumble in protest at his having skipped lunch. A mammoth T-bone steak with a mound of garden salad and crispy air-fryer chips was on the menu. Washed down with a couple of icy-cold mid-strength beers. The very thought of it made him work faster, and by the time he kicked off his boots beside the welcome mat and stepped inside his farmhouse he was beyond starving. As the front door slapped shut behind him he paused to hang his hat on the hook beside his father’s weatherbeaten Akubra, then headed in the general direction of the kitchen, making a pit stop in the laundry to strip down to his jocks and wash his hands at the sink.
Half an hour later, showered and dressed in his Peter Alexander boxer shorts – a Christmas gift from his Mum – he heard a knock at the back door and wandered towards it. ‘Hey, Mum, I keep telling you that you don’t have to knock, just waltz on in whenever.’
‘Yeah, I know you do, but you need to know you have your privacy.’ Reaching up on her tippy toes, she pecked him on the cheek as she brushed past him. ‘Gee whizz, something smells good.’
‘Uh-huh.’ His gaze flashed over the myriad pans and kitchen utensils now dotting the timber benches. ‘I’m cooking up a storm.’
‘Hmmm, so I can see.’ She grinned as she surveyed the chaos.
‘I’ve got steak, salad and chips for dinner, and I’ve whacked up a golden syrup pudding for dessert. Oh, and I’m making mushroom sauce to drench it all in, not the pudding, though, that’d taste a bit weird.’ He flashed her a cheeky grin. ‘Moral of the story is I shouldn’t let loose in here when I’m starving.’
‘You’ve always loved to cook, son.’ She pulled up a stool at the breakfast bench. ‘One lucky woman will benefit from that, and your big, beautiful heart, one of these days.’
‘We’ll see.’ He got back to manning the T-bone in his cast iron frypan, using a spoon to splash bubbling garlic butter over the top of it.
‘So, are you going to the bucks party?’ His mum’s voice carried above the beeping of the microwave.
‘Of course I’m going, what kind of best man would I be if I didn’t?’
‘Yes, true, and good, I’m glad you’re getting out and about, you don’t do it nearly enough these days.’
‘I’m always too bloody tired to even think about heading out at night.’ Grabbing the tea towel from where it was tossed over his shoulder, Connor used it to pick up the handle of the pan and carry it over to the sink. ‘If I’m being honest, I’m not really looking forward to it, though, but them’s the breaks.’
‘Why the heck not? I’m sure it’ll be fun.’
‘I’m not into being around all those people.’ He plonked his steak on his dinner plate, then got to dishing up the rest of the feast. ‘You would have already eaten, hey Mum?’
‘Yes, thanks, love, but if I’m still here when you’re dishing up dessert, I’ll have some, pretty please.’
‘No bloody way, what do you think this is, a restaurant?’ He chuckled as he placed his plate and a knife and fork on the bench. ‘You’ll be here, I’m not letting you leave until you have some.’
‘Deal.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘I love your golden syrup pudding.’
‘You would say that even if you didn’t.’ He poured his mushroom gravy into a jug, and plonked it near his plate. ‘Would you like a beer?’
‘Are you having one?’
He pulled an are-you-kidding face. ‘Is the Pope Catholic? Does a duck waddle? Does a bear … ’
‘Okay, alright, I get it.’ She laughed. ‘In that case, yes please.’
Connor grabbed two of the coldest longnecks from the back of the fridge, twisted the tops off, stuffed each into a stubbie cooler, then passed one over to his mum.
His mouth watered as he sat on the stool beside her, then, silently thanking all the farmers for what he was about to eat, he tucked in.
‘Seeing as there are quite a few people coming from out of town, do you reckon you might meet a lovely girl at the wedding?’ His mother’s blatant question came out of nowhere, momentarily stumping him.
Connor was thankful for his mouthful of food, so he had time to think rationally about his reply. ‘Not sure, Mum, I haven’t really thought about it.’ Little did she know he’d thought about running into the lovely Samantha Evans ever since Jack told him she was coming.
