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As pain seared the back of his throat, Ben angled his gaze to the mound of freshly turned red sand and swallowed hard. The grave faced west because James Devlin had watched every sunset. Ben had seen plenty of them with him and had learned about the constellations and tracked the waxing and waning moon at his grandfather’s knee. Blinking away tears, he lifted his gaze to the setting sun and saluted James Devlin across a shimmering sea of Mitchell grass.
For a time, Ben stared into endless space, intense silence and a big sky beginning to glow with glittering stars. His grandfather had loved this Downs country. Today, they’d buried him in it and given him the homestead funeral he’d wanted.
***
‘A saddler?’ the publican scratched his head. ‘Dunno, Mate. They’re a dying breed in the bush. Most cockies use bikes and quads these days.’
‘Yeah, I know, but I use stock horses as well and I need a saddler. I was hoping someone local could use the work. Thanks anyway.’ Ben lifted his schooner and made his way to a window table to await his meal.
‘Mind if I join you?’
Dragging his gaze from the street, Ben turned to look at the man standing before him with a beer in his hand.
‘No. Take a seat. Name’s Ben Devlin.’
‘Thanks. I’m Max Wheeler. Heard you asking about a saddler.’
Surprised, Ben nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s right. D’you know one?’
‘I did once. Fellow by the name of Liam O’Grady. He fixed a lot of gear for me over the years, back in the day when every town had a saddler.’
‘Did he have a shop here?’
‘He did but he retired long ago.’
‘Right. Anyone take over the business?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. Why don’t you call him? He’s listed in the phone book. If anyone knows a saddler, Liam will.’
‘So he’s still around?’
‘As far as I know. I don’t own horses these days.’
‘Okay. I’ll see if I can contact him.’ Plucking a pen out of his pocket, Ben scribbled the name on a table napkin. ‘Thanks, Max.’
‘Welcome. Tell me, are you related to Jimmy Devlin?’
Folding the napkin, Ben slid it into his pocket, along with his pen. ‘He was my grandfather.’ Even now, the pain was sharp.
‘Right. Well, I’m sorry for your loss. Jimmy was one hell of a man.’
Ben inclined his head. ‘Thanks. You knew him?’
‘Used to follow the rodeo circuit when I was a kid. No one could camp draft like Jimmy Devlin.’
‘So they say. I wish I’d been around to see him ride.’
‘If it’s any consolation, you’ve the look of him. Same build, same height. Jimmy was lean and whipcord strong. Stuck to his horses like a burr.’
Ben smiled. ‘He stuck to everything he believed in like that.’
***
In the Richmond Post Office, Ben thumbed through the dog-eared pages of the phone book. When he found a number for Liam O’Grady, he pulled out his mobile. The seconds dragged and just as he expected the call to ring out, a gravelly voice spoke.
‘G’day. Liam speaking.’
‘Mr O’Grady, this is Ben Devlin. I’m ringing to ask if you know a saddler who could do some work for me.’
Again, time paused. ‘That right? Who said I might know someone?’
‘A bloke named Max Wheeler said you did a lot of work for him once.’
‘Max, eh? Yeah, I did once. Long time ago now.’
Ben heard the hesitation in Liam’s silence, shorter this time.
‘Devlin? You any relation to old Jimmy Devlin?’
‘My grandfather.’
‘Well now, Jimmy’s grandson! Why don’t you come on out and tell me what you need, Ben. We’ll see what we can do, eh?’
Relieved, Ben sighed. ‘Sure. Thanks. Tomorrow okay?’
‘Tomorrow’s fine.’
***
Ben turned down the homestead track. Well graded with few corrugations, it meandered through stands of black teatree. A grey Brahman herd grazed amongst them and around scattered granite outcrops. Some animals lifted their heads as the Toyota passed but most didn’t. There was more timber here than Ben was used to in the Downs country, and less fodder, but still, the cattle were in good nick.
The homestead loomed over a sandy rise and Ben slowed to take in the view. Green lawns surrounded the house, gardens grew inside the fence, sheds stood at the back, yards stretched behind them, a windmill pumped water into a cement trough beside the yards and a brace of solar panels sat beside the sheds. Impressive.
As Ben cruised to a standstill under a Poplar gum, a pair of Blue Heelers bounded out of the nearest shed, ruffs bristling. He eased his door open and dropped one booted foot to the ground then pushed the door wider. The dogs growled low in their throats and the bigger male edged forward to sniff his boot.
Eyes on the Heeler, Ben murmured quietly. ‘Pretty much what you’re used to, Mate. Cow shit and bulldust.’ The dog lifted its muzzle and stared at Ben. ‘Not real friendly, are you, fella?’
‘What good’s a friendly dog out here?’
The voice startled Ben. He lifted his head and turned his gaze to the shed. Surprise kept it there. She sure as hell wasn’t O’Grady … and she didn’t look any friendlier than the Blue Heelers. Ben pushed to his feet and slid out of his vehicle.
‘G’day. Name’s Ben Devlin. I’m looking for Liam O’Grady.’
‘Yeah, I know. He’s unavailable right now.’ The woman glanced at her wristwatch then back at him. ‘Come on up to the homestead. I’ll make you a cuppa. Liam won’t be up till three.’
‘Up?’
‘And about. He has a nap in the afternoon. Privilege of old age.’
‘Ah …’
‘He’s expecting you.’
‘Look, I don’t want to intrude-’
‘You already have. So make it worth his while, okay?’ She gestured for Ben to follow her and turned towards the Queenslander. ‘He’ll have a cuppa and a chat when he gets up.’
Ben watched her walk away, considered the cattle dogs sitting at his feet, brown eyes fixed unwaveringly on him, and drew a breath. No, not friendly at all. Brusque to the point of being rude. But Liam had invited him out and, buggar it all, he wasn’t here to talk to a backpacker. Shrugging, he stepped forward ignoring the prickle of guilt she’d triggered and the dogs fell in beside him as he walked towards the homestead’s rear verandah. The Heelers bounded up the short flight of steps and he followed them. Spotting a row of pegs on the wall, Ben removed his Akubra and hooked it beside a battered version of his own hat.
Carrying a tray, the woman inside the kitchen used her shoulder to nudge the door open. Ben pulled it wide for her.
‘Thanks.’ She set the tray down on the scarred wooden table and looked up at him. ‘How do you like your tea?’
‘Milk. One sugar. Thanks, ah …’
‘Vi.’
‘Right. Vi. Thanks.’ Ben took the cup she offered him and when she pulled out a chair for herself, he sat down. His pulse spiked uncomfortably. He didn’t know whom to be warier of–the Heelers or Vi. He lifted his cup, took a big mouthful and grimaced as he swallowed scalding tea.
From the end of the table, Vi asked, ‘What do you want Liam to do for you?’
Surprised, Ben looked up into black-lashed grey eyes, dark as storm clouds. Striking, intense, intelligent. His family had hired its share of travellers on agricultural visas because three months’ work in the Outback suited both parties. But that aside, his business wasn’t a backpacker’s. Deliberately, Ben looked at his watch. Two-forty. He lifted his gaze.
‘I’ll let Liam know … in twenty minutes or so.’ He watched an eyebrow arch and felt the prickling unease again. Hell. Maybe that had been too pointed. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’d prefer to talk to Liam, that’s all.’
Vi lifted her cup and swallowed a mouthful of tea then inclined her head. ‘Fine. So what would you like to discuss for the next twenty minutes? Inept politicians? Asinine animal activists? Or the mating habits of taipans? Synonymous subjects, to my way of thinking.’
Vi’s astringent tone snapped Ben’s brain into focus and her narrowed gaze set his pulse spiking. ‘You’re not a backpacker, are you?’
Her cup smacked onto the table, sloshing tea over its rim. ‘What?’
Clearly not. Carefully lowering his own mug, Ben dragged in a breath. Christ, two apologies in two minutes! ‘Sorry. Again. I thought-’
‘-that if you planted a feather, you’d grow a rooster,’ Vi retorted when he paused.
‘Yeah, right.’ Ben smiled wryly. ‘My mistake. I’m sorry.’
From behind them a gravelly voice asked, ‘What mistake’s that, young fella?’
Ben turned, pushed back his chair and stood to face the man emerging from the hallway. Though aging and stooped, Liam scrutinised him sharply. Ben nodded and stepped forward, hand outstretched. ‘Ben Devlin, Sir. Thanks or seeing me.’ The calloused hand he shook was knotted with arthritis. Ben clasped it gently. ‘I thought Vi was a backpacker.’
Liam O’Grady held his gaze for a second longer then shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘Ha! No. She’s my girl, my partner. Any tea left in the pot?’
‘Damn it, Liam!’ Vi reached for the third mug. ‘Did you have to say that.’
‘What? What’d I say?’ Surprise laced the old man’s voice.
‘Look at Devlin’s face. Now, he thinks I’m your side piece.’
‘My what?’
‘Your floosie, Granddad.’
Liam turned back to Ben, studied his face for a second then chuckled. ‘Devlin, my days of flirting with floosies are long gone. Now, you gonna relax and sit down again?’ He turned to his granddaughter. ‘Violet, do we have any of those jam drops left?’
‘We do. I’ll get them, shall I?’
‘If you please.’
Ben sat. He watched Violet O’Grady walk back to the kitchen and willed the flush to fade from his face. Damn it, she made him feel like he was sinking into a black soil bog. He’d made an assumption, so fair call, but he’d apologised for it. Even so, maybe he’d better clear that with Liam. ‘Mr O’Grady, I didn’t mean-’
Liam waved a dismissive hand and interjected. ‘Name’s Liam. Son, you gotta watch Violet or she’ll get the upper hand. Got her mother’s sense of humour. Quick as a cat to take you up on something. Anything. But she knows her own mind and she’s my right arm these days. You want a saddler so I’ll talk things through with you but it’s Violet who’ll do the work.’
Tension snaked across Ben’s shoulders. Hell, he’d insulted O’Grady’s granddaughter. Twice. She’d probably tell him to clear out …
Liam reached for the sugar bowl. ‘She’s better than I ever was. Taught her everything I know but she’s got more flair, more passion for leather work than I had. She’s the saddler.’
As Liam stirred a whirlpool to life in his mug, Ben eased out a breath and waited for Violet to bring out the jam drops … and her verdict.
***
Ben lifted his Werner out of the Toyota, hefted it onto his shoulder and strode across to the saddle shed, the smaller building from which he’d first seen Violet O’Grady emerge. The Blue Heelers trotted at his feet like escorts. Inside the workshop, Liam pointed to a wooden horse and Ben set his saddle across it.
Liam whistled. ‘Well, I’ll be damned! This is an original. Violet, come and look at this. Rare as hen’s teeth these days.’
Ben stepped to the side as Violet moved from behind her workbench. Hands on hips, she studied his saddle then looked at her grandfather. ‘Australian stock saddle. Got some age up. Which maker?’
‘One of the best. It’s a 1950 RS Werner Australian Stock Saddle. A Wonder poley.’ Liam glanced at Ben. ‘Made in Rockhampton.’
Ben nodded. ‘My grandfather’s saddle. He used it for stock work and every camp draft he ever rode in.’
Liam reached out to grip the cantle. ‘I remember Jimmy Devlin. No one could ride like him. And I remember Werner’s saddlery in Rocky. Williams Street. He started his business in the 1920’s. That man could make a saddle.’
Violet O’Grady put her hand on her grandfather’s shoulder. ‘And so could you, Granddad.’
Startled by the gentle tone, Ben glanced at Violet. Old pain flared as he watched her rub Liam’s arm then reach down to cover his hand on the cantle.
‘These hands did some damn fine work and taught me leather craft.’
Liam grunted. ‘Just like Robert Stanley Werner taught me what he could when I went to town.’
Ben’s glance cut to Liam. ‘Did he? But that would mean …’
‘What?’ Liam asked when Ben paused. ‘That I’m ninety years old? Well, I am!’
‘I wasn’t suggesting-’
‘I was born in 1930. There weren’t too many cars around then and by the time I was fourteen Werner had a reputation for making and repairing saddles. Everyone in the bush needed a saddle so I thought it’d be a good trade to get into.’
‘And Werner himself taught you?’ Ben asked.
‘Some. I apprenticed to a saddler in Longreach but travelled to Rockhampton now and then. Werner always made time for me.’ Liam shook off the past and turned to Ben. ‘You looking to ride in Jimmy’s saddle?’
‘Yeah. I’ve entered the Richmond camp draft competition. But this needs a few repairs before then.’
Liam shook his head. ‘Jimmy Devlin was the best camp drafter I ever saw. He took out more trophies than anyone else in his day. But you’d know that.’
‘I do, though I never saw him ride. He’d retired before I was born but he taught me what I know.’ For some inexplicable reason, Ben turned to look at Violet again and their gazes clashed. ‘I loved my grandfather too. Very much.’ And why in the hell had he told her that, he wondered? There was something about those eyes. So deeply grey they were almost … violet? No way. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?
Violet nodded. ‘It shows. You’ve looked after his saddle but, yeah, it needs some work.’ She turned to Liam. ‘What do you think, Granddad?’
‘Has to be reflocked for starters. Probably still got the original horsehair mix in it,’ Liam said, pressing his arthritic fingers into the panels.
Violet prodded a panel. ‘We’ll use the wool and acrylic blend for that. Keep it springy. How’s the sweat flap looking?’
Liam lifted the top flap. ‘Worn.’
‘The girth and surcingle?’
‘Better replace them. Stirrup leathers too. Worn thin in places. Too risky for camp drafting–or stock work, for that matter.’
Ben watched them examine his saddle but when Violet suggested replacing the seat, he interrupted. ‘I know it’s worn some, but I’d like to keep the original seat and knee pads.’
Liam glanced up at him. ‘You always make sentimental decisions?’
Ben frowned. ‘No. But in this case, I’m going to. It’s all I have left of him.’
Liam held his gaze then shook his head. ‘Fair enough. But you’re wrong, son. A long way wrong. You’re the dead spit of Jimmy Devlin and damned if I won’t go and see you ride in Richmond myself.’
***
Ben smiled and reached out to touch the leather. In three weeks, she’d transformed the worn saddle. The stirrup irons gleamed; the leather, soft and supple, shone with life and underneath Werner’s small brass trademark, she’d carved … what the hell was that? A violet? Or an entwined V and O? He traced it with his fingertip, knowing she watched him. Knowing that when he rode, her mark would ride with him. And he liked that idea, liked it a lot.
‘I hesitated to put my maker’s mark on your saddle … though Granddad thought I should. I etched my initials instead.’
‘That’s fine, Vi. Just fine.’
***
Liam O’Grady spotted Ben first. ‘There he is, on that chestnut mare. Quarter Horse, I’d say.’
‘She is, Granddad. Her name’s Sally. He looks good, doesn’t he?’
Liam glanced at his unusually animated granddaughter. About time, he thought, and smiled to himself. ‘Sits a horse like his grandfather. Spitting image of him.’
‘Well let’s see what he can do. He’s heading into the camp now.’
Liam nodded. ‘He’s gonna cut out that Brangus steer. The feisty one. See that? He’s working him well. That’s two good manoeuvres. No fear of being cracked out in the camp.’
‘He’s called for the gate, Granddad.’
‘I’m not deaf, Violet. He’s going through it now. He’ll have to move fast; that steer’s racing ahead.’
‘Sally’s got him though. She’s shouldering him around the first peg. Great horse.’
‘Well bred and well trained. Let’s see how she handles the figure of eight.’ Liam leant forward and muttered instructions. ‘Get in on the left, that’s the way, now move ahead and turn him to the right. On the blade, that’s it, that’s it. Around the peg. Now go, gallop. Get ahead again.’
‘He can’t hear you, Granddad.’
‘Doesn’t need to. You ever see a horse like that? Knows just what to do. Flawless figure of eight. Just the gate now and … it’s done. What’s his time, Violet?’
‘According to the loudhailer, it’s twenty point seven five seconds.’
‘That’ll do it. Crowd knows it.’
***
Trophy in hand, Ben made his way into the stands to Liam and Violet. Liam’s handshake was firm, his grin infectious.
‘Jimmy couldn’t have done better himself, son.’
‘Thanks.’
Violet stepped forward. ‘Congratulations. I made this is for you.’ She handed him a belt, French laced and exquisitely engraved around the word, Devlin. Its silver buckle sported the Australian Campdraft Association emblem. She’d inserted two sturdy silver rings into the left of the belt.
Ben looked up into waiting eyes. ‘You made me a hobble belt?’
‘Damn straight, I did, and, Ben Devlin, that’s my maker’s mark on it!’
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