From that, Cal assumed that Mr. Beaufort had not let the stockman use the dogs. The aborigine seemed competent. He’d certainly started rounding up at first light. If he’d not been allowed to work with the dogs, this rather pointed to Mr. Beaufort being one of those people who disliked delegating responsibility. Cal had spent his life with an old man who had the same inability to ease his grasp.
Knowing the shorn sheep needed to be returned to their pastures today, he indicated the flock in the woolshed paddock. “I’ll take these fellas to the river with the boss’s dogs. When they’ve had a drink, you can move them back to the hills.”
After Cal had let the dogs work the sheep to the river and back and had retrieved a sturdy log from the water’s edge, he walked them to their yard, the log on one shoulder. Since someone had left a pile of meat and cooked bones for them, they seemed overjoyed to be penned.
Next, he cut and shaped the log, depositing what was now a strong post by the roped fence. A quick glance at the homestead’s chimney showed that the ladies had started their cooking. He strode to the house and knocked on the door. By his calculations, he had barely an hour until breakfast.
Miss Ella came to the door, dressed in a green riding skirt. Apparently tailored for her in more affluent times, her outfit clung to every curvaceous, gorgeous handful of her. A slow ache curled in his belly.
“Good morning,” she said, smothering a yawn.
Normally, carnal thoughts didn’t disturb him, but normally he managed six hours of unbroken sleep. He jammed his hat on his head and concentrated on the task at hand. “I worked the dogs. You shouldn’t have any trouble with them. They know their job.”
“I don’t know their job.” She drifted outside.
“They respond to the regular commands. Heel. Sit. Stay. Down. You only need point them in the right direction and they’ll follow your lead.”
“I can’t have a lead until I know what they’re supposed to do.”
Amused, he scratched his chin. “In that case, I’ll show you tonight after the shearing is done.” He moved off toward the lean-to near the stable, where he had found the ax.
“Why not now?” She trailed behind Girl.
After shoving a pair of pliers and the cutters in his pocket, he retrieved a roll of fencing wire. Her persistence made him smile inside. “I’m going to fix the fence.”
“How did you know the wire was there? I meant to buy some.”
“It’s the logical place to keep fencing wire—sheltered and handy.” He collected a mallet and a shovel and walked toward the woolshed, practically grinning.
She followed beside Girl. She cleared her throat. “You mentioned the dreadful state of the fencing on the property... Although the sheep aren’t worth much after shearing, every shilling counts. Do you mind if I watch you? Knowing how to fix a fence might come in handy.”
He nodded although he doubted she would do more with the information than check on the aborigine’s skill. Cal would have been ready to swear Jed could do any task on the farm. He also would have been ready to swear that the man had Miss Ella bluffed. “I’ll dig this old post out. Your job is to pass me the tools I require.”
She stood, glancing warily at the collection of tools he had placed on the ground.
Highly entertained, Cal untied the rope from the rotted center post and kicked the wood out of the way. A few shovel loads of soil revealed the base, which he lifted out. She passed him the mallet, with which he hammered in the new post, and then the roll of wire. He threaded the fallen end around the notches he’d cut and pulled. With the pliers, he made a neat twist.
“This wire doesn’t need replacing. We only needed a new post here. When the wire is broken, you need to rejoin it thus and thus.” He demonstrated with the lower strand. “I had a word with your stockman this morning. I told him to take the shorn sheep to the eastern pastures. He seems to think the feed out there is adequate.”
She nodded and took a breath. “I was wondering if, when I am out riding, I see a sheep with a broken leg or one badly injured, what should I do?”
“You would have to kill it.”
“That’s what I suspected.” She took the pliers from him.
He checked the other strands of wire, standing in view of the stable area where Miss Vi had mounted her Welsh pony and had begun pulling on her gloves. In the paddock adjacent, the two stock horses and the two chestnuts grazed companionably with the Clydesdales. The morning sky above glowed pink and orange.
He saw two riders leave the main road and canter in a dusty cloud along the track past the homestead. He moved back so they couldn’t see him but he could see them. He kept an eye on the men. One dismounted and beckoned to Miss Vi. Miss Vi turned in her saddle and indicated the right of the main road. The first man spoke again, keeping his hand on her skittish Welsh pony.
“Do you know those men?” Cal pointed in their direction. Road travelers rarely looked savory, but these two had an anxious-to-please attitude that seemed out of place.
Miss Ella walked to the corner of the woolshed and glanced where he indicated. “They’re just leaving. I think they may have been asking for directions.” She turned back to Cal. “What else am I neglecting on the station? When we talk about what can be changed and what can’t, what are my priorities, other than the fences?”
The men, one tall and thin and the other short and fat, rode off at a canter.
“If you get your fences fixed and your feed paddocks plowed and fertilized, you’ll be on the right track.”
Miss Ella said, “Then, when we sell, will we be offered a good price?”
He shrugged, sympathetic but determined not to appear so. “The country has been in drought, but you have a good flow in your river. If the inside of the homestead is as well cared for as the stables, you have a fair chance.”
As if on cue, the meals’ triangle rang out. “Oh, no,” she said, clapping her hands to her cheeks. “I haven’t set the table yet.” She ran off.
Smiling lightly, he stared after her for a moment, then he left to wash his hands under the pump. If she wanted to sell for a good price, with just a few small improvements she might. If she thought she could manage more than maintenance, she would be wasting her time. Clearly, she’d not been trained to run a station.
He, however, had been trained from birth and he had worked hard, taking on untold responsibilities, hoping to earn respect. Where he had come from, a rich old man doled out his money to relatives who obeyed him to the letter. He didn’t require input from a grandson who had spent years formulating ideas only to have them grounded. Cal liked nothing more than planning improvements, but he couldn’t train Miss Ella.
To learn only a fraction of the skills she needed to run her property would take time. For him, time was money. The best shearers earned close to five pounds per week, but only for three months of a year, at most. Wanting big money fast meant he had to shear as quickly as possible.
Regrettably, he agreed. She needed to find a rich husband.
* * * *
Ella filled the buckets. Her first task after washing the breakfast dishes was normally the daily watering of the vegetables, but this morning she’d had to replant and stake the sheep-ravaged garden, which delayed the watering until mid-morning. As the pump stood alongside the stable wall, she worked in clear sight of the log seats the shearers claimed for their morning smoke-oh.
Not until her fifth trip from the pump to the gardens did she see Cal emerge from the woolshed. The sight of him now, as this morning, set her insides leaping with excitement, yet last night he’d done no more than tug on her braid. Apparently, she needed more from the man than advice, a painful thought she couldn’t repress.
“Ella,”