Page 24 of Road to Rosalee

One step at a time.

Chapter

8

His mouth drier than the Simpson Desert, Zai emerged from where he’d been wedged between the cool concrete floor and the underbelly of the Fiat tractor for the past hour, trying to figure out why it was making noises it shouldn’t be. He was pretty sure he’d worked it out, and it was nothing a bit of a service and tinker wouldn’t fix. Striding over to the workbench, he sculled the remainder of his water bottle then wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, no doubt succeeding in smearing grease in its place. Snatching a rag from the worktop, he rubbed off what he could – he’d get the rest later, along with the day’s dirt, in a long, cooling shower. Which he’d almost give his right arm for right about now. It was just shy of lunchtime, so there was still a ways to go before he could luxuriate in one.

As he gathered the tools he needed, his stomach grumbled in protest against skipping breakfast. With Pothole leaving yesterday, it was every man for himself in the kitchen department, and he simply hadn’t had the time this morning to make anything, other than chucking back a strong cup of coffee. Now he’d kill for something to eat, but he had to get this done first – Showbags needed to finish the slashing before they headed off on the next muster in a couple of days. Searching for something to drain the engine oil into, he did his best to ignore the growling hunger pains – he hadn’t envisioned being sidetracked like this when he’d walked out the cottage door before sun-up with a list a mile long. He should have known something would go belly-up. Station life never ran smoothly – expecting the unexpected was a given out here. Plus, most things took longer than expected. It was usually a case of making do with what you had, or having to wait a week to get a part flown in. In this case, he didn’t have the time to wait.

The tin shed was roasting beneath the sun-drenched corrugated iron roof. Zai hauled his shirt off and threw it to the side, wishing he could do the same with his jeans. If he could get the job done in his jocks and socks or, god forbid, in the nud, without looking like a weirdo, he’d damn well do it right now. But if he were caught out, he’d never live it down – the blokes would have a field day rehashing the yarn, making it more colourful with each retelling. He assessed the risk versus the gain – tempting, but no. The temperature gauge had hit close to forty degrees right before he’d stepped in here, and he knew it would still be climbing – it always did until the peak of the day at two-ish. Yesterday had topped forty-four degrees and today was probably going to be much the same, if not hotter. Hell, he’d be able to fry an egg on the bonnet of the LandCruiser.

Needing a distraction from the relentless heat and the flies that wanted to cling to him, he flicked the old radio on. It crackled to life and he turned it up. Willie Nelson’s nasal voice was unmistakable, the old tune the very one his sister always told him was his theme song. He always laughed at her tongue-in-cheek comments about his bachelorhood, knowing she didn’t mean any harm, but little did she, or anyone else for that matter, know how much he wished he could remove his armour and let down the walls of his fortress. He wanted to find his person, the woman that would complete him, a wife who he could make a family with. But nobody needed to know that, deep down, he desired love just like everyone else. He just didn’t want the complications or the heartache of laying his heart on the line. He’d done that once, and had gotten burnt, badly – he was far better off on his own, even if it meant maintaining his wild and free reputation.

Singing along to ‘Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys’, he wandered back to his job at hand. Repositioning himself back beneath the belly of the tractor, he left the drip pan beside him and fumbled for the wrench he was sure he’d grabbed before sliding underneath. Realising he’d forgotten it, he cursed before shimmying out again and grabbing it from the toolbox. Then, back to it, he turned the wrench a couple of times and tossed it just in time to slip the drip pan beneath so it could catch the stream of dark oil. Now, he waited.

The sound of boot falls had him turning his head, and a pair of weathered hands appeared, bestowing a foil-wrapped parcel right before Showbags’s grinning mug followed. ‘Ya hungry, bro?’

The scent of bacon wafted, and Zai’s mouth watered. ‘Bloody oath I am.’ Climbing out, he took the parcel and a can of icy soft drink gratefully. He quickly unwrapped the sandwich, chomping down on a little bit of heaven. ‘I thought you couldn’t cook? This tastes bloody good.’

‘Correctomundo. I can’t cook for shit. Tumbles made it.’

‘Really?’ Zai fought the vision of Tumbles somehow blowing the kitchen up. ‘Good on him.’

‘Yeah, says seeing he’s on a day off, he’s happy to strap the apron strings on,’ Showbags said with a comical roll of his eyes. ‘He looks like a right tool with Judy’s old floral apron on, let me tell ya.’ Laughing and shaking his head, he tucked into his own bacon and egg sanga, dripping at the edges with tomato sauce. ‘How’s it going? You fixed it yet, or what?’ he asked between bites, half the sauce making it around his mouth.

‘Yeah, almost. It’s a bitch of a job when I can’t find the right tools, but getting there, thankfully.’

‘Good.’ Showbags burped a beauty, then chuckled. ‘Oh, before I forget, Slim’s caught up so he wants to know if you can go and collect the new cook from the airstrip this arvo.’

‘Yeah, of course I can.’ Zai’s brows furrowed. ‘What’s held him up?’

‘He called me on the satphone about an hour ago, swearing like a trooper.’ Showbags grimaced. ‘Something’s chewed through the wires of the pump at the third dam.’

‘Oh shit. Hopefully he can fix it.’ Sandwich devoured, Zai screwed the foil up, aimed, and then tossed it in the general direction of the bin near the workbench.

It hit his mark and he and Showbags both yelled, ‘Shot!’

Sucking back on his can of cola, Showbags arched an interested brow. ‘So, tell me, seeing as you’ve met her. Is this Melody sheila a looker?’

‘She sure is, and she’s also Matt’s daughter, so keep your dirty mitts to yourself, Showbags. And make sure the other blokes keep their dirty mitts to themselves too while you’re at it.’ Zai realised too late just how protective of Melody he sounded.

Showbags held his hands up in surrender. ‘Bloody hell, just asking. No need to get your knickers twisted, Wellstone.’

Zai was as surprised as Showbags by how quick he was to bite at such a harmless question. It was usual for the blokes to be keen when a new female was coming to the station. ‘Jocks in a knot, not knickers twisted. Get it right, Showbags.’ His lips twitched with the smile he was holding back, and then he laughed out loud. ‘Sorry for snapping. This bastard tractor is giving me the shits is all.’

Showbags regarded him suspiciously, then his eyes widened, like he’d just discovered the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. ‘You’re bloody keen on her already, aren’t ya, mate?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Zai replied as matter-of-factly as he could.

Showbags wagged a finger in his direction. ‘Yeah, right, pull the other one.’

Zai rolled his eyes, huffing. ‘Whatever.’

‘You’re a terrible liar.’ Showbags’s grin was filled with playful rabble-rousing. ‘And while you’re at it, don’t forget that the same goes for you, with the whole she’s-Walshee’s-flesh-and-blood thing. We all know he won’t like any of us buggers getting keen on his daughter, especially the likes of you, Casanova.’

Groaning at his nickname, Zai dug his elbow into Showbags. ‘Oi, bugalugs, why am I any worse than you?’

Showbags looked at him as though he’d lost his mind asking such a question. ‘Come on, Wellstone. Everyone knows how much you love being a single man.’ He wiggled his brows for effect. ‘You get way more action than we all do, you handsome bloody bastard.’