Free The Quilt by Rochelle Carlton Page A

summer to supervise the foundations for the new farmhouse.  Sean was busy cutting silage and hay for the winter stock feed.  He had employed several local men to help with the labor-intensive job of picking up the smaller bales from the paddocks and stacking them neatly in the huge, old fashioned hay barn.
    Large , green, plastic wrapped bales, sweet rich piles of silage and massive round bales of hay were picked up by front-end loaders to be trucked away and stacked in neat rows.  They would be used when the stock was low on feed and needed supplementing, or when snow fell heavily and the animals could not scratch out the grass from under the dense cover.
     
    By the middle of the summer the shearing shed was nearing completion and the pasture was dotted with fat spring lambs running evening races through the rolling green pasture.  It was a far cry from the years of turmoil that had once been Twin Pines.

Chapter 6
    “Jean and Sean Clarke”
     
    The days were long and hot by the time the first shearing gang arrived at Twin Pines.  They took up residence in the new shearing quarters on a Friday morning and by that evening the shiny new wooden slatted floor was stained with lanolin from the thick wool fleece. 
    Riv ulets of sweat ran down the faces and stained the backs of the transient shearers. They expertly removed the clean fleece with sharp blades appearing to work without hesitation despite the stifling summer heat. The fleece was then pushed down through the sheds portholes to the waiting hands below and the shearer moved on to the next animal.
    On the slatted floor below the fleece was taken from the chutes by the wool handlers.  They sorted and removed any dirty fleece before pressing it into large brown bales ready for grading and sale.
    Other workers he rded the sheep in the pens, whistling to control the movement of their dogs.  Twin Pines was alive with the sound of thousands of bleating sheep, the whirl of clippers and the barking of working dogs with their pink tongues lolling as they jumped from one ewe’s back to the next.  The occasional curse or the sound of good natured teasing broke through the sound of the organized chaos.  
     
    Sean returned late in the afternoon.  He had been fixing a fence that had been in need of tensioning for some time.  He had also moved the dwindling herd of Angus cattle to new fresh pasture.  They would soon be ready for sale, and beef prices were at an all-time high.
    As always , Sean saw to the dogs needs first.  He gave them each an individual few minutes of attention, a full bowl of food and checked their water was fresh and cool. He wearily made his way past the stacked brown bales, pausing to sniff the unfamiliar odour that assaulted him in the now damp trampled yards.   
    The workers sat sprawled across the linoleum floor.  Each man was holding cold beer with several surrounded by empty bottles.   The conversation paused briefly when Sean entered the building.  He stood in the doorway enjoying the familiar aroma of fresh hearty stew. He remembered a time when his mother had stood at the coal range stirring bubbling pans of fragrant meat. 
     
    A woman stood banishing a wooden spoon.  She gave the impression of being in her mid-twenties although could have been much younger.    She was tall and athletic.  Her hair was wavy, unruly and the color of ash.
    S he turned around suddenly, laughing and pointing the wooden spoon at one of the men, firing back a quick response to the light hearted teasing she had received from the shearers. A lock of uncontrolled hair fell over her sharp intelligent almond-shaped eyes.  Sean’s gaze met their hazel depths.  Her round honest face broke into an open genuine smile and she extended a calloused hand.  Not the skin of a woman afraid of work. 
    “Hi , I’m Jean Hollingway.  My father, David, is building your house.  He thought you might need a hand.”
    The s hearing gang roared with laughter but