Free Fifty Bales of Hay by Rachael Treasure Page A

drench. Bronwyn typed the heifer’s tag number into the computer and recorded the weight showing in the digital box on the scales.
    ‘Congratulations, you have just scored a date with Mr Bully Boy,’ Bronwyn said, watching as Tommy drafted the cow into the yard on the left.
    ‘Not like you,’ Tommy said, eyeing the next beast that Bronwyn had just pinned in the crush. ‘You don’t get a date. Sorry, darlin’. You score a two. Too skinny to make you a breeder.’
    It was hard to see cattle in this condition, but it had been hellishly dry and now there was only room for the good doers of the herd, the ones that could hold their weight in tough times. Bronwyn noted the beast’s tag number in the system as a cull before she let her go. She was getting the hang of working the Queensland beef cattle. More so still, she was getting the hang of Tommy Reynolds. He had been a total flirt with her from the start. Been at her for three months since she’d first arrived, saying she had, ‘real pretty eyes. Like a collie-dog bitch.’ He’d started this morning at the yards, slapping her on her broad arse and winking as he said, ‘I’d like to fat-score you, Beanbag baby.’
    She’d grinned back at him. ‘Too much there for you to handle, mate. Most men don’t even bother to try. They go for the skinny ones. Not ones like me.’
    ‘I ain’t most men.’ He’d pointed at the heifers. ‘We’re fat-scorin’ these, coz the skinny ones are out the gate to the meat works … it’s the fatter ones we want for joining with the bulls. Better to get a calf out of them ones. And I’m after the same for meself. I like the fuller types,’ he’d said with another wink as he ambled away, whacking a piece of poly pipe against his thigh. Loudly he began to sing a somewhat toneless version of Queen’s ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ then let out a hollering whoop up to the big wide sky. She watched as his chunky form receded into the dust of the cattle in theyard so all she could see was his R.M. Williams, Big Men’s size, blue work shirt.
    Bronwyn had always liked big fellas. Tommy looked good in Dogger boots and she liked the way his sideburns emerged from beneath his hat, like a cowboy version of Elvis after he’d eaten all those burgers and fries. As she’d watched Tommy dodge a toey beast and leap for the rail, she suddenly realised she’d like to know what tools he had hiding beneath that big verandah of his. She’d been through a bit of a dry spell with men. Some were none too keen on her size, but not Tommy. He’d been trying to get into her pants for weeks with his constant flirting. She’d been holding off for Tank, the grader driver, but he’d been gone now for over a month. And, she had realised, he wasn’t as much fun as Tommy.
    As the hot dusty days rolled by, Bronwyn had begun to look forward to Tommy’s company and his stirring. Like last Saturday’s bore run when he’d flicked water at her from the trough, shouting, ‘Wet T-shirt! Wet T-shirt!’ Or how he sat far too close to her in the truck on the way to the top yards on Tuesday. She liked the way he smelled of rollie tobacco, Lynx deodorant and proper man’s sweat. The other night, round the Laminex table in the crib room, Bronwyn had thought for a moment he would kiss her, but instead, even though he was well lubricated on Bundy Red, he’d shyly said, ‘Goodnight, beautiful bouncy Beanbag,’ and stooped to kiss her hand. Then he’d walked away, wobbling a little in his boots, disturbing the cane toads that sat like stones on the buffalo grass.
    Now, as she eyed Tommy’s strong hands and sexy tanned forearms, Bronwyn resolved it was time to open the gate for Tommy. In the same way she would open the gate at the bulls paddock this evening. Subtly she turned away from him, made sure he wasn’t looking, then undid one extra button on her work shirt. She shuffled her big tits upwards a little more in her bra, tugged her shirt even lower, then got