A Changing Land(36)
‘I did mention at dinner the other night that I was working on a project that would assist in helping Wangallon recover from the drought.’
‘I sort of remember,’ although Sarah wondered what it had to do with overstocking.
‘Well, before you start running off about Boxer’s, perhaps you could wait a couple of days. I’ll have a better idea of the cost by then.’
‘Great, just great,’ Sarah repeated, shuffling the mail like a deck of cards as Anthony walked out. She didn’t like the sound of this cloak and dagger project, especially when he was sounding defensive. Here she was with sweaty palms and the dull thud of a coming headache and she was no further advanced. She looked disinterestedly at the mail. When the knock came at the back door, Matt Schipp’s voice boomed loudly across her thoughts.
He stood with his hat in his hands, one riding boot resting on the step. Ferret, having limped to his side, rested his head on his boot. Matt gave him a pat. ‘You’re a spoilt little bugger aren’t you? Up here at the big house.’
Matt looked as if he’d already worked more than a full day and although it was only nearing eleven in the morning, Sarah speculated that he probably almost had.
‘Are you free to come out with me, Sarah?’ His expression was unreadable, his voice quiet. ‘We have a problem.’
Hamish trotted the gelding up the gravel drive of Wangallon Homestead, wheeling the horse to the right and left. He was a stubborn animal. Even after castration and months of continuous riding, the horse chewed disconsolately on the bit and would move to a gallop as soon as the reins were loosened. At the paling gateway Hamish turned the animal back towards the direction of the house, fighting the gelding’s inclination to break for the grassland beyond. The horse pawed the ground and reared on its hind legs, whinnying in annoyance. With one gloved hand on the reins, Hamish dug his knees into the animal’s flanks and struck the horse on its rump with a short riding crop. ‘You damn recalcitrant.’ Immediately the gelding yielded, trotting almost amiably back towards the house where Angus waited.
‘Up you get.’
Angus did as his father bid and, with a stirrup in the form of his father’s hands, was hoisted atop his new horse. He grabbed the reins tightly, pulled his knees in towards the gelding’s flanks and waited for directions.
‘Well then,’ Hamish gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head as the gelding’s nostrils flared, ‘you’ve been complaining for days since you learnt he’s to be yours. Let’s see if you can handle him.’
Angus flicked the reins and the horse moved forward with an unsteady jolt. He grinned at his father, sat his bum squarely in the saddle and dug his heels in. The gelding snorted and pigrooted across the width of the gravel drive, and Angus was launched up into the air to land solidly on his backside.
‘Again,’ Hamish commanded, ignoring the boy’s look of wounded pride. ‘Think about what you did wrong.’
Angus climbed back into the saddle with his father’s assistance and flicked the reins. The gelding stood stubbornly still.
‘Oh do be careful, Angus.’ Claire watched from the verandah, her quilting dangling from her fingers.
Hamish held his right hand up for silence. Angus squeezed his knees against the gelding and was rewarded with a gentle trot. The boy was endowed with a good seat, Hamish noted, and a straight back without a hint of a slouch. Boy and horse began to trot around the perimeter of the garden. Hamish watched as his son relaxed into his mount’s gait, the reins drooping, a barely perceptible slouch appearing in his lower back. Cupping his hands behind his back, Hamish readied for his son to receive another grounding. As if on cue Angus dropped one hand free of the reins in imitation of his father, dug his heels in and was quickly launched over the horse’s head, his arms flailing in the wind. He landed with a thud to sprawl at the base of a bougainvillea hedge. The gelding snorted and kicked out its back legs before calming.
Claire ran down the steps of the verandah, clutching at her skirt. Hamish barred her path.
‘He is not a child, Claire, and you are not his father. Please tend to your domain and I will tend to mine.’
Claire frowned in annoyance and looked to where her young son walked gamely across to the gelding. He led the horse to the paling fence, climbed up on it and half-jumped half-pulled himself into the saddle. The horse immediately bucked him off. Claire shook her head at her son’s determination. Angus brushed the dirt from his hands and approached the gelding once more.