She was in the start of the swamp country where a large paddock was cut by the twisting Wangallon River in one corner. The area was defined by scattered trees and bone-jarringly uneven ground. A ridge ran through the paddock and it was here that sandalwood stumps spiked upwards from the ground. Sarah stopped the bike and alighted.
Years had passed since she’d last been in this area alone. It was almost impossible to believe that her beloved brother had died here in her arms over seven years ago. Kneeling, Sarah touched the ground, her fingers kneading the soft soil.
In snatches the accident came back to her. His ankle trapped in the stirrup, his hands frantically clawing at the rushing ground, and then the sickening crunch as he struck the fallen log and the spear-like sandalwood stump pierced his stomach. Sarah swiped at the tears on her cheeks, her breathing laboured. Closing her eyes she heard the shallow rasp of his breath, like the rush of wind through wavering grasses.
Anthony caught up with her a kilometre from Wangallon Homestead. Sarah could tell by the lack of shadow on the ground that she was late. His welcome figure drew closer, just as it had when he had come searching for her and Cameron all those years ago. At the sight of him the tightness across her chest eased. As the white Landcruiser pulled up alongside her quad Sarah leant towards him for a kiss. Her forefinger traced the inverted crescent-shaped scar on his cheek, the end of which tapered into the tail of a question mark. Sometimes the eight years since his arrival at Wangallon only seemed a heartbeat ago.
‘You’re late,’ Anthony admonished.
Sarah sat back squarely on the quad seat. So much for the welcome.
‘I was worried. What’s with all these long rides around the property?’
‘It’s his birthday.’
‘Oh.’ Each passing year Cameron faded a little more from Anthony’s memory. He gave what he hoped was an understanding nod. ‘Been fencing?’ he nodded towards the milk crate. ‘You don’t have to do that stuff you know, Sarah.’
If she expected a few words of comfort, Anthony was not the person to rely on. He rarely delved past the necessary. She gave a weak smile. ‘I am capable of fixing a few wires.’
‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself,’ Anthony replied with a slight hint of annoyance. ‘And what’s with taking off and not letting me know where you’re going or how long you’ll be away?’
‘Sorry.’
He scratched his forehead, the action tipping his akubra onto the back of his head. ‘Well, no harm done. Let’s go back to the house and have a coffee.’
‘Would that be a flat white? Latte? Espresso?’
Anthony rolled his eyes. ‘How about Nescafé?’
Bullet barked loudly. ‘Sounds good.’ Sarah pushed her hat down on her head and sped off down the dirt road with Bullet’s back squarely against hers. She slowed when they passed some Hereford cows grazing close to the road. ‘G’day girls,’ she called above the bike’s engine. Bullet whimpered over her shoulder and gave a single bark as they crossed one of the many bore drains feeding their land with water. These open channels provided a maze of life for Wangallon’s stock and Sarah never failed to wonder at the effort gone into their construction nearly a century ago under the watchful command of her great-grandfather Hamish. Shifting up a gear, she raced through the homestead paddock gate to speed past the massive iron workshed and the machinery shed with its four quad-runners, three motorbikes, Landcruisers and mobile mechanic’s truck. Weaving through the remaining trees of their ancient orchard, Sarah braked in a spurt of dirt outside Wangallon Homestead. She smiled, watching as Bullet walked through the open back gate, pausing to look over his shoulder at her.
‘I’m coming.’
Bullet spiked his ears, lifted his tail and walked on ahead.
Hamish Gordon, immaculate in a dark suit, matching waistcoat and necktie, walked his black stallion along the edge of the empty bore drain. He was travelling westward across country that he’d begun to amass nearly fifty years ago and the sight of the black soil radiating from beneath him eased the ache in his lower back. Tree-filtered light dappled the track ahead and splatters of dew danced on fine spider netting nestled between tufts of grass. A breeze parted the glistening leaves of the trees, the noise like the soft shaking of linen, and he felt the breath of life on his face.