Free The Shearing Gun by Renae Kaye

homemade biscuits into my hand. “Be good, Hank,” he said. I’d told him about the incident and knew that he would discuss it with Murray once I was gone. I’d told him all about Elliot’s wandering eyes, our confrontation in the nightclub, the fight, and even me checking him out in the shower. He let me talk, but didn’t have any sage advice to give me. Only a “let me know how it turns out, huh?”
    The drive home was painful. I’d swapped to my usual blue sling, which allowed me movement, but I needed to change gears with my left hand, which had the agony spiking regularly. Once I was out of the city, I could just drive—the roads allowed me to drive at a hundred and ten and would take me home quickly—but the city traffic meant constant gear changes. My arm throbbed despite the painkillers I had swallowed.
    Dusk was falling as I made Narrogin, so I stopped for dinner at their local pub. Sunset and sunrise were the worst times to be driving—due to the kangaroos. They were on the move at that time, and hitting one would damage your vehicle, even with roo-bars and bull-bars attached to the front. The big bucks could stand taller than a man, and if you hit one of them, they could flip up over your bonnet and smash your windscreen.
    It was safer to stop and allow darkness to fall.
    I had ordered my grub at the counter and turned to find a table, when someone hailed me. “Hank Woods!”
    I looked over and saw a local. “Stewie Tanner! Hey, mate. What are you doing here?”
    Stewie was in his late forties and had lived on the land his entire life. “The missus had some churchy meeting in town, so I drove her in.” Mrs. Tanner had something wrong with her legs and was in a wheelchair. “Good to see you here. It saves me a call.”
    “Yeah?” I asked and settled down at his table. He was halfway through his steak and chips.
    “I was over at Middy’s place the other day and caught sight of the rams you sold him. Looks like you bred yourself some good-uns, huh?”
    We settled down and talked stock while my meal was prepared. By the time my dinner was placed in front of me, Stewie had promised to drop by the following week to check out my flock. The Tanner place was huge—over a thousand hectares compared to my small two hundred and fifty—and he was well respected in the community. Stewie wanted at least ten rams for late spring lambing and if he bought from me, I could expect a lot more custom the following year, as people saw the excellent lambs I was sure my boys would throw. It was an unexpected nice surprise, and I made mental plans to handpick more lambs this year.
    It was nearly eight o’clock when I pulled up at my gate. The lights were on in the house. Through the bare windows where he hadn’t pulled the curtains, I could see Paul sitting in front of the TV. As I approached the house, I could hear Buck going mad. I’d left him home for this trip, which he didn’t appreciate one bit. He flew to my side, and I grinned madly and gave him plenty of pats.
    It was good to be home.
     
     
    S UNDAY BROUGHT rain that would water my crops nicely, as long as it didn’t go for too long. I was shoveling shit out of the chook pen one-handed when Buck let me know I had a visitor. I stuck my head around the edge of the henhouse and got a soaking for my trouble.
    Doc Elliot was standing on my back veranda looking out across the paddocks. I whistled and waited for him to see me. He waved and made to come through the rain, so I hollered across the yard, “Put the kettle on, Doc! I’ll be there in five!”
    I washed up under the tank and kicked my boots on the step, trying to dislodge as much mud as I could before stepping inside. The screen door banged behind me, and I toed my boots off in the mud room and stripped off my wet socks before walking barefoot into the kitchen. Elliot had made himself at home, and Jimmie’s biscuit tin was in the middle of the table while the good Doc read my latest Countryman