Chapter 8
Katherine Sullivan
She rode down the track to the cattle yards, and like dogs catching a scent the men paused their work and turned their heads.Bright white blouse stark against the crimson hillside, shotgun in her saddle holster, ponytail bouncing with each stride.She knew how they looked at her, what they saw: trading glances, hefting their crotches, smoothing down their hair. She wouldnever be more than John’s pretty widow to these men, her men, good only for ogling or as a punchline to their jokes.
Leaning against railings, smoking on upturned pails, kicking the dusty ground—Katherine reined up among them and asked forJoe. A young stockman came forward, Alfie Dawson, Katherine made a point of knowing their names. Someone whistled. Dawsongrinned. He tipped back his hat and offered his hand to help her down.
“I’m perfectly capable, thank you, Alfie. If you could just point me in the direction of Joe.”
“He’s over in the barn there, miss. Be my pleasure to escort you.”
A gap-toothed smile and another whistle from the men and inwardly Katherine cringed. For nearly five years she’d had to put up with this horseshit, ever since John died. Perhaps she’d been too timid in the early years, too deferential to her father; but then she was only nineteen when she was widowed, what did she know about running a cattle station then? Plucked from a circuit of needlework and gossip and dragged out to this shithole to give some rich squatter a son, it had felt like being shipped off to hell. But she got used to it. And things were much easier now John was dead. She actually had something out here, a chance of a life on her terms. Back in Melbourne she would only ever have become another somebody’s wife; at least here she could do as she pleased. Though not entirely. There was her father to manage, his suitors to navigate, not that they usually stuck around long. But Charles Sinclair was still here somehow, and now Billy was gone, and in the men’s eyes she’d always be nothing but a little girl.
She spurred the horse and turned so sharply that Alfie had to duck. He lost his footing and fell, howls of derision trailingKatherine to the barn. Smirking, she dismounted and walked in through the open doors, found Joe with a clipboard taking inventoryalong an aisle. He glanced at her then away again. Katherine waited. Outside, the cattle moaned and the men yelled, gettingback to work. Sunlight spilled through the doorway. Birds sang. It wasn’t all bad, she thought.
Wearily Joe lowered his clipboard and trundled along the aisle. A broad man in a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled, big arms.He wore a beard, as they all did, and in the years she’d known him his hair had thinned and peaked. Now he stood before her,evasive, wouldn’t quite meet her eye.
“Hello, Joe,” she said pleasantly. “How are you?”
“Help you with something, Mrs. Sullivan?”
Katherine forced a quick smile. “You’ve missed our last two meetings.”
“Been busy here, is all.”
“Even so, I still need to be kept informed.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything. It’s my station. I need to know what’s going on.”
He looked at his boots then, a kind of shrug. “Mr. Drummond’s down regular anyway. I can’t be running after you too, therejust ain’t the time.”
Katherine’s eyes pinched. “What do you mean he’s down regular?”
Another shrug. “I figured you knew.”
She glanced at the wall then back again. “And is that also the reason the upper paddocks haven’t been cleared? I told you I wanted that cattle moved.”
“Mr. Drummond said not to. Said to leave ’em a bit. Said the new fella—your husband, I mean—would decide what to do about’em soon enough.”
Katherine sighed irritably. Billy thought Joe was too soft, too malleable, but there was also a sly cunning to him, Katherineknew. He wasn’t stupid: he’d seen where things were headed and chosen a side.
“Charles Sinclair is a guest here and no more,” she told him. “As is my father, for that matter. You report to me, Joe—surelyyou know that?” She looked at him imploringly, then hardened; he still wouldn’t meet her eye. “So, I want those paddocks clearing,and I’ll expect you next week at the house, and while we’re at it I want you to let that old cripple Morris go. He’s out therenow, sitting on his backside smoking cigarettes on my time. You should have done it already. What use is a stockman that canhardly walk?”
Joe looked up sharply, and inside Katherine swelled. An urge now to turn and stride out of the barn, victorious, but therewas something else she needed first. Joe began worrying the edge of his clipboard and mumbling about Morris, about how longhe’d been with them, how he had nowhere else to go, and Katherine couldn’t help but think of Billy, holding her against him,telling her nobody did out here.
“The other thing I wanted to know,” she interrupted, talking over him, “is how Billy McBride is faring on his old family run.Have you heard anything from him? Are matters concluded between us now?”
“I gave him all he wanted, like you told me to.”
“And? What else?”
“How d’you mean, Mrs. Sullivan?”
“Well, have you not seen or heard from him since?”
“One of the blokes reckoned he was out at the Lawton saleyards a few weeks back, but that’s all I’ve heard.”
A pause, then Katherine said, “Right, very good. Remember about Morris. And the upper paddocks. I’ll see you next week asplanned.”
She swiveled and marched out through the doorway, mounted up, and rode clear of the yards, whistles and catcalls as she did so; Morris finger-waved. Katherine ignored them, resisted
