Thick stone walls protected the woolshed from the afternoon heat, but an odor of rancid sheep oils and stale feces scoured the air. Cal Langdon ignored the calls of “tar boy!” that sent short, good-natured Joe scuttling to any of the ten shearers with his wound sealer. He ignored the sweat dripping into his eyes. Mentally, he totaled his wages as he sent another shorn sheep down the ramp.
This two-week job of shearing on the Beaufort Station finished off his three-month stint. In that time, he had earned enough money to buy the fittings for his warehouse, enough to pay the carpenter, and almost enough to match that of his business partner. He glanced at his tally on the chalkboard, noting he had finished seventy-three animals. At fifteen shillings a hundred, he was doing well. Before the day’s end, he expected to make at least one pound.
Preparing to collect his next sheep from the holding pen, he straightened. The most visible of the three sisters who owned this property, Miss Dorella, stood just inside the open loading doors, her sun-streaked hair outlined by the view of the sparkling sea. She turned her large hazel eyes from the chalkboard and smiled at him.
He acknowledged her presence with a nod.
Using a single hand, she smoothed her halo of hair. Her time-honored female gesture told him she was conscious of his scrutiny. The ill-fitting, black mourning gown she wore was the same garment she had worn last night when she had helped her more confident sister serve the shearers’ supper. A woman with a figure as fine as hers ought to be flaunting her attributes rather than concealing them.
Her focus shifted to Girl, then back to him. “Is that your dog?”
His black and white border collie sat not a yard away, watching his every move. As soon as he started one sheep, Girl moved his next to the pen gate. “She is.”
“In that case, you’ll need to yard her with our dogs. We don’t let dogs roam free.” After a pause, possibly waiting to see him tug his forelock, Miss Dorella turned to Alf, the balding, mid-thirties team boss. She raised her voice over the click of the shears, the baaing, and the shouts. “How is the wool quality this year?”
“Average.”
“Better than last year?”
“The same.”
Cal opened the gate and pulled out his next sheep.
Miss Dorella followed Alf, who sent his sheep down the ramp. “How much do you think we will we make from this year’s fleeces?”
Alf stopped working to scratch his pink pate. “Prices are the same as last year.”
“Not higher?”
“Only for merino.”
She massaged the side of her neck. “How long do they take to pay?”
“Depends on how long it takes to get the wool to the buyers. What do you reckon, Cal?”
Cal dragged his sheep to his shearing space, wondering why Alf had given him this opportunity. He had assumed, although Alf hadn’t stopped him speaking to the other woolgrowers along the way, that he hadn’t approved of Cal’s idea. “That would depend on how you plan to transport your wool.”
“Via paddle steamer to Victoria—the same way Papa would if he were alive.”
Cal might have suggested another mode, but because her defensive tone told him she had decided to cling to her father’s ideas, he left the subject. “We had good rains upriver this year,” he said, making his first clip of the hogget’s head. “As soon as the flow reaches us, the paddle steamers will load up the bales.”
Her big-eyed gaze held his. “How long will it take for the flow to reach us?”
“A month, maybe two.”
Her eyes clouded and her full bottom lip worried her top one. She averted her head and moved to the sorting table, where frizzy-haired Benji picked twigs and short ends off the fleeces. Cal finished the hogget’s head and began on one leg. Within minutes, he sent the sheep between his legs down the outside ramp. When he straightened, he noticed Miss Dorella standing in the area separating him from the wool classing, her attention concentrated on Girl. “When do you plan to pen this creature?”
“Not while she’s helping.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Helping? I call that sitting.”
“She’s a well-trained dog,” Alf said, adding to the tally board. “She don’t cause no trouble.”
Frank, a fresh-faced lad of twenty-one and the youngest member of the team, laughed. “And she don’t make no noise.”
“He’s trying to tell you she was born deaf.” Cal dragged his next sheep to his clipping space.
Cheeks slightly pink, Miss Dorella lifted her chin. “If she can’t hear, she won’t obey the rest of us, and so she certainly ought to be penned...while she is not helping.”
Cal grinned, surprised by the comeback. Usually, good-looking women relied more on their appeal than their logic.
“What do you think of the wool?” She eyed him sideways as she leaned back, her elbows on the rail behind. This position emphasized her womanly curves. A flare of desire shortened his breath, but he had no time for distractions.
He dragged the next sheep to his clipping space. “It’s coarse. You get a better quality when you breed to merino.”
“Papa wanted good eating sheep, as well.”
He faced her, wishing she would go away. “You make more money from exporting wool.”
“We can’t change the breed now.”
He ignored her, but she didn’t leave. When he glanced up, he saw Alf watching the byplay with narrowed eyes. With reluctance, Cal answered. “You can change within two generations of breeding.”
“We need ready money.”
He racked back the sheep’s head and began clipping the belly, wondering why she had chosen a shearer to be her financial adviser. “The bank will lend you money on the property.”
She made a dissatisfied face. “The property already has a, um, mortgage.”
“How many acres do you own?”
“Five thousand.”
“Fix a few fences and stop your policy of overgrazing, and the bank will extend the loan. The way this place looks, you’re not running more than one sheep per acre.” He turned his sheep to the side.
She straightened, at last silenced.
“You want five per acre to make a good profit,” he said, greasing her departure.
She raised her chin. “I don’t know why such a clever man as you puts up with these conditions. The smell is simply dreadful.”
“The floorboards are slatted. The sheep’s crutchings fall through. Half the stink would be eliminated if someone got under the shed and raked out the dags.”
Her crinoline began to swing and, as her skirts twirled, she said, “Someone? Who?”
He shrugged.
Her skirts found an abrupt balance. “I certainly won’t be crawling under a floor and raking out...smelly things.”
He was pleased to see he had annoyed her. Perhaps she now might stop bothering him. To make sure he had the last word, he slid the scrambling sheep between his legs down the ramp and extended to his full height of six feet and two inches. “Leave the raking to your stockman.”
She inclined her head. “Which will, fortunately, give me time to re-breed the sheep to merino.” A nail on the post behind her halted her dignified exit. With gritted teeth, she freed the fabric of her skirts.
Giving a perfect