Red Dirt Heart 3 (18 page)

Travis and Bacon would finish re-sheeting the roof today, or so they said, so Ernie and Billy went on motorbikes, Trudy took the ute and I went on horseback.

The days were clear and warm, the breeze a bit cool, but springtime in the desert was my favourite season. Actually, I corrected myself, I loved all seasons out here. Whichever we were in at the time was my favourite. I made a mental note to take Trav and camp out for a few nights one of these days when things settled down and we weren’t so busy.

But for now, with him fixing the roof and me spending the days out in the paddocks, the few hours of separation were a good thing. I wouldn’t let complacency and taking shit for granted ever get between us again.

We found another two abandoned sick-but-still-alive calves, one already dead. But there were a good fifty-odd newborns with their mothers in the paddock, so even with the losses, the ratios were pretty good. So, because I was slower on Shelby than the others on bikes and the old ute, I told them to do a sweep up to the northern end of the paddock, figurin’ I’d check the bore while I was there was at the southern end.

I dismounted from Shelby to check the water trough first and, very stupidly, put my hand on the edge of the metal rim—like I had done hundreds of times—and sliced the palm of my hand.

The cut was on my right hand, in the crease on my palm from under my middle finger to under my little finger. It was about four centimetres long and about half a centimetre wide. It just kinda pulled right open, the skin went all white, and when it didn’t bleed at first, I knew it was deep. It wasn’t life-threatening, more of a pain in the arse than anything. I pulled the small first aid kit from my saddlebag, cursed at myself for being so stupid, shoved some cotton swabs over the now fast-bleeding cut and bandaged it the best I could.

Gettin’ back on Shelby without using my right hand wasn’t particularly easy, and by the time I had both feet in the stirrups, the blood was dripping off my hand.

Now, blood’s never bothered me. God knows I’d seen enough of it—not always mine—to be immune to the sight and smell of it. I wasn’t dizzy or anything, but bein’ so far out and bein’ alone, with the others already a good forty kilometres away and Ma’s
Don’t do anything stupid
ringin’ in my head, I headed for home.

There was no point in busting Shelby for twenty kilometres to get home—I wasn’t dyin’ or anything—so I wasn’t too surprised to see the Cruiser and bikes back in the yard already.

“Was gonna send out a search party,” Billy called out with his usual grin as I rode in.

“Just enjoyin’ the view,” I said, swingin’ my leg over and sliding down off Shelby, giving her a good pat on the neck. The truth was, despite the throb in my cut hand, those few hours alone out there in the desert with Shelby were the best head-clearin’ hours I’d had in a long time.

As it turned out, they hadn’t been home long, but they already had the two new calves in the yard tryin’ to get ’em to feed. Bacon was with there with them, and when I looked over at the roof, I could see it was finished.

“Where’s Travis?” I asked.

“He was finishin’ something off in the shed,” Bacon answered.

“What’dya do to ya hand?” Ernie asked, which, of course, made everyone look at my hand.

I held my palm upward, lookin’ at the dirty, bloodied bandage. It had stopped bleeding some time ago, but my fingers, hand and arm were stained with old blood and so were my jeans where it had obviously dripped onto my thigh. I shrugged. “I thought I’d check out the water trough, and sliced it open. It’s not that bad.”

Billy looked at my hand and arm, then my bloodstained jeans, and he laughed. “Just a scratch, huh, boss?”

I smiled at him. “Yep.”

They seemed to have everything under control, so I headed toward the shed in search of Travis. I led Shelby over to the stables first, taking off her saddle and bridle and giving her a scoop or two of her favourite oats before walking in to see Trav.

He glanced quickly over his shoulder. “Oh hey, gimme a lift with this?”

This
was a large wooden frame, about a metre square and covered on all sides and the bottom with thick cardboard. “I used the packing boxes like you said I could,” he said. We each took a side of the box, my left hand on the top, my right hand on the bottom, and lifted. “I made sure everything’s packed into other boxes, though.”

“Where are we taking it?” I asked. I was pretty sure it was a little playpen for Nugget, but Travis was running this show. I was just helping.

“Inside,” he said. “The living room. That way he can’t get into shit he shouldn’t be gettin’ into when we’re not there.”

It wasn’t all that heavy, just awkward to carry, but we got it through the back door and into the lounge room, putting it under the window next to the TV. I hadn’t even thought about the cut on my hand until I went to pick up Nugget’s bed box and blood was again dripping down my fingers. “Shit,” I mumbled, pulling my shirt under my hand so more blood didn’t drip onto the floor.

“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” Travis cried, his eyes wide and staring at my favoured hand. “What the hell did you do?”

“I cut it.”

“No shit.” He quickly pushed me into the hall, through the kitchen and over to the sink. He grabbed a tea towel and applied pressure to the cut with it. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Nara was making bread at the table. “Oh, you okay, Mr Sutton?”

I sighed, hating to be fussed over. “I’m fine. It’s just a cut,” I told her, and then I looked at Travis, who was holding my hand to the point of pain and glaring at me. “I didn’t mention it because I forgot about it, because it’s just a cut.”

He made a sound at me that was strictly more growl than huff. He pulled the cloth away, then shook his head at the bandage. It was now a dirty mess of horse sweat, dirt and blood. He unwrapped it slowly and gasped when he saw the actual cut.

I turned the tap on and stuck my hand under the cold stream of water, letting it flow over the open cut. I had to admit, it wasn’t pretty. Not even a minute later, Nara had packed up her bread-making stuff and I was sitting at the kitchen table next to the big first aid kit, a bowl of water and some pine-smellin’ bacterial wash. The bleeding had stopped again, but Travis had his serious face on. “How did you do it?”

“I put my hand on the edge of the water trough at the first bore,” I told him. “I was gonna get in it and just make sure the pump was clear.”

“The corrugated iron?” he asked. “When did you have your last tetanus shot?”

I had to think for a second. “Um, I can’t remember.”

“This needs stitches,” he said. He inspected it closer and grimaced. “And proper cleaning.” He looked closer again. “There’s
stuff
in it. It’s kinda gross.”

He was dabbing delicately around the wound like I was made of glass. “Seriously, Trav, I’ll die of old age before you’re done.” I took the cotton swab and cleaned it myself. In the end, I just stuck my whole hand in the bowl of water, cleaned off as much dried blood and dirt as I could, and then just poured undiluted disinfectant over the cut. It looked better, but still too open to heal on its own. It had all but stopped bleeding, except for faint a few diluted red swirls in antiseptic.

Travis shook his head at me and my Outback way of gettin’ things done. “You’re covered in blood,” he said, looking at my shirt and jeans.

I looked down at my clothes. “I’ve had worse.” Then I nodded toward the medical kit. “Can you get the sewing needle?” I asked him.

Travis’s eyes widened. “The what?”

“A needle,” I repeated. “I’m sure Ma keeps it in a sterilised pack in there somewhere.”

“What for?”

“Oh, I’m gonna knit some socks,” I said, rolling my eyes. “What do you think I want a needle for?”

“Oh, hell no,” he said. “You are
not
gonna sew yourself up.”

“Well, no. I’m not. You are,” I told him. “How’s your sewing skills?”

He paled and shook his head. “Nope. Not… I can’t even… just, no.”

“Well, I can’t. I mean, normally it’d be fine. I’ve done it before,” I told him. “But that was in my leg, not my hand.”

He frowned and swallowed hard. “I’m sure we could call the doctor for stitches? Or take you into town.”

“All that way just for a few stitches?” I asked. “Hell no. And Doctor Hammond would bust something laughing if you called him for stitches… Actually, you should call him, but put him on speakerphone. I wanna hear him laugh.”

“You’re not funny.”

I rolled my eyes again. “The needle, Trav,” I repeated. “I need it. It looks like a fishing hook and real thin fishing line.”

He found the needle and screwed up his face.

I held out my hand for him to sew me up.

He looked horrified. “There is no way—
no way
—I can do that.”

“Trav, it’s my right hand. I can’t do anything with my left hand.”

He was just staring at my injured hand and missed the opportunity for the best wanking joke ever.

I sighed. “Well, can you at least thread it for me?”

Trudy huffed into the kitchen. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You two are like two old women.” She snatched up the needle and threaded it easily. Then without another word, she sat herself down, grabbed my hand, and putting the point of the needle right next to the cut with a familiar precision, she pierced my skin.

Travis winced the whole time like she was doing it to him, whereas I looked on, studying Trudy’s sewing skills. “I thought you hated needles?” Travis asked.

“I do.”

“But not getting stitches. With a needle. With
out
anaesthetic?”

I shrugged one shoulder. “Different kind of needle.”

Travis shook his head. “Not really.”

“It’s totally different,” I argued. “One closes cuts and wounds, the other drains blood out or injects stuff in.”

“They’re both pointy, metal and go into your skin.”

I hadn’t even noticed the pulling on my hand had stopped. When I looked at Trudy, she was staring at us. “Are you two done? Do you argue like this all the time?”

“We’re not arguing,” we answered in unison.

She must have found something funny, because she smiled.

I looked at my newly sewn palm, and Trudy gently pulled my fingers down, touching lightly around the wound and inspecting her handiwork.

“You’ve got the hands of a surgeon,” I said, since I knew her callused, hard-working hands bothered her.

From her smile, I could tell she understood the reference. “Yeah,” she snorted. “With my brains, it was a real toss-up for career choices: surgeon or muckin’ out stables.”

I laughed. “And here you get to do both.”

Smiling, she looked again at my hand. “Try to keep it clean and dry.” She stood up and walked out without another word.

“Thanks, Trudy,” I called out.

“No problem” came her reply followed by the sound of front screen door closing behind her.

Travis was studying my hand. “Well, we’re going to the hospital tomorrow. They can have a look at it, and you’ll need another tetanus shot.”

“I don’t need a tetanus shot.”

He raised one are-you-serious eyebrow. “Well, you cut your hand on a rusty piece of metal, so you’re getting one.”

“Is that your I’m-being-serious voice?” I asked.

Trav exhaled slowly. “You scared the crap outta me with all that blood,” he said. “I thought something bad had happened to you.”

I held up my hand. “Something bad did happen.”

“I meant something
really
bad.”

“If it was really bad, I’d have radioed for someone to come get me.”

Trav kept staring at my hand and frowned. “And you were on Shelby. You should’ve been on a bike or something.”

I put my good hand on his knee. “Trav, it wasn’t a big deal. And anyway, a horse will always bring you home or come home without you. Like how Shelby did with you that time. If you’d been on a motorbike, we wouldn’t have known you were missing ’til later.” Then I remembered, “Oh, I’ll need to brush her down too. I didn’t get back to do it.”

“I’ll do it,” Trav said quietly.

“I can do it. I have a perfectly capable left hand,” I told him.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a sly smile. “Had a lot of practice with it, huh?”

I snorted. “If you hold it in your left hand, back to front, it looks like someone else is holding it.”

Travis burst out laughing just as Nara came back in. Thank God she hadn’t heard what I’d just said. Trav patted my leg and we both stood up. He packed up the first aid kit and said, “I’ll go out and make sure Shelby’s settled in. I’ll brush her down.”

“I’ll go check on Nugget,” I said, walking up the hall.

“Shouldn’t you be studying or something?” Trav said.

I stopped and turned to face him. “Well,” I started, knowing this probably wasn’t going to be well received. “I spent some time thinkin’ about that when I was riding back on Shelby.”

From the look on his face, I think he already knew. But he asked anyway. “And?”

“I’m not gonna finish it,” I told him. “I won’t be getting my degree.”

The drive into Alice was kinda quiet. We left at six, after the dogs and horses were fed, breakfast was done and everyone had their jobs for the day. Everyone was excited, myself included.

Ma was coming home today.

Driving with my cut hand was too awkward, so Travis was behind the wheel, which I knew he hated, but he didn’t argue. Not once. He never once bitched about what side of the car he was sitting on, what side of the road he was driving on. It was so unlike him.

He’d been a little quiet since I’d told him I wouldn’t be finishing my uni degree. He’d said he understood—I was just too busy, and he reasoned that of all the things I was dealing with, if one had to go, then it was the sensible choice.

He’d
said
he understood. But his silence told me otherwise.

So, with a three-hour trip ahead of us and our new rule of talkin’ shit through, I started the conversation. “You wanna tell me what’s bothering you?”

Trav glanced from the road, to me, and back to the road. “Nothing really.”