The Golden Stranger (8 page)

‘Yeah, well, we don't really know if they're Goldie's parents,' said Shara, feeling suddenly disheartened. ‘He might just be some rogue horse.'

‘Don't get down about him, Sharsy,' said Jess. ‘He's just never been given a chance. With the right training and good care, he'll be fine.'

‘Easy for you to say.'

‘Hey, I saw those contractors at the Brisbane Ekka a few days ago,' said Tom. ‘I was checking out a cattle show and they were there setting up for the Queensland roping finals.'

‘What, the Conneman brothers?' asked Shara.

‘Yeah. It was definitely their truck. Had their name written all over it.'

‘Did they have any horses there, or just cattle?'

‘Heaps of cattle and a few rough-looking horses,' said Tom. ‘They looked like brumbies.'

‘Was there a red taffy?'

Tom looked thoughtful, then nodded. ‘Yeah, I think there was.'

‘If only we could prove that she's Goldie's mother. That would show that the Connemans are Goldie's owners and should be charged with neglect, and then the RSPCA would be free to re-home him. I could just get on with owning him and taking care of him.'

Jess flashed a scheming grin. ‘Well, why don't we pay the Connemans a quick visit in Brisbane? Get the proof we need?'

When Shara rode Rocko down the driveway that afternoon, she found both parents waiting for her at the top of the steps.

‘Hi, guys. What's up?' Two parents usually meant things were serious.

‘I want you to come inside and have a chat,' said Barry in a stern voice. He turned and walked through the door.

When Shara followed, he motioned for her to sit down at the kitchen table. Then he stood with his back to her, looking out the window. ‘I was cleaning out the feed shed today, and I found some empty spray cans in the rubbish.'

‘What sort of spray cans?' Shara tried her best to stay calm and sound innocent.

‘Coloured hairspray cans, the sort used on those wild horses at the rodeo.' Both parents stared at Shara with cold, unmoving faces.

‘Oh, them.' Shara shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Jess and I used those for a fancy dress ages ago.'

Her father was unswayed. ‘Stop talking rubbish, Shara, and tell me how they really got there.'

Shara sighed. ‘Okay, it was us. Me and Jess.' She saw no reason to dob in Rosie and Grace.

She watched two pairs of shoulders slump. Her mother gave an exasperated sigh.

‘But those Connemans deserved it.'

Barry planted his hands on his hips, the way he always did when he was about to begin a lecture. ‘You can't just go around breaking the law every time you don't like something. Laws are there for very good reasons—' Shara interrupted before her father could get into a good flow. ‘But someone had to protect those horses. Don't they deserve to be protected?'

‘They
are
protected, by the law, and so are their owners. They—' ‘But they don't deserve to be, Dad. The Connemans are cruel.' Shara searched desperately for an ethical argument – where was Jess when she needed her? ‘Don't you think we have a moral obligation to protect the weak?' She'd heard an American activist say that on television once and it had sounded very convincing.

It didn't convince her father. ‘Shara, there are many ways you can put your views across and make a stand. You can lobby, start petitions, walk around naked in a sandwich board if you like, but you cannot wilfully deface someone else's property. I can see that there was good intention in what you did, but you have to live by society's rules instead of being an annoying prankster.'

‘How come when adults do these things they get called
activists
and when kids do it they just get called
pranksters
? You should have seen those poor brumbies. They were completely brutalised. But now they've been rescued, thanks to our
pranks
. Look at the state Goldie was in when we found him. Those people are no good, Dad. Even Corey Duggin says so and he's a rodeo rider!'

‘That's not the point, Shara. What you've done is wrong. You're damn lucky those contractors have left town or you would've been up on charges. If you pull any more stunts like that, you'll be in serious trouble, do you hear me?'

Shara sighed. ‘Yes, Dad.'

Barry glared at her. ‘I need to know whether your attitude is going to change, because if it's not, that horse can go to the first home that comes his way. I'm not going to feed a herd of horses for a daughter who shows no gratitude and thinks she can just go around breaking the law.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘You ought to be.'

‘So, are you going to punish me?'
Because a grounding
could make Jess's Brisbane plan a wee bit difficult . . .

‘No. I've spoken to you and I've given you a warning. Any more illegality and the horses are gone.' He looked her dead in the eye. ‘Both of them!'

9

SHARA RUMMAGED THROUGH
her wardrobe. What to wear to the big smoke – hmmm, something not covered in horse hair. Jeans – no clean ones. Shirt – no clean ones. Skirt – surely she had one somewhere . . .

She pulled a swirly yellow skirt from the very bottom of the cupboard. Aunty Vic had given it to her for Christmas; no doubt as a subtle hint that she should be more girlish.
Ugh, hurts my eyes.
She tossed it on the floor.

After trying on several tops, she threw the lot on the bed and decided to wait for Rosie to arrive. Trying to find city-friendly clothes was too stressful to contemplate solo. How on earth did she let Jess talk her into this?

She felt a pang of guilt for lying to her parents. But, she argued to herself, what else was she to do? The issue of the colt's ownership needed to be sorted so he could be gelded and cared for properly. All they needed to do was find the taffy mare and take a teensy bit of hair from her for a sample. No illegalities required.

Rosie arrived and looked at the pile on Shara's bed with disdain. Shara's wardrobe was geared towards one thing: horses.

‘Lucky I brought some civilised clothes for you to try,' Rosie said, reaching into a small duffle bag and pulling out a handful of flimsy red fabric.

‘What the heck is
that
?' said Shara.

‘A skirt, you know, those cute little things that show off your legs.' Rosie held up the garment and stretched it between two hands.

‘I thought it was a hanky,' said Shara, aghast at the teeny-weeny size of it. Not on her nelly would she be squeezing into that thing.

‘Just try it,' said Rosie. ‘It has to be seen
on
.' Shara took a step backwards and grimaced.

‘Cum
maahn
!'

Shara squirmed into the little red thing and stood in front of the mirror, trying to yank it down to a decent level. ‘I feel half naked.'

‘Leave it up!' said Rosie. ‘You look hot.'

‘I look like a total rodeo floozy.'

‘Exactly. You'll fit right in. Got any good tops to go with it?'

After several fittings, Rosie grudgingly approved

Shara's white T-shirt with brumbies on it, and cowboy boots.

‘What jewellery are you going to wear?'

‘Huh?' said Shara. ‘Jewellery? You didn't tell me I had to wear jewellery!'

Her self-confidence was rapidly diminishing. In Coach–wood Crossing and at school, she was Shara Wilson – champion camp–drafter, up-and-coming vet, equine geneticist extraordinaire. In Brisbane she'd be some lame wannabe cowgirl who didn't even own any jewellery.

Rosie rolled her eyes and pulled a small silk purse from her handbag. It was full of earrings. She brought out a jangly pair with blue crystals and held them against Shara's ears. ‘Perfect,' she said, brushing Shara's hair back. ‘They match your eyes.'

Shara reluctantly took out her plain old sleepers and hooked the earrings into her earlobes.

‘What about your charm bracelet?' said Rosie.

‘Oh, yeah.' Shara opened the drawer in her bedside table.

The delicate silver chain bore fifteen tiny charms. Every charm marked a new year in her life; a bootie for her first birthday and a teddy bear for her second. By her fifth, it was a horseshoe and for her sixth, after falling off her first pony, a tiny helmet; the little silver horse had been for her twelfth birthday, just after she'd bought Rocko from the saleyards, and for her fourteenth a tiny book had celebrated her scholarship to Canningdale College.

Shara draped the bracelet over her wrist and held it out for Rosie to clasp. ‘Make sure it's clipped on properly. I would die if I lost it.' It was one of her most treasured possessions, so treasured, in fact, that she only ever wore it for Christmas and her birthday. ‘Do I look okay?' She turned around.

‘What about your hair?'

‘What's wrong with my hair?'

Rosie looked at the ponytail clamped to the back of Shara's head. ‘You look like someone who's about to either muck out stables or play tennis.'

‘We're only supposed to be going to the movies,' Shara argued.

‘But it's in the
city
,' said Rosie. ‘And it's that big 3D screen. One of the biggest in the southern hemisphere. I almost wish I was going myself.'

‘Rosie, we're not really going to the movies, remember?'

‘It doesn't matter, we still have to convince your parents that you are. Besides, you might snag yourself a cowboy at the show.'

Shara snorted. She didn't know what was worse, being coerced into this web of deceit, being forced into a skirt, or having Rosie trying to get her a love-life. ‘I don't like cowboys.'

She scruffed her hair. ‘What
will
I do with my hair, then? It's so boring.'

‘It's not, it's gorgeous,' said Rosie, running her fingers through it and looking at Shara in the mirror. ‘It's so thick and
blonde
. Wish I had hair like that.' Then she pulled a petulant face. ‘Tom might even notice that I exist!'

‘Oh, Rosie, you two are total besties.'

Rosie flicked her wispy hair over her shoulder and pouted. ‘I want to be more than just besties.'

‘Maybe he's just shy.'

‘Maybe.' Rosie took Shara by the shoulders and planted her firmly into a chair in front of the mirror. Shara sat obediently while Rosie plucked and preened and forced her hair into an amazing side-part do, talking the whole time about Tom. She applied make-up and a squirt of something floral-smelling. By the time she was finished, Shara had to admit the results were good. She twirled in front of the mirror, admiring the new girly version of herself. ‘I should do this more often.'

She picked up her denim jacket, and stuffed both her wallet and keys into the pocket. ‘Come on. Luke'll be waiting.'

Outside, Barry had Luke pinned to the side of his HQ ute, giving him a stiff lecture on speed limits and passenger safety.

‘Not a problem, Baz,' Luke said cheerfully.

Shara saw her father's jaw tighten. He hated being called ‘Baz'. He ran his eyes over Luke's old yellow ute, with its dark-blue door from a wrecker's yard. ‘You're to give me a call straight away if you have any engine troubles.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Luke. ‘It shouldn't be a problem, though. This old girl will get us down and back in one piece.'

Shara gave the doorhandle a yank and slid in next to Jess. As they drove out the gate, she waved to her father, who stood on the verandah with hands on hips and a rigid face. Safely down the road, Shara turned to Jess. ‘Did you bring some scissors?'

‘Yep!' Jess drew a small box of clip-lock bags and a pair of hairdressing scissors from her bag. ‘You bring the camera?'

Shara pulled it out of her pocket and aimed the lens back towards them. ‘Lean in!'

The flash went off, leaving blotches of colour in her vision. The girls huddled over the LCD screen, admiring their exaggerated smiles.

‘The scissors won't be much use,' said Luke. ‘You need a hair follicle for a DNA sample. You'll have to pluck it, not cut it.'

‘Cool, let's go pluck!' said Shara.

10

IT WAS DARK
when they arrived in Brisbane. They found a park down the road from the showgrounds. A bustle of cars, trucks and taxis tore past in streams of red and white light.

‘Come on, Shara,' said Jess, grabbing her hand and leaping into the traffic.

‘Holy crap,' said Shara, stumbling off the kerb.

They crossed three lanes and waited, toes on the white lines, until another gap appeared in the rush of vehicles. A taxi zoomed behind them and honked. Shara jumped in fright and Jess pulled her forward across another three lanes and onto the footpath. Behind them, the cars slowed and the lights turned red. Luke calmly crossed at the intersection.

Jess took Shara by one arm and Luke by the other, and linked together, they headed for the showgrounds. Before they reached the main gates they could hear the country music, crooning cattle and over-excited commentators, all sounding totally out of whack with the roar of city traffic.