Page 17 of Road to Rosalee

‘So how long are you up this way for?’

Liking the way he was looking at her so intently, like he wanted to learn everything about her, she pulled her legs to her chest. ‘I’m not really sure yet. I’ve kind of taken indefinite leave.’

‘Good on you.’ He nodded, smiling at her. ‘We could all do with a little break from life at times, so we can figure what it is we want from it without the noise and opinions of everyone else.’

‘Yeah, very true,’ she said, noting the hidden meaning behind his words – he clearly had his own private battles, and that made her feel even more connected to him, in a peculiar kind of way.

His presence drew her in, somehow making the turmoil of the day fade into the background, if only for this little while. They sat quietly, contentedly, comfortably, watching the sun sink further behind the mountain range.

‘I never tire of watching Mother Nature at her finest.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘She’s absolutely stunning.’ His sidelong glance lingered on her. ‘Don’t you think?’

Lost in his eyes, something inside her shifted, as if it had fallen into place. ‘It sure is.’

It was only when the stars began to show in a twilight sky that they broke out of their bubble and wandered back inside to the warmth of family and the aroma of wholesome, delicious cooking.

Chapter

6

In the hour before dawn, Zai woke in the comfort of his swag to the soft bellows of fifteen hundred head of cattle in the holding yard, the crackle of campfire and the tinkering of the cook – all of which was almost drowned out by Showbags’s rasping snores.

Blinking into the lantern-lit mustering camp, Zai brought his gaze from where the billycan balanced over dancing red and orange flames from a tepee of branches, past the makeshift clothesline strung between two gidgee trees strewn with clothes in desperate need of detergent and a washing machine, to the glimmer of the morning star nestled within the soft glow of the moon. Unlike the long sweltering days he spent in his timeworn saddle with his stockhorse’s thudding hooves beneath him, the Aussie outback’s darkness was a gift of cool crisp air, and with no rustle of leaves above him and the singsong of the native birds yet to come, the effervescent stillness was encompassing.

Yawning, he stretched his arms high, feeling as if he could almost touch the rocky surface of the moon with his fingertips. He loved this part of the day. He got to have a moment to himself, away from the banter of the men, the cracking of whips, and the whop of the chopper blades above it all, so he could truly appreciate the magnificence that was Rosalee Station. As he gazed dreamily into the nocturnal abyss, his contemplations swayed from the beauty of Mother Nature to the same pretty face that had all but possessed his mind these past couple of weeks – belonging to the mesmeric Miss Melody Harrison. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to shake her from his thoughts for too long. Which surprised him no end. No woman had ever been able to hold his attention so entirely, but she had, and without even trying. There was just something about her that got his heart racing and his libido revved up, in that order – usually it was the other way around. And it wasn’t a case of him not being attracted to her good looks and voluptuous body – how could he not be? – but her combination of vulnerability and strength spoke to him on a fathomless level, making him want to know everything he could about her. The short time he’d spent with her at Matt and Sarah’s place had barely scratched the surface. If only he could dive into the depths of her, what would he discover? Although, he was also acutely aware, it might be dangerous of him to make himself so engrossed, so captivated – he may not ever want to resurface from her depths. And he was fairly certain Matt wouldn’t want him going anywhere near his daughter in a romantic sense. And he couldn’t blame him in the slightest.

The very thought of getting romantically involved with Melody caused something inside him to somersault like tumbleweed down a dusty road. Oddly, and abruptly, he slipped into some weird place in his heart, making it skip a beat. It was an odd sensation. He sucked in a startled breath. Hot dang, what had she done to him?

‘Breakfast is up, you lot, so bloody well come and get it before it’s cold,’ the cook bellowed, banging a wooden spoon against a pot. ‘Hurry it up, would ya? We haven’t got all bloody day.’

Crashing back into the present moment, Zai chuckled to himself as he watched four bewildered heads spring up from swags as if a shot had just been fired. ‘Hold your britches, I’m a-coming, Pothole,’ he called over the clang and clatter and mumbled swearwords. ‘I’m bloody starving, Marvin,’ he added, tapping his growling stomach as he sat up.

Grabbing his boots from beside him, he thumped each one upside down to make sure no critters had made home in either – a bite from a desert scorpion was not the way he wanted to start his day – before tugging them on. Rising from his swag, he unfolded his weary bones as if each vertebra was an unoiled cog. Rolling his bedding up, he sauntered over and tucked it into the tray of Pothole’s dusty old four-wheel drive – the nickname of Pothole had been well-earned as he always seemed to be on the road.

Retrieving his Akubra from the branch he’d hung it on, he tugged it on, groaning every time he had to bend. It had been almost two weeks on this particular muster, and his back was retaliating against the countless hours he’d spent in the saddle, as were the insides of his thighs. Another twelve or so hours and they’d be arriving back at the homestead. Thank the lord. He couldn’t wait to stand beneath the stream of a hot shower with a bar of soap so he could wash dust from places it should never be, and a feed which included ice-cream doused in chocolate Ice Magic, then crawling into his bed at the cottage behind the homestead for a decent night’s sleep. The pure bliss of simple pleasures was always amplified after a long muster.

Joining the men in the makeshift kitchen while avoiding kamikaze moths, he poured himself a cup of strong billy tea, filled a tin plate with bacon, eggs, steak and baked beans, and grabbed a piece of warm damper from the depths of a cast-iron pot. Helping himself to some treacle, he made sure to put the lid back on real tight to avoid a stampede of ants – it was a sorry affair when they had to eat ants with their damper. Then, balancing everything carefully, he sidestepped Pothole and pulled up a spot by the centre of gravity – the glow and warmth of the campfire.

‘G’day’s and ‘good morning’s were mumbled between bites. It was fairly usual that nobody really spoke until they had food in their bellies and the caffeine kickstarted their wits. Never one to eat breakfast, Pothole sat on his heels right in the middle of everything, sucking on his pipe like his life depended on it. The only time he didn’t have it in his mouth was when he was shaving, eating or sleeping.

Sitting on an upturned flour drum, Zai balanced his plate in his lap as he tucked into the hearty breakfast, enjoying each and every bite. ‘This is an awesome, fair- dinkum bushie’s brekkie, as always, Pothole.’ He licked a bit of sticky treacle from his thumb. ‘I honestly don’t know what us blokes would do without you feeding us such good grub.’

‘You lot would most probably starve to death,’ Pothole said with a smirk before hooting like a hyena, his gappy grin setting the men off too.

‘Yeah, fair point, Pothole.’ Slim pointed his fork at the chaotic salt-and-pepper-haired man now content with blowing smoke rings. ‘Or we’d be farting each other to death because we’d be living off canned baked beans.’

Grinning at Slim’s shock of ginger hair, Zai shook his head. ‘Only you’d come up with something that included farting, Slimbo.’

‘Of course he would. He’s a master at the art of butt-singing,’ Showbags mumbled through his mouthful, his freckly face full of mischief. ‘And butt-slinging, in the bushes, where the bears do you-know-what.’ He wiggled his brows animatedly.

‘Yeah, while stinking the whole damn camp out,’ Tumbles added, grinning, the busted lip he’d achieved yesterday after tripping over thin air giving him a lopsided smile.

‘Oi, fair crack of the bloody whip, you lot,’ Slim said good-humouredly. ‘I may look like a reckless brute but I got feelings, you know.’

The group of men cracked up laughing again – the caffeine was clearly starting to do its job with the mixed-up, muddled-up group of misfits. Hasselhoof’s throaty mirth was the loudest, just like his constant complaints – hence the reason he was nicknamed Hasslehoof, the ‘hoof’ describing his horseshoe smile. Over the last couple of years, Zai had learnt to turn a blind eye and ear to Hasselhoof’s daily grievances about everything from the shitty weather to the price of beer to the flies to the fact that there weren’t enough hours in a day. But he had to admit, it was starting to grate on him a little this year. The old bugger was getting even grumpier in his older age.

‘Nah, but in all seriousness, you really are the best cook we’ve had out here, Pothole, god love ya,’ Slim added as the group somewhat recomposed themselves.

‘Thanks, mate.’ Pothole heaved a sigh. ‘But I’m afraid I have some news to tell all of ya.’