The Golden Stranger Read online

  ALSO IN THE

  DIAMOND SPIRIT SERIES

  BY KAREN WOOD:

  Diamond Spirit

  Moonstone Promise

  Opal Dreaming

  Brumby Mountain

  KAREN WOOD

  First published in 2012

  Copyright © Karen Wood 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the

  National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74237 858 9

  Cover photo by John P. Kelly / Getty Images

  Cover and text design by Ruth Grüner

  Set in 11.3 pt Apollo MT by Ruth Grüner

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  For my little wildies,

  Annabelle and Ruby

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  1

  SHARA WILSON PEEKED through her dorm window curtains across the schoolyard. Soft rain fell, grey and drizzly, onto the asphalt, blurring the light and muting the usual morning bird calls. In a nearby building, plates clattered and cutlery jangled as kitchen staff prepared breakfast. A vacuum cleaner hummed down the hallway.

  She glanced at her laptop, sitting among a mess of textbooks, notepads and pens on the tiny desk next to her bed. No one had warned her how much homework Canningdale College dished out. It was all she ever seemed to do. One more sleep, though, and her parents would be here to pick her up. Shara would be taking Rocko, her big brown quarter horse, home for three weeks of riding and hanging out by the Coachwood River with her friends.

  Shara grabbed a popper juice and some biscuits from her drawer and took her laptop from the desk. She flipped it open and sat cross-legged on the bed watching it come to life. Back home in Coachwood Crossing, she knew her bestie would be doing the same. She logged in to chat and within seconds there was a pop-up message from Jess.

  Sharsy, check out this link! There’s going to be a WILD HORSE RACE at the Coachwood Crossing Show. They’re using real brumbies! Can you believe it?

  Shara groaned. Jess would be in a huge tizz about this. She and her boyfriend Luke had been crazy about brumbies ever since Luke brought a herd of them back from Mount Isa last summer. Shara got comfy on the bed and clicked the link.

  It took her to the program for the Coachwood Crossing Show, which started the next weekend and ran for three days. She scanned the list of events – it looked more like a rodeo this year, with campdrafting, calf roping, bronc riding and barrel racing. Then she spotted the wild horse race billed as ‘Lunchtime Entertainment’.

  This exciting event will use real mountain brumbies, wild and untamed! Shara screwed up her face. Roping down wild horses and traumatising them just for the fun of it: how wild and exciting. Not. She typed with one hand, her juice box in the other.

  Totally cruel.

  I wrote to the show society and asked them not to hold the event and they didn’t even answer me.

  A bell clanged, signalling breakfast was ready.

  ‘Are you coming?’ asked Shara’s roommate, Stacey, emerging from the small bathroom with a freshly made-up face.

  ‘Nah, I’m good.’ Shara held up her juice. She got back to her chat with Jess while Stacey pulled on some shoes and slipped out the door.

  Why all the rodeo events this year? Are they still doing the cowpat lotto?

  That event had been Shara’s favourite. The committee marked out the entire arena into squares and everyone bought a number. Old Harry Blake would release one of his cows onto the field and every time she lifted her tail, there’d be a roar from the crowd. The winning number won the loot. Harry used to supply stock for the mini campdraft and the potty calf ride, too.

  No, since Harry died they’ve been using new stock contractors. Some new mob from NSW are doing it. All the events have changed.

  Damn. I won fifty bucks once!

  Shara got up and went to the small bathroom that she shared with her three roommates, stopping quickly in front of the mirror to tidy her straw-blonde hair into a ponytail and splash some water onto her face. When she got back, she found a tirade on her laptop screen.

  The new contractors are so dodgy! They buy brumbies that have been trapped in the national parks. Poor things, one day they’re free and the next they’re on a transport truck. It must be terrifying for them.

  I can’t believe they can do that.

  We need to make a bold anti-cruelty statement, Sharsy.

  A what?

  As Shara read the long-winded reply, she realised Jess was in earnest, and had already recruited Rosie and Grace Arnold.

  Are you serious?

  They have to be stopped. Brumbies deserve to be protected, not roped and thrown in front of a crowd of idiots. Look at this!

  A YouTube video link flashed before her. Shara clicked it, and a commentator’s voice boomed ‘Go!’ A dozen or so cowboys ran across an arena, wrenched open the chutes and released eight totally freaked-out brumbies. Before the horses had taken two leaps forward, they were yanked off their feet by teams of men, pulling them by the head and forcibly restraining them.

  Shara felt sick as she watched the desperate struggles of the brumbies. Some broke free, others bolted with men hanging off their necks or being dragged along on their bellies on the end of a rope. Some horses were thrown to the ground and had their ears bitten by the cowboys, while others escaped but then galloped through the ropes of other horses and got tangled. It was mayhem. Shara was also struck by how unskilled the men were.

  I’ve seen people catch brumbies without needing to do that. Why are they making such a mess of it? Losers.

  It was true. Skilled horsemen could catch brumbies in a matter of minutes in ways that were gentle and quick. This event was total crap. These horses were intentionally mishandled just to give the crowd a laugh.

  Are you in, Sharsy?

  Shara hit the keyboard without hesitating.

  Yep.

  She asked Jess to email her with the details and logged off so she could get dressed – riding jeans, collared T-shirt and boots. She was still stuffing her shirt into her jeans as she emerged from her room and wandered past the dining hall on her way to the stables and Rocko. The bacon smelled great, but there would be plenty of that when she got home to
Coachwood Crossing.

  It always seemed to take forever to get home: five hours of driving along winding roads and long smooth highways with Shara’s dad’s baroque operas tinkling out of the stereo; through the hustle of Brisbane and up the Bruce Highway towards Coachwood Crossing. They turned onto a small tarred road with potholes that the council never fixed, and followed the bends and curves of the Coachwood River. Barry slowed the car as they crossed the railway line and rolled into town.

  ‘Welcome home!’ he said.

  There were more cars than usual in the main street, and Shara noticed four men in big black hats and dirty jeans, standing outside the bakery eating pastries. The town was coming alive for the annual show, and she felt a rush of excitement. They’d be getting more than they bargained for this year!

  As Barry drove past the derelict service station, the show–grounds behind it came into view, already bustling with people. A ferris wheel had been erected and tents were being put up. Miles of flagged bunting marked out the car park, and a few livestock trucks had already arrived.

  Two kilometres on, they swung into their long, steep concrete driveway which ran down past a huge quadruple-bay shed and into a large gravelled yard cut into the hillside. Hex, Shara’s shaggy yellow bitser, gambolled out to greet her, followed by Petunia, her little foxy cross.

  Not much had changed since she’d last been home. Her older brother’s Holden wrecks, a haven for mice and snakes, still sat in a row along the fence with grass growing around them. David had finally given up on them two years ago and headed north in a Mazda to work on prawn trawlers.

  Near the house, a feed and tack shed sat just inside the horse paddock, which was lush with native grasses. The rest of the property sloped down in rolling hills and ridges grazed by purebred Droughtmaster cattle, her father’s hobby.

  Shara had barely led Rocko from the float into the horse paddock when Hex and Petunia went nuts, alerting her to a posse of three riders cantering beside the shady creek at the bottom of the property. Shara waved madly and did star jumps. ‘Coo-ee!’

  Jess, Rosie and Grace let themselves through the bottom gate, then thundered up the steep hillside, squealing and laughing and scattering Barry’s cows. Shara glanced nervously at her dad, who looked mildly annoyed but tolerant. ‘Sorry, Baz,’ she grinned.

  He muttered something and wandered to the house.

  Her friends’ horses were blowing heavily when they halted in the yard. Jess, small and nimble, squealed as she took a dramatic leap from Dodger’s back and landed with her arms around Shara’s neck.

  Shara laughed and squeezed her. ‘So good to be home!’

  2

  THE NEXT MORNING, Shara scanned the yard to check that no one was about. She unzipped her jacket, pulled out two cans of coloured hairspray and stuffed them into Rocko’s saddlebags.

  She felt a queasy twist of nerves in her gut. At school, five hundred kilometres away, this had sounded like a fun idea. But now that the day had arrived, she was beginning to think she must have been nuts to let Jess talk her into it. Were they actually going to go and sabotage a rodeo event in front of the entire town? She’d never done anything so out there in all her life!

  Shara swallowed hard, breathed in and ignored Rocko’s usual cranky face as she hoisted herself into the saddle. Too late now – she was committed.

  As she rode past the house she could hear the ever-present sound of the washing machine swish-swashing its way through the mountain of dirty clothes she had brought back from boarding school. ‘I’m going now, Mum,’ she called in through the back door.

  ‘Okay,’ her mother sang from inside. ‘Have fun!’

  ‘Oh, I think I will,’ muttered Shara.

  Hex and Petunia pulled at their chains as she rode past, wanting to come for the ride. ‘You’ll have to stay behind today, my stinky ones.’

  Home disappeared behind her as she turned off onto an adjacent trail. Before long she heard a trotting horse approaching, and Jess appeared around a bend on Dodger. Jess held her reins at the end of the buckle and let the old bay stockhorse pick his own way over the rocky track. She pulled Dodger to a stop when she reached Shara, green eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Got your spray-paint ready?’

  ‘I can’t believe you talked me into this,’ said Shara.

  Jess laughed. ‘I can’t believe you let me talk you into it.’ She turned Dodger towards the Arnolds’ place. ‘It’ll be great. Come on, let’s get Rosie and Grace.’

  At the Arnolds’ gate, Rocko raised his head and neighed loudly. Rosie, immaculate as always, trotted up on Buster. ‘This is insane. Those rodeo guys will make dog mince out of us.’

  ‘Only if they catch us,’ said Grace, riding up behind on a dishevelled grey. Unlike her sister, everything about Grace was a mess. Her jeans had holes in them and her helmet had stickers peeling off. It was always hard to believe the two were even related. ‘But I don’t intend to get caught.’

  ‘My parents would make dog mince out of me,’ said Shara. ‘Getting caught is not an option, okay, guys?’

  The girls rode down a steep easement onto the flats and cantered through a series of river crossings. As they neared town, they slowed the horses to a walk and rode single-file along the edge of the road before splashing into the creek that ran around the perimeter of the show–grounds. The show was clearly in full swing, with the ferris wheel rolling and carnival music twanging through the smells of popcorn and hot dogs.

  ‘Did you talk to Elliot about getting photos, Grace?’ asked Shara, ducking under a low-hanging branch.

  ‘Yep, he’s all ready,’ said Grace. ‘He’s going to get a front-row seat so he can take photos and then send them straight to the newspaper.’ She pulled her buzzing phone from her pocket. ‘Oh, here’s a text from him now. He says the brumbies have been moved to the yards behind the secretary’s tent.’ She began thumbing a message back.

  ‘I know where that is!’ said Shara, turning Rocko up the bank.

  ‘Oi!’ called Jess. ‘We don’t want to be conspicuous. Let’s just tether the horses here.’

  ‘Mmmm, smell the Dagwood dogs,’ said Shara, inhaling deeply as she tied Rocko by the river.

  ‘They’re making me wanna puke,’ said Jess, who was a fresh-food freak. ‘Those things should be illegal.’

  Shara and her friends emerged from the creek bed and hurried alongside a tall cyclone-wire fence that ran along the perimeter of the competitors’ area. As they walked they peered through the wire mesh at the cluster of trucks and floats.

  Horses were tied everywhere. Some people stood talking in small groups while others polished saddles. A cowboy practised roping on a straw bale with a set of horns attached to it. Ramps strewn with horse rugs and open bags of rodeo gear sloped to the ground from the backs of big horse rigs, in which rows of saddles and bales of hay were stacked.

  ‘Look!’ Grace pointed excitedly. ‘Is that them?’ On the other side of the fence was a huge red semitrailer with a double-deck stock crate on the back. On its cabin door were swirly gold letters:

  Bred to Buck

  Conneman Brothers

  Rodeo Stock Contractors

  ‘That’s them,’ hissed Jess. ‘They’re the new stock contractors, trading on the misery and trauma of wild horses.’

  ‘Harry would never have let this happen,’ said Rosie. ‘This new show committee has no idea.’

  The girls continued on foot until they came to the abandoned service station. Behind a rusty gas tank was a hole in the fence, through which local kids had been sneaking into the showgrounds for decades. The girls slipped through one by one and came out at the back of a brick toilet block. They squeezed along the narrow gap and walked out unnoticed into the backstage competitors’ area.

  They made a beeline for the secretary’s tent, passing the stockyards and the contractors’ semitrailer. Three scruffy, bony horses stood tied to its side. A small, taffy-coloured mare whinnied anxiously over the din of carnival music. Her dull red
coat was thick and rough, and her creamy tail hung to the ground in matted coils.

  ‘Reckon she’s a brumby?’ asked Shara, noticing the thickness of her bones and the slight feathering at the back of her fetlocks.

  ‘Probably,’ said Jess. ‘Wonder why she’s calling?’

  ‘Maybe she has a foal somewhere,’ said Grace. ‘That’s how our brood mares sound when we wean the foals.’

  The mare screamed again and a man appeared from behind the tailgate carrying a stockwhip. He was lean-jawed and leathery, with a half-smoked cigarette in his mouth and a freshly rolled one behind his ear. He swirled his whip and gave the horse a sharp crack under the tail. ‘Stand up, feral!’

  The mare stood hard up against the truck, trembling, her head high and ears flattened. The other two horses jostled nervously. The man yanked the mare’s rope so short that she could hardly move, re-tied it and disappeared.

  Shara spun around to face Jess, her mouth wide open.

  ‘Told you those Connemans were horrible,’ said Jess. ‘Wait till they get the brumbies in the ring!’

  ‘Come on,’ said Shara. ‘Let’s show them what we think of their wild horse race!’

  When they reached the back of the arena they climbed up onto the rails and looked out over the entire show. In the distance were the pavilions and trade stalls, rides and jumping castles. People swarmed between them carrying showbags and fairy-floss sticks.

  Directly under their noses were the rodeo pens. In a runway between the yards and the chutes, calves stood in single file, waiting to be roped. In the box next to the chute, Corey Duggin, Elliot’s older brother, sat loose and supple in the saddle with the reins gathered in one hand and a lariat in the other. He was wearing a dark blue shirt, a classic black Stetson with a pinched crown, and faded denim jeans. Sampson, the sleek red horse he rode, shifted in anticipation.

  Shara climbed right up onto the top rail, swung her legs over and lifted her chin to get a good view. Corey would be chasing points for the breakaway-roping national finals in a couple of weeks’ time. This would be fast.

  She watched as he ran a soothing hand down his horse’s neck and sat calm and quiet, waiting for him to be still. Then he tilted his head towards the stewards and gave a small nod. There was a clunk of gates, and no sooner had a small steer bolted from the chute than Corey was after it, lasso whirling. He gave three quick swings of the rope and released it into the air, looping it over the horns of the steer. Sampson ground to a stop and as the steer reached the end of the rope, the loosely tied end broke away from his saddle, sending a small flag into the air, which signalled the end of his run and a blazingly fast time score.