The Golden Stranger Page 9

  ‘Everyone in town is talking about Corey. They’re all coming in here asking if he stole a horse.’

  Shara snorted with outrage. ‘The rumour mill is unbelievable in this town,’ she said. ‘What did Mr Hoskins say?’

  ‘Not much. He said, “I’ll see what I can do.”’ Jess held up her hands and shrugged.

  Shara peeked back out the window. The car was still there, with two people sitting in the front. Her mind raced. ‘What are they doing there?’

  Jess joined her at the window. ‘Stalking you, by the look of it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they hate you?’

  ‘Why? What did I do?’

  ‘Errr, spray-painted all their brumbies, splashed them all over the front page of the local newspaper, forced them to surrender ten of their horses. Nearly put them out of business. Then there was the incident down in Brisbane . . . ’ ‘Okay, okay! But it wasn’t just me!’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re the one they busted.’

  Shara cursed under her breath. This conversation was doing nothing to make her feel safer.

  ‘Want me to ring the cops?’

  ‘And tell them what?’ said Shara. ‘They’re not doing anything wrong. They’re just sitting in a car eating.’

  A large white LandCruiser pulled up and parked behind the red car. John Duggin stepped out.

  ‘Oh no, it’s Corey’s dad! He’ll be so angry!’ Shara briefly considered slipping out the back door.

  ‘Is that the oven timer I can hear beeping?’ said Jess, heading for the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t just leave me here,’ hissed Shara.

  John opened the door with such force that Shara thought the bell would jingle itself off its fixtures. He stalked to the counter and stared at the display of cakes with a tight face and his hands tucked into his dark-blue coveralls.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked Jess, so meekly she sounded ridiculous.

  John pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and slapped it on the counter. Inside was the small lock of cream-coloured horse hair. So he had spoken to Mr Hoskins.

  Shara stepped forward. ‘Hi, John.’

  John’s eyes flashed to her. They were usually filled with diagnostic contemplation and calm compassion. She had never seen him riled up before.

  ‘Corey wasn’t kicked by a horse,’ he stated.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why would someone punch him like that?’ He turned the hair sample about in his hand, and Shara realised her answer would determine what he would decide to do with it. His eyes bored a hole through her. ‘Did Corey throw the first punch?’

  ‘Graham Conneman had me by the arm and Corey was trying to get him to let go.’

  John’s gaze didn’t move from her as he digested her answer. ‘Why did Graham Conneman have you by the arm?’

  ‘He caught me mucking around with his horse, but we weren’t trying to steal it, we were just trying to get that hair sample. We ran into Corey and he tried to tell me not to. He warned me that they weren’t nice people.’

  ‘You should have listened to him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You took this sample without the owner’s consent?’

  Shara nodded.

  John tossed the bag into the rubbish bin that sat in the corner of the shop. ‘Haven’t you kids already been in enough trouble with these people without going searching for more?’ he said. Obviously he knew about the spray-painting.

  ‘Hey!’ Shara looked at the sample in the bin and thought of all she’d been through to collect it. ‘We’re not the bad guys! The Connemans are outside right now. Why don’t you go and ask them what happened?’

  ‘What?’

  Shara pointed out the window. ‘In the red car. You just walked straight past them!’

  John stormed back out the door and marched across the road. Both Jess and Shara ran to the window and peeked out. The woman in the red car wound up her window and started the engine. The car jolted out of its park and John banged his fist on the bonnet as he jumped out of its way.

  He stood in the street watching it disappear before marching back into the bakery, flinging the door open so hard that this time the bell really did fly off its fixtures. It landed on the floor with a limp jingle and rolled to a stop.

  ‘Get in my car, Shara,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll give you a lift home.’

  Shara picked up her backpack, shot a farewell glance at Jess and followed him out the door.

  John’s four-wheel drive was huge, luxurious and smelled of pine deodoriser. She sank into the sheepskin-covered seat and pulled the lap sash around herself. John got in and the engine made a soft purr as he turned the key. He put the car into a U-turn and the ceiling-high racks of vet supplies rattled in the back. He cut the ABC news jingle on the radio.

  ‘I’m really sorry that Corey got hurt,’ said Shara.

  ‘Don’t be,’ snapped John, flicking on the indicator and turning onto Coachwood Road. ‘Might have done him some good, the smartalec.’

  The silence was awkward as they drove along Coach–wood Road.

  ‘Have you seen Goldie?’

  ‘Shara, that colt is the least of your concerns at the moment. You already have a good horse, you should concentrate on him.’

  ‘Not anymore I don’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Dad took him away.’

  John seemed taken aback and there was silence for a while. ‘What, for good? Where did he take him? Not to the saleyards?’

  John had been her vet when Shara had originally rescued Rocko. He’d seen what a soul-destroyed horse he was – he’d even been bitten by him. John was one person who had some connection with her story and had seen the amazing job she had done with Rocko. If he went to the sales, it would diminish a lot of John’s efforts too.

  ‘He took him to Blakely Downs, out past Longwood, to retire. It’s a fifty-thousand-hectare property. Once they let him go, that’ll be it. I won’t see him again.’

  John lifted his eyebrows. ‘I thought parents only ever threatened to do that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yeah, well, mine really did.’ Shara felt a pain shoot through her chest. ‘So, don’t get on my case, because someone else is already heavily on it.’

  John drove in silence for a while longer. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and Shara saw his expression change. He continued past the road to her place without turning off.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the surgery. I have to check on the colt.’

  There were four extra-large stables at the back of John’s surgery. The walls were made of grey concrete and the windows of heavy-duty steel mesh. They were more like prison cells than stables. But maybe that was what Goldie needed. The colt hung his head out the door, tossed his nose up and down and nickered when he saw Shara. A smile broke across her face. He was so utterly charismatic. She held out a hand and he thrust his velvet muzzle into it, nibbling at her palm and then licking it. Goldie had filled out even more since she had last seen him and she realised he was going to be quite a tall horse: as tall, if not taller, than Rocko. His gloriously thick mane was still a messy tangle and Shara realised she had never had the chance to brush it in between disasters.

  She took a matted piece of his forelock and untangled a large spiky burr from the middle of it. ‘What’s going to happen to you, Goldie?’ she said quietly.

  ‘He needs some exercise if you have a spare ten minutes,’ said John from behind her. He held a syringe full of yellow stuff in one hand and a coiled rope in the other. ‘I’ll just give him his vitamin shot.’

  John gave Goldie’s neck a wipe with a swab and stuck the needle into his vein. He clipped the rope to the colt’s halter and handed it to Shara. ‘Just got to make a few calls and then I’ll run you home.’

  He disappeared into the office and Shara led Goldie out into the sunshine. There was a small paddock behind the surgery where she let him out onto the end of the rope to stretch his legs. Goldie
burst into a canter. He pigrooted and squealed for five laps until Shara could pull him into a more controlled circle. He came back to an energetic trot and Shara grinned as she watched him fool around, tail high in the air and nose to the wind.

  His colour was dazzling, a deep caramel with black dapples dancing down his hindquarters, shimmering in the sunlight. His silvery mane ruffled in the wind and caught the sun. His stride was playful and he reacted to Shara’s movements with snorts and squeals and frolicking leaps. ‘You’ve been locked up for too long,’ she laughed, as he careered around on the end of the rope.

  John appeared at the fence and waved her over. ‘Got an emergency. I’ll drop you home on the way.’

  Shara reluctantly pulled Goldie to a stop and led him, prancing, back to the stable. He planted his feet outside the door, pulling against her.

  ‘Come on, Houdini.’ John gave him an encouraging slap on the rump and pushed him in through the doorway. He closed the door, pulled a padlock from his pocket and locked the top door securely.

  John marched to the LandCruiser, and Shara had run after him.

  John drove fast and Shara wondered what the emergency was. They hadn’t gone far down the road when she saw the little red car come hurtling towards them.

  John mumbled something under his breath and, once again, drove straight past Shara’s street. ‘Looks like you’re coming with me again.’

  ‘What are they doing in town?’ said Shara.

  ‘Looking for their colt.’

  ‘Goldie?’

  ‘That’d be the one.’

  ‘I thought they denied owning him?’

  ‘All of a sudden they want to pay his vet bills and claim him as theirs.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, that’s the strange thing about people who neglect animals. They often still have a strong sense of ownership and entitlement over them. Now that they’re looking like the victims, they think they might have a shot at getting him back.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  He looked at her as he drove. ‘Now they are saying that you stole him and you let him starve.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t panic. We all know that’s ridiculous. We’re holding them off for as long as we can until we can work out what’s going on. We certainly don’t want to give him back if we don’t have to.’ He shot her a complicit grin. ‘So much paperwork, y’know?’

  ‘Do they know where he is?’

  ‘Yes – the RSPCA was obliged to tell them.’

  ‘They’ll steal him back!’ Shara twisted in her seat and watched the red car barrelling straight for John’s place. Straight for Goldie. At least John had padlocked his stable, but that wouldn’t stop the Connemans if they really wanted to take him. ‘Shouldn’t we go back?’

  John nodded up ahead, to where another car zoomed towards them, leaving big billows of dust in its wake. It was a police car. ‘Don’s already on the way. I just spoke to him on the phone. He won’t let them take him.’

  ‘How did he know?’ She stared at John. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Like I said, there’s been an emergency,’ said John.

  ‘Bigger than this one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  16

  JOHN REACHED COACHWOOD ROAD, but instead of turning left into town, he turned right and made for the freeway.

  They drove for more than half an hour and eventually turned into a narrow laneway. They reached a dilapidated building made from besser blocks, which looked as though it had once been a small dairy.

  Shara unclipped her belt and followed John out of the car. The stench of stale horse urine and manure burned her nostrils. There was another foul smell too . . . something overpowering.

  When she peered over the solid timber half-door, several wild-looking horses rushed to the other end of the building.

  They were a heart-rending sight, thin and gaunt and utterly terrified. The smell, Shara realised, was a dead one over which they had all just trampled to get away from her. She dry-retched and put her hand over her mouth. ‘Brumbies,’ she gasped.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said John from behind her. ‘Get straight back into the car and close all the windows. Just in case it’s Hendra.’

  Shara looked up at the big fig trees which hung over the old dairy block. They would have been planted there years ago to shade the dairy cattle, but these days they would be more likely to host huge colonies of bats, which feasted on the fruit and carried the deadly Hendra virus. Their droppings were all over the ground below and added to the foul smell.

  Shara got back in the car and closed the door while John leaned against the back making phone calls. After a lengthy discussion he got back in the driver’s seat. ‘We’ll have to wait for the police and the RSPCA to arrive before we try to move them,’ he said. ‘Sorry you had to see that, Shara.’

  ‘Who do they belong to?’

  ‘The Connemans, we think.’

  ‘Are they brumbies?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Shara could hardly believe it. ‘Now do you believe us?’ she said, almost in tears again. She pointed out the window. ‘Those people do that sort of thing and the whole town, including our parents, think we’re the demons. Why are you guys all so mad at us? Why aren’t you mad at the Connemans?’

  John held his hand up in a gesture that asked her to stop. She shut up, but breathed heavily with anger.

  ‘You know, Shara,’ John started. ‘When I read about that spray-painting stunt in the paper, I thought it was great. I knew straight away who had done it and I thought it was gutsy.’

  ‘And you didn’t punish Elliot?’

  ‘What?’ said John. ‘I didn’t know he was involved!’

  Whoops! Shara smiled weakly at John. ‘He took the photos and emailed them to the newspaper.’

  John exhaled loudly. ‘That Grace Arnold. She’s got him wrapped around her little finger.’

  Shara suppressed a smirk. That was so true.

  ‘Anyway, I knew it was your group of friends in general, what with Judy Arnold being an animal rescuer from way back and that Luke kid having such a strong liking for brumbies.’

  ‘Actually, Luke wasn’t involved in that bit.’

  John huffed impatiently. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that I agreed with you. With that bit, anyway. That stunt got a lot of people talking about brumbies and how they’re treated. I grew up in the northern tablelands of New South Wales. Up there, nearly every station used the local wildies for stock work. The stockmen knew no other breed came close to them for toughness. I’d love to see more of them be re-homed instead of being turned into pet meat and used in rodeos.’

  ‘People just think they’re feral. No one cares about them.’

  ‘A lot of people care very deeply about brumbies. But this sort of thing’s not uncommon. They have such little monetary value and when they’re fresh from the wild, they’re hard to handle, so people just abandon them.’

  ‘But all the buckjumpers and cattle are treated okay.’

  ‘People like the Connemans treat most of their stock well because that’s their business and they have to look after them. But the brumbies are bought cheap from the runners for the price of dog meat. They get rough-handled by the runners and come to the contractors out of their minds – and that’s how the Connemans like them for rodeo, because it’s more entertaining. When they’re finished with them, it’s cheaper and easier to just dump them; buy another lot later.’

  John looked out the window at the bleak grey building. ‘These horses are probably waiting for an abattoir to pick them up. The Connemans didn’t bother leaving feed or water because they were going to die anyway.’

  Shara was speechless. She stared out the car window and thought of the dismal creatures in that building, and then thought of Goldie galloping playfully around the paddock with his silvery mane flying in the breeze. ‘That is so wrong.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed John.

  ‘So why the Hendra sca
re?’

  ‘Because as soon as the authorities get here, the first thing they’ll notice is that big fig tree full of bats. Hendra will be the first thing they have to rule out.’

  Outside, an RSPCA van and two police cars rolled towards the dairy. John got out and started pulling on protective clothing from the back of his car.

  Shara stayed put while John helped people in bright blue paper suits and face masks tape off a quarantine area with yellow ribbon.

  Within half an hour the place was swarming with people, including some with cameras. Were they the media? How did they find out? The police seemed to be asking them to leave.

  She rang her mum and told her where she was and what had happened. Louise insisted on coming to collect her immediately, making Shara promise faithfully not to contract any lethal viruses. As she hung up, John’s phone rang on the seat beside her. She picked it up.

  ‘John Duggin’s phone.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ said a vaguely familiar voice.

  ‘It’s Shara Wilson. John is tending to a horse right now. Can I take a message?’

  There was a small pause before the person spoke again. ‘Yeah, tell him Corey called.’

  Shara reeled. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her mind whirled with questions. Are you okay? Are you still in hospital? While her mouth flapped soundlessly, there was an awkward silence as he waited for her to say something.

  ‘Okay then? Bye.’

  The phone disconnected before she could utter a word.

  ‘No, wait!’ She sat in the car, befuddled, wondering if she should call him back. Was he angry with her? Of course he was. He had taken a hit for her, protected her, probably saved her life, and she hadn’t even managed to say hello to him. What must he think of her?

  John opened the driver’s door. ‘I think we should get you home,’ he said. ‘This will take forever and we need to get all unnecessary people away from here.’

  ‘Mum’s already on her way.’

  He nodded with approval.

  ‘Corey rang. Wants you to ring him back.’

  ‘Okay.’ John nodded again, but his mind seemed somewhere else. His face carried a look of absolute disgust. ‘I’ve come across some rank people, but these guys . . .’ He seemed unable to find words for them.