The Shearing Gun (26 page)

“Okay, now spill.” He waved a spatula in my direction and had on his no-nonsense face. “Something’s bothering you, and I want to know what it is. How am I meant to help if you don’t tell me?”

“You can’t help, Jimmie. No one can.”

He scowled at me. Since he was wearing a floral apron that he’d brought from home, it didn’t make the most impact on me. “Is it this secret, special friend you now have?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Your friend is Elliot, right? The guy that was here when we arrived? My gaydar pinged loudly when I got out of the car, but it was screaming at me by the time he asked about my Gucci bling.”

Elliot was going to kill me, but I needed to tell someone. It was like bragging. What good was it being with the cutest guy in town if you couldn’t tell anyone? “Yeah. You were right, what you said that day, I mean. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?”

“Ooh, yes. He’s a sexy little package, and if I didn’t have Murray to kick my arse, I’d give you a run for your money.”

I laughed like he meant me to. Jimmie and Murray were like two halves that made a whole. I could no longer picture one without the other.

“So what’s the problem between the two of you? Is he a flop in bed?”

I snorted. “A bit personal there, don’tcha reckon, Jimmie? But no. There’s no problem like that between us.”

He stirred his culinary creation and pursed his lips. “So you two have it all sorted? Tops, bottoms, threesomes, extras, swinging, and flings?”

I wasn’t sure if dying by choking on one’s own tongue was the best look, so I ignored him. He carried on with his musing without input from me.

“Right. So it’s not sexual. You came back the other night well satisfied, so I’m guessing you’re compatible. I guess that leaves us with the emotional.” He paused and made the biggest leap in logic that I had ever seen. Unfortunately it was dead on. “Do you love him, Hank?”

My head came up like a sheep sensing danger. I didn’t want to answer, but it came blurting out. “Yes. But what the fuck good does that do?”

I had Jimmie’s full attention now. “What do you mean? Does he love you back?”

The sigh that came was wrenched from deep in my soul. “What does it matter, Jimmie? He’s a flippin’ doctor. He’s not going to stick around in the country where there’s nothing to do but make bets on which sheep’s going to be the next one to shit. He’s here for another six months—maybe eighteen at the most—and then he’s out of here. Maybe back to the city. Maybe back to Melbourne. And what the fuck am I meant to do then? Do you really see me fitting in with the city crowd, Jimmie? And what the hell am I meant to do in the city, anyways? Last time I checked, there weren’t many sheep to shear over there between the cars and the skyscrapers. So what does it matter if he loves me? All I know is, I fucking love him, and he’s going to rip my heart out when he leaves.”

Jimmie was at my side within a blink, perching on the edge of a chair and grasping my hands. “Have you spoken to him about this, Hank? What does he say?”

I shook my head. “I told you, it doesn’t matter, Jimmie. He’s brilliant—A-one brilliant. Imagine how many lives he could save if he worked in the big hospitals? Here he prob’ly gets to save about ten a year? He could be doing ten a week in the city. I can’t ask him to stay around and make that choice.”

“Do you think that your lives aren’t as important here? That those in the country are second class and deserve second-class doctoring?”

“No.”

“Do you even know what he wants to do?” I was shaking my head as he gave my hand a squeeze. “Maybe you won’t be able to work it out, Hank, but at least give the guy a try. He may surprise you. Now, dinner’s ready, so go and wash up. Then send the man a text. I want to meet him properly and make sure he’s deserving of my favorite nephew’s heart. See if he’s available for dinner in the next couple of nights, and warn him that he’ll be mercilessly grilled by me when he comes. And he’d better come soon.”

Instead of skinning me alive for telling Jimmie (and consequently Murray) about our secret relationship, Elliot accepted the dinner invitation for the following night. Jimmie fussed in the kitchen all day, so Murray and I decided to keep out of his hair. We rounded up the melanian flock, and I asked Murray’s opinion on their health and wool quality. He declared that they were ready for shearing. Hand spinners needed an extra-long fleece for their work, so I was waiting sixteen months between shearings, instead of the usual twelve. It put a bit more strain on the sheep if they were carrying extra through the summer, but so far I had timed it so we hadn’t had to do that.

I tackled the two large rams first, taking a moment to examine their gonads and form. They had both been hand-reared and tolerated our examination without fuss. I pulled out Hero next, making sure that the fleece was taken off clean. Murray threw it out on my table and had a look.

“This is actually pretty good, Hank. He’s only a year old, so we should see an improvement next cut.”

“So shall I put his mother in the pot? She threw me a lamb last month, so she has a bit of a reprieve.”

“Keep her, mate. If you were short of space, I’d probably vote the other way, but she’s throwing decent lambs.”

Little Poppy got her tail ringed, which didn’t impress her much, but her mum nuzzled her toward her teats, and Poppy soon forgot about it. I pulled out my charts, and we discussed blood lines, separated the flock between the rams, and removed their aprons for insemination. With Poppy only a month old, there was a chance that Nan would go back into heat and conceive again, which would show up in a poor wool quality. But since her fleece was terrible anyway, I didn’t bother about isolating her.

Uncle Murray had a go at shearing, proving that you never lose the knack. If he wanted to make a living as a shearer, he’d probably make about—oh, I don’t know—twenty dollars a day. I grinned as he gave up after three and allowed me to do the rest.

Elliot arrived on time, looking spiffy in his tight jeans and his citified-wanker shirt that had the horse on it. I kissed him senseless in the privacy of the shed before I took him inside and once again introduced him to my uncles.

“Uncle Murray, Jimmie, I want to proudly introduce you to my boyfriend, Doctor Elliot Stockton-Montgomery. Ell, this is Uncle Murray, my mother’s brother, who gave me money to start this farm. Uncle Murray is the one who spins his own wool and knits, so I breed the black sheep for him. Jimmie is my wonderful stylist, which is why I own the latest in fashion while working—and I can tell you that it so impresses my flock.” Jimmie gasped in dismay at this, while Elliot choked on his amusement. “And he’s also the most fabulous cook I have ever encountered. I’m totally spoilt for any other person, because they can’t make a pavlova like Jimmie can.”

Jimmie tittered and waved away my compliments while they all shook hands. Finally Jimmie said, “Stockton-Montgomery? Where do I know that name from?” There was a little pause before a sudden dramatic gasp as Jimmie turned to Elliot and clutched his arm. “Oh my God! You’re Alicia Pinkerton’s youngest boy! I’d heard you were studying to be a doctor but didn’t realize you’d finished already.”

Elliot smiled in surprise. “You know my mother?”

My eyes bugged in disbelief. Please tell me this was a dream?

“Of course, darling! We went to school together. Back then she was dating that awful Norman Delaney. Thank goodness she tossed him over, because look where he is now.” Elliot was nodding in agreement. “I was ever so happy when she married your father. George was a bit older than she was and very much under his father’s thumb, but he had a strength about him I admired. Of course when your grandfather handed the company over to your father, he showed that he’d just been biding his time. He got in there and shook things up. Your grandfather nearly had an apoplexy, but George knew what he was doing.”

Elliot grinned. “I still don’t think Pop has completely forgiven him.”

Jimmie’s hand went to his throat in astonishment. “Don’t tell me that old curmudgeon is still alive?”

“Oh, yes. He is eighty-eight now and still plays golf daily. Now you’ve got my curiosity wildly running. What was your surname again?”

“Kincaid.”

“Of the Eastbourne Kincaids?”

“Yes. My mother was Margaret Pendleton, and she married Aubrey Kincaid, who was the third Kincaid son. Rupert Eastbourne was my father’s stepfather.”

“Your mother was a Pendleton? My cousin Richard recently married Sonya Pendleton. She must be related to you?”

At that point I tuned out and couldn’t bear to listen anymore. The world they were talking about was foreign and strange. I hadn’t forgotten Quackle’s comment about Jimmie being from money and being able to spend fifteen grand on a piece of metal that wrapped around his wrist. Several things had become clear to me in the days since that comment. I’d never thought about how Murray and Jimmie lived. Their house was run-of-the-mill normal, yet Jimmie only worked a couple of days a week at the hair salon he owned. Murray didn’t work at all, and I’d assumed it was because of his injuries, but maybe it was because he didn’t need to.

The most blindingly obvious thing was the money that Uncle Murray gave me. It wasn’t his—it had been Jimmie’s. I could see now that Jimmie supported them both.

And Elliot was cut from the same cloth. He’d bought his mother a ten thousand dollar bracelet as a gift, for God’s sake! I’d given him a lamb to name as my gift.

I chatted to Murray with a sinking heart as I realized that I could never compete. I was probably the only gay guy Elliot could find out here. I wasn’t special, I wasn’t worth keeping. All I was good for was the sex, for the moment. As soon as Elliot’s contract was up, he would be out of here. He might stop by to tell me good-bye, but most probably he’d leave without a backward look.

I could tell that Elliot noticed my withdrawal from the conversation that night. He sent me several questioning looks when the others had their attention diverted. Jimmie was bouncing off the walls, excitedly talking about people he and Elliot knew, asking what they were up to. Uncle Murray was oblivious, probably used to Jimmie taking over the conversations. Occasionally he would ask me a question, but otherwise we sat in silence and listened.

Finally the evening grew late, and I left half of my pavlova in my bowl and stood up. “I’m really sorry, guys. But I need to get to bed. I have a full day tomorrow.”

I saw Elliot frowning at my half-eaten dessert. “Hank? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing, Ell. Just tired. Do you want to stay and chat with Jimmie for a bit? I don’t mind, but I have to hit the sack.”

“No. I’m sure Jimmie and I can catch up more later. Murray—it was a pleasure to meet you properly at last, and know that I’m putting in an order for a shawl for my mother’s birthday in January. Jimmie—you are a divine master chef. Thank you for the meal, but I must be going. Hank will walk me out to my car, and I’m sure I’ll see you both another time.”

I had my orders, so Murray and Jimmie said good-bye, and I walked Elliot through the darkness to the shed where he parked his car. As we crunched across the gravel, I came to a decision. Elliot would be leaving me, but he was with me now. I would store up as many experiences and memories as I could in the next six months. With any luck it would last me for a good twenty-five years, at least.

Beside his car Elliot turned to me. “Hank? You never turn down pavlova. What’s wrong, buddy?”

“Nothing. I’m just not used to sharing you, that’s all,” I fudged. “I love my uncles but I wish they’d disappear so I could take you inside and have you on my bed.”

He relaxed and bought my bullshit. We kissed until we were breathless and I pulled away. “I wasn’t lying about needing sleep, Ell. Now piss off, or else I’m going to fall asleep over a bloomin’ sheep tomorrow.”

It weighed on me in the darkness—the fact that Elliot would leave—but I was able to thrust it aside and mostly forget about it during the day. He’d received Jimmie’s big tick of approval and Murray’s smile of appreciation, so was invited to dinner whenever he wanted.

We decided on the pub instead for Sunday night—joining the lads as usual. There was Middy and Neil, along with Steve, Stewie, Gavin, Sketty, Coxy, Buzz, and Tony, all yakking and drinking. We were seated around several tables that had been pushed together, enjoying a couple of brews and some finger food, when Mike Munro joined us.

“Hank! I hoped you’d be here. Did you hear about Bevin Spencer?”

The boys all quieted to hear the news. “No. What happened?”

“I thought he’d have rung you, mate. His father passed away in England last night. Heart attack or something. He’s leaving on Tuesday afternoon for the funeral.”

We all sobered at the news, but I didn’t realize how it affected me until Gavin piped up. “Shit. I’m due at his place Friday and Saturday.”

I pulled my mobile from my back pocket and checked it, and sure enough there was a missed call.

Stewie asked, “So what’s he doing?”

“Trying for one day. Tomorrow.”

There was a general hue of disbelief and surprise. “Tomorrow?”

“In one day?”

“He’ll never make it.”

“How does he think he can do it one day?”

“How many does he run? Isn’t it over four thousand?”

My head swam at the thought.
Four thousand in one day?

Elliot’s knee nudged me and he asked, “I’m lost.”

I explained. “Spencer was supposed to be shearing his flock of four thousand sheep later this week, over two days. Now he’s attempting to do them all in one day. Tomorrow.”

Gavin spoke up. “What plans has he made, Mike?”

“He’s putting together a team of nine guns. His shed has seven stations, but he’s going to squeeze them in. He’s paying three fifteen a head, aiming for under ten hours. He has McManus coming, and Akker’s on board. I heard that he’s convinced Jameson to come for the day. I’m going as rousie and bringing Petersen.”

I felt my excitement rising. McManus and Akker together? And I had only ever seen Jameson in action once in my life. The man was poetry in motion.

Elliot nudged me again. “Nine guns? Who’s Akker? Three fifteen a head?”