at the headstones. The ageing monuments appeared to guard each other. There was a sense of sadness here, it was true; however, more often it was hope that seemed to hover in this special place. Above her, through the canopy of trees the sky brightened with the rising of the sun. They were all here. All of those who had come before her: three generations of Gordons both known and unknown to her. Overhead, a flutter of wings accompanied the mournful call of an owl. The frogmouth left the tall gum tree to soar above her, its wings increasing in beat until the owl swooped, gliding through the tightly packed leaves that wept the scent of eucalyptus. It landed lightly, its claws grappling the headstone of her great-grandfather Hamish Gordon.
She studied the stonemason’s handiwork, the height and depth of the H and G. There was no date of death noted on the gravestone, only a date of birth with a hyphen beside it, as if he was destined for immortality. Sarah squatted amid the grasses. There were too many issues in her head; too many problems that needed to be sorted and then addressed in order of importance. Her thoughts returned to Anthony. She loved Anthony yet he’d been unsupportive and inconsiderate and seemed now to be beyond discussing anything with her. She needed someone who would live with, care for and work beside her; not a man who became emotionally challenged and stubborn when his management was questioned. She was the Gordon after all. Anthony needed to understand and respect that. If he couldn’t there was no future for them as a couple. Sarah twisted off a blade of grass and chewed on the pale green sweetness of it. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be a part of her future. Maybe he had come into her life for a reason and now the time had come for him to leave. She wasn’t the grief-stricken teenager or the ignored daughter anymore. She had grown up, was learning to live without the solid presence of her grandfather, had let go of her unstable mother and was capable and prepared to lead Wangallon into the future.
Sarah blew on her chilled fingers. There was little point compartmentalising everything; only one issue could be addressed at a time and the most pressing was the threat that Jim Macken posed. What was she to do? Sell part of Wangallon or fight to retain it all? Her hand reached automatically into the depths of her pocket to touch the ancient fob watch. ‘What would you do Great-grandfather?’ But of course there had only ever been one answer. It came before love and joy and companionship, for without it none of the former could exist. She loved Wangallon more than anything else in the world and she would fight to not only retain it, but control it – her forefathers wouldn’t expect anything less. She was the custodian of Wangallon now. The choice was clear. Sarah whistled to Bullet and he ran through the frosty grasses like a canine movie star from a dog food commercial.
‘Cute.’
Bullet gave a showman’s yawn, stretching out his front legs. Together they walked back to the cruiser where Ferret was waiting. Once behind the wheel, Sarah gritted her teeth and accelerated – it was time to return to Sydney. She would call Frank before her departure and let him know of her decision.
Frank placed the telephone down on his desk and looked at the large oil painting covering the wall safe. It was a particularly good work by an early Australian artist and was similar in style to Frederick McCubbin, in that the work showed a softer, more lyrical style. It was a gift to his grandfather for services rendered on behalf of Hamish Gordon with regards to one Lorna Sutton, Sarah’s great-grandfather’s first wife’s mother. The painting was a river scene, all blue-greens, stately trees and tranquillity. Such an illusion, Frank decided, as he pushed the intercom button. ‘Rhonda, can you call and confirm the meeting with Tony Woodbridge and his client, Jim Macken, for eight-thirty in the morning?’
Instead of Rhonda’s efficient voice travelling back to him, she was standing in person in his office within moments, the door closed firmly behind her. The problem with sixty-year-old immaculately groomed personal assistants that had been with an employer for over thirty years, Frank mused, was that one invariably slept with them.
‘Sarah Gordon is prepared to fight?’ she asked rather too enthusiastically, twisting