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Chapter One
The freezing wind howled through the Snowy Mountains, biting and chilling to the bone. Cold and stoic faces stood around the graveside, hats low, coat collars pulled up. “A good man is laid to rest,” Father Michael said. “On this here day, in the year of 1882 of the Good Lord. Respected by all who knew him, Arthur Bramwell, may he rest in peace.”
Albie Bramwell stood at the foot of his father’s grave, the damp winter air doing little to soothe the burn of his aching heart. Fitting, he thought, that the sun wouldn’t shine on this day. The low, dark clouds clung to the highlands, the trees, and the homestead as if their gloom sympathised with Albie’s loss.
Not even the eucalypt shared their scent on the breeze. Out of respect or heartbreak, Albie dared not guess.
These mountains were forever changed now, as was the man who called them home.
He was alone now, his father taken far too soon by a logging accident. Echo Creek was now his farm to run. And he would, like his father had. Built from nothing but hard work in even harder times. Albie would forge on like his father would want him to. Expect him to, more to the point.
Stop with the foolishness, boy, his father would have said. Chin up and get back to work.
A hand clapped on Albie’s shoulder, snapping him from his memories. He turned to find Des behind him, his hat in his hands. In all the years Des had been Arthur’s leading stockman, Albie had seldom seen him remove his hat.
Albie noticed then the wagons were leaving, folks from the town heading home before the weather truly set in. “The men would like a word,” Des said, a scowl in place. “Best get it over with.”
Four stockmen stood in a nervous circle, and Albie noticed a little too late that their horses were tethered to the railing and packed with their gear. The eldest of them, Fitzgerald, a tall, brusque man who had worked for Arthur Bramwell for ten years, raised his bearded chin. “We are sorry for the loss of your father, Albie. He was a good, good man,” he said. “But these are no parts for a boy to call his own. We wish you well, son, but our time here is done. We’ll be seeking work elsewhere.”
Albie couldn’t believe his ears. “You would leave me now, of all days?”
Williams tipped his hat. “These mountains have broken men twice your age. If you want some advice, go to the valley and earn your keep. Put your head down and learn from the men who know what it takes to live up here.”
“You need to do your time, boy,” another added. “And come back a man.”
Albie clenched his jaw, his anger bubbling with indignation and grief. “I have two thousand hectares of mountains to farm, and you would see me fail because you think I’m not a man! My father thought me a man. Man enough to give the orders in his absence, and none of you would have dared question me then, but now you think I’m not capable?” He pointed his finger at them. “You lot can get the hell off my property. If you doubt me, then I don’t want you here. And that goes for anyone who thinks I’m not man enough.”
Not man enough... Albie couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was pure disbelief that these men, whom he’d known for years, would abandon him on the day of his father’s funeral. The four men walked toward their horses without another word. Their heads down in shame.
As they should, Albie thought.
Albie turned to Des, and Robert, who stood behind Des. “If you think I’m not capable, feel free to join them.”
Des looked Albie right in the eye. “I stood by your father, and he was good to me. I’ll stand by you.”
Albie then looked at Robert. He was a weedy man who’d found himself in trouble with the bottle and the law, but Albie’s father had sorted him out and given him a job. He was good with horses and a hard worker, and he’d always been good to Albie. “I’m staying,” he said.
Albie lifted his chin in pride and defiance. “I might not be my father, but I was raised in these mountains. It’s all I’ve ever known. And I will prove those bastards wrong.”
Marcy and Evalyn appeared on the veranda, dressed in their Sunday clothes, heads bowed. “Ain’t nothing personal,” Marcy said. “I wish?—”
“Come along,” Fitzgerald called out to his wife.
Marcy gave Albie a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Albie. There’s enough supper to last awhile. I made sure of it.”
Albie should have known that Marcy and Evalyn would leave with their men. It was only right.
“Thank you.”
Evalyn was teary. “Sorry, Albie.”
“Wagon’s leaving,” Williams called out, his horse turning under his hard reins, and both women hurried along.
That left them four stockmen down and without a cook or a housemaid.
The three men stood there by the veranda and watched them ride down to the property gates. Albie was furious and hurt, but he refused to show it. He had no clue what he would do, or where to even start, but he was in charge now. He was the boss. At just nineteen years of age, freshly orphaned, and shot into a role he wasn’t sure he could handle. But he had no choice.
“Right then,” Albie said. “Let’s get to work.”
