Matt drove away from Wangallon Homestead to the refrain of barking dogs. In the rear-view mirror he watched the Scottish ring-in walk slowly up the back path to the house, his head continuing to swivel from side to side. The boy didn’t miss a trick during their morning tour and asked questions of him to the point of exhaustion. Matt continued on past the two orange trees, the remains of the once impressive orchard and the site of an old timber hut that some old Chinese man by the name of Lee lived in eons ago. Jim Macken was not at all what he’d imagined. The boy was tall, broad shouldered and clearly had a bit of nous behind that freckled face. However, he was certainly missing one thing. He didn’t have the presence of a Gordon. He blended in with the rest of the population like a soldier ant. Strange that. Dodgy breeding, he concluded. The only thing that would make Jim stand out in a crowd was money, which was clearly why the boy had flown halfway around the world.

Matt was aware of the stipulation in Angus’s will regarding the time frame for Jim to be told of his inheritance. Angus had hoped Sarah and Anthony would be married and have consolidated their working relationship on the property before Jim’s arrival. Up ahead, two emus crossed the dirt road, their long necks lengthening as they moved from a stately walk to a disturbed trot. They ducked through a stand of box trees and disappeared quickly from view. Matt accelerated, turned the radio up and twisted the knob until a Glen Campbell number came on. He listened to the lyrics for some time until his thoughts took him back to the days after Angus’s return from hospital after nearly being killed by a rogue bullock.

They were sitting on the front verandah of Wangallon Homestead, Angus sprawled in an old squatter’s chair, his left leg flung out over one of the extendable arms. Matt was smoking, flicking his ash into an ancient-looking brass spittoon, occasionally looking over his shoulder towards the oldest of the bedrooms that led out onto the verandah. Old houses gave him the creeps. He cradled a glass of beer in his injured hand, his mind still coming to terms with what Angus was telling him. The old patriarch had hand-picked Anthony from a short list of possible jackeroos years earlier and his judgement was rewarded with the lad having risen through the ranks to become manager. Angus explained that back then Anthony’s selection was about finding a suitable marriage partner for Sarah. Angus knew the girl’s strengths and figured that with Sarah and her brother, Cameron, living on Wangallon the place would go on for at least a couple of generations. Fate, however, had interceded and the boy had died.

Angus poured himself another shot of straight whisky and drained the glass. He offered Matt a highly coveted management role on Wangallon.

‘I’ve done my homework, Matt. The Carlyons speak extremely highly of you, as they would after twenty-eight years’ service – they were sorry to see you go.’

Matt stretched out his injured hand, recalling how once he could pretty much do anything: Now his ability was limited to stock work, and more managerial at that.

‘I knew your father, Matt, honest as the day was long and I trusted him. My solicitor, Frank Michaels, agrees with my decision.’

At the word solicitor Matt straightened his back. He never had taken to men with soft hands who wore suits for a living. He took a gulp of beer.

‘After I’ve gone I need you to watch over the young ones.’

Matt opened his mouth, stifled a belch. Angus quieted him with a shake of his head.

‘I need the property safeguarded against the vagaries of youth. There is no one else equipped for the role. My own son is tied to a woman with Alzheimer’s, among other problems.’ Angus sloshed amber fluid into his glass from a silver-topped decanter. ‘Too weak anyway. Never had the gumption. Do you accept?’

Matt struggled to comprehend what was being offered as Angus topped up Matt’s beer glass from a long neck.

‘As I said, the need may never arise. It will never be yours, though if you watch over her, monitor those who are left to run her after I’m gone, you will be handsomely rewarded.’

Matt felt the stirrings of a cramp in his buggered hand.

Angus leant towards him. ‘The thing is, Sarah’s smart but she’s a woman. Eventually there will be a fifth generation of Gordons and she’ll have her hands busy with anklebiters. In my opinion, in a good fifty per cent of cases it’s the men who should be rearing the young’uns.’ Angus took a good slurp of whisky and belched. ‘Never affected the breeding numbers of the emus doing it that way. What was I saying? Oh yes, Anthony’s morally strong; probably got too much of a dose in that regard. But, and it’s a big but, he’s not a Gordon.’ He curled his fist into the palm of his hand for emphasis. ‘He doesn’t have the attachment to the property that a Gordon does and I doubt he could comprehend it.’ He picked his nose. ‘How could he? One grandfather worked on the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Scheme among other jobs, the other was a second-generation grazier from Western Victoria. He was a superb card player – always the sign of a wasted life – who lost his fortune in the fifties and then promptly shot himself. As the younger of two brothers the Monaro family property wasn’t large enough to sustain all of them. Anthony was the one who had to leave. So –’ Angus positioned his backside more comfortably in the hard canvas of the squatter’s chair – ‘although Wangallon is the only job he’s ever had and I know Anthony loves the place, I doubt he’d do anything to protect it; at least not the way I want it protected. I’ll bet my dodgy prostate on that. If anything he’ll always lean towards his moral convictions and put business first, not the land. And therein lies the quandary for Anthony, Matt. You can’t have one without the other. I don’t want the drive for the almighty dollar to destroy what my family’s built. I want Sarah’s children to inherit the property in its entirety. The boy’s always had an ego. All I’m saying is keep Anthony in check.’

‘Ah, that’s fairly loose,’ Matt replied.

‘Loose? In my day loose was a woman on war rations in dark lipstick and too much perfume. Stand them opposite a Yankee officer holding a packet of silk stockings, and that’s loose.’

Matt figured that was about all the instruction he was going to receive.

Angus proceeded to explain how he would be paid monthly in his employ as head stockman, but that a separate bank account would also be set up in Matt’s name. ‘Call my solicitor if and when the time comes, Matt, and remember, if there are any problems you are employed with the mandate to protect Wangallon.’

Matt looked at his injured fingers. In the years to come it was possible his hand would be useless. He was a bush man. He couldn’t end up in an old man’s hospice, broke and sitting with a bunch of buggered old bastards in God’s waiting room. ‘Sarah, you mean?’ Matt confirmed.

‘Yes, Sarah and one other, Matt. You see my granddaughter has a half-brother, and a Gordon can’t be turned aside. Frankly I’m at odds with bringing the boy into the fold although I would like to die knowing that I have done the right thing by him. And the acknowledgement of his existence will go some way to purging the mistakes of the past.’

‘Mistakes?’

Angus waved a bony finger. ‘Some things are best buried with a generation’s passing. In this case, mine.’

Matt pulled up outside his house. His acceptance of this job was borne out of both financial need and intrigue; besides, who wouldn’t have agreed with Angus Gordon? He merely needed to abide by the solicitor’s instructions. Basically he was required to keep an eye on things and make sure they headed in the right direction. So far this current dry spell had been the first test. Quite frankly, being a little more adamant and putting Anthony offside didn’t bother him in the slightest. His best interests were served by protecting Wangallon and Sarah. Besides which he figured he could hardly be fired. Matt pushed his hat back off his forehead and scratched at an itch that was part imagination and part a need for action. Then the thought came to him. If he was being paid to ensure Wangallon ran smoothly by watching over the current custodians, was anyone watching him?

Despite his avowed avoidance of all things spiritual, Matt looked up into the winter washed blue of the sky. This is just plain stupid, he reprimanded himself. He needed to call Toby Williams and confirm the mustering of the first herd of cattle for the stock route. Ahead a willy-willy of dust spiralled upwards from the road, carrying dust and bits of spindly blow-away grass. The wind had risen and changed direction. It was heading towards Wangallon Homestead.