Misfit in Time (Book 1:Twisted Time Duet)

By Jennifer Crowfoot

I blamed my predicament on a Wombat...when in actuality it all started with an Australian creature so much more ancient.
I used to live in the twenty-first century in rural New South Wales, Australia.
But because of the whims of fate, a Wombat, and a creature so ancient it saw the birth of man, that situation was about to change.
In a big way.

When my usually sure-footed horse stumbled in a hidden Wombat's burrow on the way back home, throwing me off, and momentarily knocking me out, I found myself waking to a whole lot of confusion.
Nothing looked the same as it had earlier.
My horse had vanished, and apparently so had Winter.

I didn't know it then, but I'd stumbled head-on onto a crazy pathway which would eventually set me on my life's true calling.
Although I did have to negotiate a few speedbumps along the way.

Like being mistaken for the new help, resulting in me becoming a Governess to three cute kids, when I didn't know a hell of a lot about them. I knew they were noisy, prone to tantrums and made a lot of mess.

I suddenly had to get used to having two gorgeous brothers frothing at the mouth for my attention. One of whom shouldn't have been even giving me the time of day. In return, I lusted after them -- both of them. Yep, I'll probably go to Hell for the thoughts I had about them -- all whilst fighting an inappropriate attraction for their married sister.

I also discovered that there's a husband hiding deep in the closet, a father with an eye for the ladies, except his wife, and a mother who's the only child of Satan.

I also found out that when the stars align and the right magic is thick in the air, that the objects of ancient stories and fables can actually be true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Crowfoot
• Release date: Feb 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370491551

Jennifer Crowfoot

Married, Jennifer lives with her husband and her spoilt, feline fur-baby, Hades, in beautiful rural N.S.W, Australia.When not writing, Jennifer can be found with her nose buried in a book.She also has a collection of self-published books on Amazon.? ? ?

Book preview

Misfit in Time

(Book Ⅰ: Twisted Time Duet)

By Jennifer Crowfoot

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2018 Jennifer Crowfoot

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Cover image © Konrad Bąk

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Cover design by Author

Smashwords Edition. License Notes.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

* * *

This is a work of fiction.

Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

Any places or towns mentioned are used in a fictional manner.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission.

The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Misfit in Time

Is rated 18+

It contains frequent and strong profanity.

This novel is the first in a duet, and is written using Australian English.

It is an Adult / Paranormal / Time travel Romance

(With a sprinkling of Australian mythology.)

* * *

For my daughter, Sarah

Thank you….

For convincing me to get on the back of your huge, scary, quad-bike and taking me up the back of your property to show me the really cool ‘bat’s burrow.

That amazing sight spawned this story, and consequently brought Janssen, James and Daniel to life.

♥ ♥ ♥

WOMBAT

/ ‘wɒmbat /

Noun

Noun: Wombat. Plural noun: Wombats.

Noun: Common Wombat. Plural noun: Common Wombats.

A burrowing, plant-eating Australian marsupial which resembles a small bear with short legs.

* * *

Wombat Burrow.

Noun

A whopping hole in the ground which can be 3 to 30 metres (10 to 100 feet) long, and up to 3.5 metres (11.5 feet) deep.

The diameter is about the same size as the wombat, and can be up to 50.8 centimetres wide (20 inches) …enough for a small person to crawl into….

Or, a horse to stumble into, which leads us to….

Chapter One

The Wombat’s Burrow

Present day: Janssen

The long oilskin coat flaps and swishes about my legs with the no-nonsense rhythm of my gait as I march across the worn kitchen floor. My lips form a thin slash as every second step elicits a tortured squeak from the ancient (and quite possibly white ant riddled) tired old timbers (barely) supporting the chequered lino.

Glancing up at the pressed tin ceiling I’m sure was once a glowing white, but which over time has turned a particularly nasty shade of curdled-cream, I can’t help but notice dusty doilies crocheted by industrious daddy longlegs dangling wispily in the corners of the moulded cornices.

I swallow down the sudden painful lump in my throat. My eyes drop to the scratched black and white squares beneath my socked feet, before honing in on the weathered flyscreened back door.

Oh Dad, I’m so glad you’re not here to see how the bloody place’s falling apart, beam by beam. Sighing, I rub at the ache which has moved from my throat and settled down inside my chest. We’re trying, we really are, but it’s so hard without you, and Erik gets so moody and cranky all of the time. I swear he’s worse than a woman with PMS, I complain, guilt nipping at the back of my mind as I bitch about my older brother behind his back. Not that it’s old news to him that I think he’s a sooky, bad-tempered, bastard. I’ve yelled it to him plenty of times since I’ve been back home.

Pushing open the screen door, I step out into the cool June morning, shivering as the chill of the wooden verandah seeps up through my thin cotton socks and into my feet. Bumping it shut with my heel, my brows dip in annoyance when I hear a dull clomp.

What now?

Upon closer investigation, I discover that one of the hinges has lost its screws and the bottom half of the door has come adrift and now skews out sideways like a snaggle tooth. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I huff. Just another bloody thing that needs fixing. What’s Erik been doing all this time? Drinking, I bet, I grumble sourly, mentally adding the wonky door to the growing tally of broken thingamajigs around the place I’ve noticed have either stopped working, seized up, or just fallen off whenever I touch them.

As I tip toe across the chilly floorboards towards the dirty wooden box containing a messy collection of old baseball caps and well-loved Akubra’s, riding boots, sneakers, gumboots and assorted rubber thongs in both broken and unbroken states, my mind casts back a little over a year and a half to my return home after five years living in the city.

Turning my complaining beat-up Barina into the familiar driveway still marked with the same old milkcan-come-mailbox that used to greet me as a kid when I got off the school bus, I remember being rendered speechless — despite the terribly sad reason that had summoned me home — with the obvious decline of the property I’d grown up in.

As my weary car had spluttered along the long Poplar lined driveway, puffs of grey smoke trailing along in my wake, my first view of the homestead had been one of flaking, sun-faded paint, and wild, tangled jasmine vines strangling the life out of the wraparound verandah’s tired, sagging railings. While the sun’s blistering heat had sent shimmering heat-waves undulating across the sheets of rusty corrugate capping the roof.

Glancing out through the side window as I’d neared closer to the house yard, I hadn’t failed to notice that even the fences separating the front paddocks were hunched over like frail aged folk, the wires sagging like washing lines. They’d looked for all the world like they’d keel over in the next strong gust of wind.

Everything and everywhere looked and seemed sadder.

Washed out. Tired.

It was as if with Dad’s accident, and subsequent hospitalisation, the lifeblood and vitality had seeped out of the property. The land had simply given up and lost its will to shine like the gorgeous jewel I’d loved all my life.

And god almighty, I’d known, and still knew, that feeling. At twenty-eight, I’m still lost without him.

Even though I was adopted as a two-month-old, I’ve never felt anything but love and acceptance from the only father I’ve ever known. Sadly, my adopted mother died from breast cancer when I was two years old, so Dad and Erik are the only family I can recall having.

Even now, as an adult, I miss Dad’s comforting warm hugs. I miss that twinkle in his eye when he laughed, and his non-judgemental and wise advice on everything. Even though only a year has passed since his death — following complications after a fall off his horse during mustering — the hole in my heart, is still very fresh and raw.

Pinning the corner of my bottom lip between my teeth, I sniff, resisting the urge to cry.

My gaze flicks out across Willowbrook, the family property, my forehead creasing at what I see. Comprising of two and a half thousand hectares of flat to undulating, mountainous land, it had been left in the will to me and Erik, but the old place has gone to ratshit.

Badly.

After Dad’s passing and then the funeral, I’d suffered a few sleepless nights tossing and turning in my much too small childhood-bed, while my tired eyes had stared blindly into the blackness as I’d considered my options.

Leave? Stay?

Stay? Leave?

Ultimately, my decision hadn’t been all that hard to make in the end, because during the years living away, I’d never really fitted in; constantly feeling like a jigsaw piece awkwardly forced into a position not designed for it.

I’m much better off here. This’s where I belong, in my home, with my family.

Calloused, work roughened hands unconsciously fist by my denim clad thighs. Inhaling, I release the breath on a misty sigh and unfurl my fingers slowly before repeating the action. Calming myself and releasing the past.

Rubbing my hands together, I hold them up to my mouth, blowing a stream of moist, warm air across the chilled flesh before forking fingers through my cropped hair and ruffling it, contemplating the day before me. I yawn widely, tendons in my jaw creaking. S’pose I’d better check the boundary fences first, ‘cause sure as shit, those bastards’ll need repairing.

And then my face crumples as I remember that after that pleasant little job, I have to move the sheep from the secluded back paddock, to the safer option of the front paddock.

Alone.

Shit.

Over the last month or so, we’ve lost a half-a-dozen sheep, and eight lambs to feral dog attacks. As neither Erik nor I have yet had the chance to lay down some 1080 baits, we’d decided it was sensible to bring our dwindling mob down closer to the homestead where we can keep a closer eye on them. Plus, with four experienced working dogs tied up near the house fence, we figured the Kelpies would go off like a bloody tsunami warning if a wild dog set its sly paws down this close to the house.

Fiddling with my scarf’s fluffy tasselled ends, I straighten and square my shoulders, confident I’m well and truly up to the challenge of doing these two things by myself. And, to be honest, I’m actually looking forward to spending a few quiet hours unwinding without having to look at Erik’s stressed cranky face at every turn. Or listen to him bark out snarky one-word answers like a frigging mad dog on a chain. That stupid shit drives me batty.

I’m surprised I still have a tongue left in my head, the amount of times I’ve had to bite down on it to save going all ranting crazy-lady on his hot-headed, speak-without-thinking-first dumbarse.

The time alone will give me a chance to unwind. A welcome opportunity to appreciate the quiet, unassuming beauty and serenity of the countryside in which I live, without worrying about dwindling finances, or shit steadily falling apart. Even if I’m mending fences and herding sheep whilst doing it.

I love Erik dearly and I’d skip backwards and forwards across red-hot coals for him, but Jesus Christ, he can be such a disagreeable, surly bastard at times. In my wise sisterly opinion, it’s all due to him being a frustrated, wifeless, thirty-two-year-old bachelor.

One still living in his childhood home, stuck up to his hairy arsecrack running a swiftly deteriorating property with an anorexic bank account, and not a lot of promising prospects for rectifying any of these things.

He needs a woman in my wise opinion.

Even though he’s never hinted to his hidden thoughts, I suspect Erik blames his bachelorhood on me living away from home for those few years. A situation which has kept him chained twenty-four seven, seven days a week to the farm and an elderly father.

He’d stayed silent until one-night last month.

Just like a million other siblings around the World we’d been arguing spectacularly — over god knows what — and a bad-tempered and sloppily drunk Erik had finally let slip, ‘that while you’ve been living it up in the bright lights of Sydney like a stuck-up party bitch, I’ve been working my fuckin’ guts out for nothin’.’

‘Party bitch’, I sneer, repeating his words, what a know-all, know-nothing, pompous prick. Yawning, I bend and snag my worn riding boots out of the box.

My ears ring with the serenity. Apart from the distant caw of crows flying high overhead, and the steady hum and rattle of the aging fridge in the kitchen behind me, there isn’t a sound to be heard. The peace and quiet’s heavenly, and closing my eyes, I soak it up like a dry sponge.

Erik’s gone into town to see the bank manager about extending our loan to help pay for some of the major and expensive repairs needed around the place. Following that appointment, he’s under strict instructions to drag his whinging arse over to the hardware store.

I smile, my dusty boots dangling from my fingers as my mind’s eye shows me the image of myself stabbing my forefinger at him like a tiny dictator with a bee in his bonnet, before he’d left this morning, warning that if he, ‘came home empty-handed, then that last packet of Tim Tams he’d eaten, would truly be the last. Because I’d never, repeat, never, buy him another packet.’

And I’d made sure to emphasise the ‘never’ in my sentence twice; stiffly standing my ground as I remained outwardly cool, calm and nonchalant while his eyes narrowed, shooting atomic death stares at me. Wisely, and surprisingly, he’d kept his big dumb-arse mouth zipped.

Opening my eyes, I huff out a laugh, amazed my bluff worked, but glad I now knew Erik’s Achilles heel: An addiction to chocolate biscuits. And seeing as it was so successful, it wouldn’t be the last time I’d use it to get things done when he was being stubborn.

He’d finally driven off thirty minutes ago, in a hail of dust and gravel armed with a tight smile and clutching a list of necessary building supplies as long as my arm.

A sudden squawking interrupts my thoughts. Raising a brow, I glance out over the run-down machinery shed to the ancient peppercorn tree towering over it at the rear. Its wide umbrella-like canopy turns white and yellow as a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos simultaneously land, their combined weight causing the branches to see-saw. As they call out to each other, their crests arrow up off their heads like yellow Mohawks.

Gritting my teeth, my gaze drops from the flock of native birds to my boots. The parrots’ raucous calls are so irritating and my nose screws up as they continue to screech and argue in the tree as I automatically bang my riding boots together — upside-down — my movements’ quick. Practiced.

Considering I’ve been living away from the farm for so long, all of my ingrained childhood lessons about lurking shoe-spiders and never shoving your feet into your boots without first checking for crawling nasties, makes this action instinctive. Apparently, this deed is as much a part of my DNA as is my lack of height, the unusual jade colour of my eyes and my white-blond hair.

I grunt as I swing, the resulting sound of the leather heels smacking together thunder claps in the crisp air. The noise reverberates across the yard. Raising my eyes, I watch the peppercorn tree’s canopy shiver, before the flock of argumentative birds explode upward in a flurry of wings, and banshee-like screeches.

Pausing, the boots hanging next to my knees, I watch them wheel overhead, before disappearing in a white cloud towards the rear of the property.

Thank god, I huff, opening my fingers and dropping one arachnid-free boot onto the floor with a loud thud. Leaning forward, I draw my leg up towards my chest, shoving my foot into the boot I’m still clutching. Hopping in a shaky circle to keep my balance, I hook a forefinger through the sturdy loop at the rear and yank, pulling it on.

I repeat the action with the other boot, hopping in the opposite direction, as the old grandfather clock in the hall outside the lounge room accusingly chimes out the hour. Its loud clangs resonate around the house, and I scowl at the noisy reminder of my tardiness.

I know, I know. No need to rub it in, I bark, as it bellows out one last boing-boing and falls silent.

I’m running late.

Again.

Grabbing the old headstall and lead hanging on a hook by the screen door, I race down the verandah steps, taking them two at a time, my heels clattering down the cement pathway with a jarring, brittle sound which happens to match my now sour mood.

After waking to the annoying beep-beep-beep of my alarm at arse o’clock, I’d been unwilling to let go of my dream. Whacking the snooze button at least a half a dozen times, I’d finally managed to drift off with the vain hope of gathering up the scattered gauzy remains.

Annoyed at myself for giving into the temptation of the evil snooze button, which in turn has made me late, I wrap my fingers tightly around the headstall’s canvas straps, wincing as the metal edge of the cheek-buckle digs into my palm.

A shadow darkens the land as I slam the garden gate behind me, and head towards the house paddock and my horse, Cinnamon. Glancing up as I walk, I note a thick grey cloud drift across the face of the sun. My eyes flick towards the rear of the property and I huff out an annoyed breath.

Shit, I groan, taking particular note of the angry clouds drifting in from the sou’ west over the mountain’s spiny ridge. Bloody hell, I’m in for a drenching by the looks of that sky.

Stopping at the gate, I climb up on the metal rungs, drape my arms over the top and scan the paddock for the familiar grey shape of Cinnamon. Pursing my lips, my angry raspberry fogs the chilly air when I spy her grazing in the far corner. Unhooking my arms, I jump down, sidestep and bending, duck through the sagging wires next to the gate and trudge towards her, the headstall swinging wildly from my tight fingers.

After having plodded halfway up the paddock — avoiding the nasty thistles and knee-high prickle bushes as best I can — I stop and hook the headstall over my forearm like a handbag. Placing my thumb and forefinger in my mouth, I release a long shrill whistle.

Pulling my fingers out of my mouth, I smile, my earlier bad mood melting away as my mare raises her head and looks at me. Pricking her ears forward, she whinnies, and, with a toss of her head canters towards me, her snickers making my heart swell.

As she closes the distance between us, I retrieve the limp-ish carrot I’d placed in my coat pocket earlier. Extending the treat outward, I croon nonsensical babble as the mare’s velvety muzzle nibbles at it before greedily snavelling it up into her mouth. Laughter softly bubbles in my chest as her long wiry whiskers and rough tongue tickle my palm.

Dropping her head, Cinnamon happily and noisily chews as I slip the halter on, swiftly doing up the side buckle with quick, practised fingers despite the chill in the air which threatens to turn them into popsicles. Clicking the chrome dog-clip into a metal ring on one side, I then mirror those actions, tying the end of the lead onto the other side, before sliding the makeshift reins up and over her head and ears.

Standing near side on, I reach up, grab a generous handful of wiry mane, and with an easy leap, jump up onto her withers and throw my right leg over her broad, warm and hairy back. Straightening, I squirm back a fraction and bump my heel against her girth simultaneously clicking her up. Subtly squeezing my thighs against the swell of her belly, I laugh happily as she responds to my familiar commands by jumping straight into a smooth canter.

The landscape whizzes by in a blur of green and brown, as Cinnamon makes short work of covering the distance back to the gate. Not ready to give up this quiet bonding between me and my horse, and despite being late to start this morning, I don’t even think as I pull her into a sweeping figure of eight, and then perform an imaginary barrel race using three large thistle bushes for my barrels, just for the hell of it.

Rocking backwards and forwards with the smooth movements of her gait, I whoop like a kid at Christmas as I head her back towards the gate, my body buzzing and my heart racing as I revel in the feel of her powerful, muscular body moving so effortlessly beneath me.

Riding had been one of many things about home that I’d missed living in the concrete jungle of Sydney. I hadn’t been able to afford to rent a horse at one of the riding schools, so on my rare trips back home, I’d always relished taking Cinnamon out and losing myself in the easy joy of riding for the sheer pleasure and fun of it.

Now this is the life, I sing out as I rein her up, squeeze my thighs and lean forward over her neck, urging her into a gallop.

The breeze although cool, smells delicious; carrying with it the pleasant sharp-tang of eucalyptus and the fresh scent of the numerous Pines which nestle amongst the tall gums. I inhale deeply, happiness zipping warmly through my veins at this soothing familiar smell.

Shit, I’d missed this.

My sensitive country-girl-nose had never become accustomed to the harsh pot-pourri of city smells: The acrid choking smoke of car exhausts, the constant reek of my druggie neighbour’s ganja in the evening air, and the rancid odour of old cooking oil coming from the café situated below my flat.

Trotting over to the shed, I pull the mare up, swing my leg over, and in one swift movement slide off her back, landing lightly on my feet. Dragging the makeshift reins over her head, I ignore the loose grey hairs dusting the front of my jeans as I undo them, clip the lead to the metal loop behind her jaw, and loop the length of long cord around the post a few times, finishing with a lazy loose knot.

No need to go to too much fuss, Cinnamon won’t pull back.

Leaving her standing patiently, I stroll into the cool dark interior, quickly retrieving the rest of my gear and walk back out, placing it carefully on the ground near her front leg.

Tossing the saddle cloth onto her hairy back, I give it a swift tug, settling it into place before bending and scooping up my saddle, releasing a grunt as I heave the awkward stock saddle upwards.

As I swing it into place, the stirrup iron sways wildly, the heavy metal whacking me in the breast.

Releasing a very girly whimper, I lean over, saddle temporarily forgotten as I rest my forehead against Cinnamon’s warm neck, my hand coming up to palm my throbbing tit. It feels like I’ve smacked myself in the chest with a hammer. My face screws up. Tears prick at my eyes. Ouch. Shit. The curse hisses out through clenched teeth as the sting intensifies before fading to a dull throb.

Straightening, I take in a deep nasally breath and exhale through pursed lips. Shaking my head at my stupidity, I fold in half and dip beneath her head and the length of soft woven lead and crouch-walk around her front. Still assuming my bent over position, I reach out, my fingers closing around the wide leather girth hanging down in front of my face, before flicking it up beneath her belly.

Keeping my palm pressed to the leather, I shuffle back around, my hand moving along the strap as I go. Closing my fingers over the buckle, I hold the girth in place as I half straighten my back, toss the stirrup iron over to the other side with my right hand before raising the saddle-flap. Without releasing the buckle in my left hand, I stand tall and leaning forward, I hold the flap in place with my forehead as I feed the girth through the wide buckle and yank, my face screwing up and probably turning red with the effort.

Swearing beneath my breath, my eyes close momentarily as I rein in my rapidly growing annoyance. It’s not the mare’s fault. All horses have their quirks, and hers just happens to be a habit of blowing her gut out like a puffer fish when she catches wind of the saddle. She’s always been like this.

I really should’ve expected it, I grumble, my impatience made worse by my own tardiness. Groaning, I tug on the leather strap, the muscles in my arm taut with effort. Releasing the slack, I suck on my lip as I think.

It could be worse I suppose, I muse aloud, she could pull back or just throw herself on the ground like a toddler having a tantrum.

Stroking her velvety muzzle, I try a different tact.

Sweet-talking.

Horse whispering.

New age equine gobbledegook.

Whatever you want to call it, I’m willing to give it a go. Can’t be any worse off than I am at the moment.

My palm smooths down her warm satiny neck and pats her muscular chest while I whisper pleading words, Come on Cinnamon girl, don’t hold your breath.

Trying again, I wrap both hands around the soft old leather of the girth strap, bend at the knees and lurch upwards, simultaneously wrenching the leather strap through the brass buckle. Little girly knuckles whiten and pop up in relief, my gut quivers beneath my shirt as I strain, and as my limited patience fizzles out, I find myself promising her another two carrots, an extra dipper of Oats with some yummy molasses drizzled over the top, plus an extra biscuit of Hay and a world cruise with the very handsome Mr Ed as her companion.

Peering at the well-defined worn line on the leather where I usually buckle at, and the holes where the metal prongs are poking out of now, I come to the end of my tether and snap. So much for blackmail and sweet-talking.

Dropping the whole lot like it’s covered in spiders, I step backwards, throw my arms in the air and proceed to loudly release a string of heated curses towards the cloudy sky.

There’s still two more bloody holes to bloody somehow get past.

Okaaay, you want to play games do you my beautiful grey friend? I grit out, untying the lead’s knot.

Walking the mare in a tight circle — twice — I stop and raise the leather flap again, pinning it in place with my (now) sweaty forehead. Holding the lead in-between my teeth, I again bend at the knees, grab the end of the girth in both hands and lift, the muscles in my arms, gut, back and thighs tightening with the effort. As the leather gives and slides up, I clamp my teeth down harder around the stringy rope, my lips peeling back to release the unladylike grunt which tears up my throat. I smile tightly around the wet fibres in my mouth as the twin brass prongs of the buckle slip effortlessly into the girth’s correct holes.

Spitting out the rope, I step back, the leather knee flap falling back into place. Sliding the fingers of my left hand up into Cinnamon’s mane I ruffle the coarse crinkly hair, my smile broadening as I lean over and peer into one gentle brown eye.

"Now that wasn’t so bad was it my girl? I know all your tricks you know, a little puffy-belly isn’t going to stop me girthing you up nice and snug."

I chuckle as Cinnamon turns her head and bumps my shoulder before snorting and coating my sleeve in a thin layer of horse snot.

Good one Cinnamon, I deadpan, wrapping the snotty arm around her neck. Laying my cheek against her hairy warmth, I inhale, breathing in the delicious scent of Eau de Horse and a few loose hairs. My eyes water, and my nose burns and tingles as a sneeze builds.

I sniffle and wriggle my nose, attempting to defuse the sneeze before it flies out.

Oh, of course you’re forgiven. For the snotting as well. I laugh and then before I can stop it, I sneeze, my eyes closing with the force. Jesus. I sneeze again.

Stepping away from Cinnamon, I continue to prattle on in a voice which sounds like I have a peg jammed on the end of my nose, We’ve got a big day in front of us, so the sooner we leave the sooner we finish. Crouching, I grab the surcingle, stand and buckle it up before replacing the head-collar with the bridle.

Popping the pliers, some tie-wire and wire strainers in the saddle bags, I mount-up and turning Cinnamon’s head, I click my tongue, urging her forward. Retracing my earlier steps, I head to the back section of their property where I intend to make a start.

* * *

As the hours melt away, I steadily ride back towards the house, pleasantly surprised at the condition of this part of the boundary fence. I’d expected it to be fairly ratshit.

Sweeping my narrowed eyes down it, I note that it’s in a much better condition than the crooked string of bent-over wooden crones currently masquerading as a fence down by the homestead. I shrug. How that row of shit is ever going to keep sheep contained, I have no idea. Not my problem, I huff, Erik can deal with that. I’ve only gotta get them down there. The rest is up to him. ‘Sides it won’t hurt him to get off his fat arse and mend a few fences, I’m not doing the bloody lot, I grumble, casting my eye over the wires and netting as I ride past.

Amazingly, it’s not as bad a job as I’d first dreaded. I’ve only had to dismount a couple of times to strain up some sagging wires, or do a quick patch-up job on some snapped ones. The corner posts and stays — smaller logs which prop the posts one end and are dug into the ground at the other, helping to support the weight of the fence — are in relatively good order and won’t need replacing.

When we eventually get a healthier cash-flow, then I’ll discuss with Erik about maybe replacing most of the older fencing with new stuff.

The weather’s rapidly deteriorated from the threat of rain this morning, to a gloomy and chilly promise. An icy swirling gust whips around me, making me shiver and hunch down into my coat, wishing I’d worn my beanie and not tossed it back onto the floor, as the first twinges of wind-induced earache set my jaw to aching.

My face screws up as I see a yawning panel of fence up ahead. Shit, shit, shit. Whoa, I bark out, tugging lightly on the reins with frigid fingers, before sagging back in the saddle and staring at the gaping hole in the wire netting as if I can mend it with the power of thought alone. Friggin’ roos, that whole bloody panel’s ruined. Now I’ll have to waste time that I don’t have, repairing it.

Closing my eyes, I squeeze the bridge of my nose in-between thumb and forefinger, releasing a drawn-out groan. Opening them, I pull the stiff sleeve of my weather proof coat up, and with numbing fingers slide the comfy old flanno’s cuff away from my watch, eyeballing it.

Christ almighty, it’s past lunchtime already. Where’d the freaking morning go?

An eerie sigh ripples through the gumtree’s canopies as the wind gathers strength, the mournful sound echoing around the lonely gully, the leaves trembling and shaking like cheerleaders’ pompoms.

Out of the fringes of my vision, I see a half-a-dozen grey roos hopping off in the opposite direction, their large long tails thumping the ground with every powerful leap forward.

Judging by their brisk getaway and their trajectory I figure they’re heading for the safety of the mountains behind me. Looking away from them, I glance up, frowning as I note the heavens are now painted an ominous and ugly gun-metal grey.

Wrinkling my nose like a rabbit, I inhale deeply, smelling the tell-tale scent of rain on the breeze. Slowly shaking my head, I exhale on a sigh.

Well shit! That’s just bloody great! Razzed fence and now rain! What else could go wrong today? I should’ve just stayed in fucking bed, at least nothing could go wrong in there.

Cinnamon shifts on the spot nervously, iron shoes clinking on the scattered chunks of mossy granite littering this lonely back gully like seashells after a high-tide. Dropping her head, she extends her front left leg out, frantically scraping and digging at the ground, the movement shifting me backwards and forwards in the saddle.

Tossing her head now, she snorts as the wind gusts gather up loose leaves in its haphazard tumbling journey down the paddock.

She shifts and spins around and I squeeze my thighs tighter, push my heels downwards and rein her up slightly, just in