You're the One (31 page)

The morning
was promising. He’d been up early as usual while she’d rolled out
of bed at eight looking adorably dishevelled. When he’d expressed
amusement at her lateness, she’d informed him sleepily that she
didn’t do early mornings but still made it to the shop in time to
open.

True to her
word she’d showered, dressed and rocked into the kitchen to raid
the toast and bacon he’d made for her and left in the oven to keep
warm. Missy was skittering across the floor playing with a ping
pong ball while Mozart perched on a kitchen chair watching with big
eyes.

Oh yeah,
Mozart loved having Moz home. He’d slept hard up against him all
night, his purring filling the room intermittently.

The
conversation had pretty much run along the lines of what they had
planned for the day. Moz informed her of the coming storm and his
intention of inspecting the roof, she’d agreed after she’d paused
and he’d given her the evil eye, then Del had rinsed her plate and
mug out, brushed her teeth, kissed him on the cheek and darted
out.

Okay, she’d
started for his cheek but he’d finished it with a smacking kiss to
her lips that had her cheeks pink, her eyes sparkling, and him with
the beginnings of a boner.

No sooner had
her green Commodore disappeared down the road towards town than Moz
had been up on the roof, spotted trouble areas and organised four
sheets of tin to be delivered immediately. Within the hour he was
back up on the roof screwing down the sheets.

He was just
finishing the last sheet when the work mobile rang. Laying the
cordless drill down, he placed the mobile to his ear. “Inspector
Baylon.”

“Sorry to
disturb you,” Joe’s voice came back. “We’ve just got a report of
newborn lambs being dumped on the side of the road along with a
dead sheep.”

Moz’s face
grew grim. “Identification tags?”

“Taken off the
ears. The lambs are still alive, the couple who found them brought
them to the vet here in Ellor’s Loop.”

Damn it. “Any
idea at all of who they might belong to?”

“Interestingly
enough, the couple reported seeing a sheep truck passing them half
an hour before heading in the other direction. It was the only
sheep truck they’d seen.”

“Did they
happen to get a description?”

“It was a red
truck with the fancy title of ‘Steam Head’ stencilled on the roof.
Dumb move if he’d dumped the sheep.”

“Shouldn’t be
hard to track down then. I’ll ring the sale yards and see if anyone
recognises that truck for a start. Then I’ll do a little field
trip.”

Well, there
went his Saturday.

“Good
luck.”

“The truck
driver will need it more than me.” Moz looked at the sky. “I’ll
head out shortly.”

“No worries.
Oh, and hey, watch the weather, there’s a storm coming in.”

“You don’t
say.”

With a
chuckle, Joe hung up.

Within the
hour Moz was travelling the two hundred kms to the nearest sale
yards. The truck in question was still there. If that truck driver
had been the one to dump the dead sheep and newborn lambs, Moz was
going to make sure he got what was coming to him.

As long as the
courts did their part and fined the bloke the maximum penalty.
Sometimes it was just gut-wrenching when hours of manpower and
evidence was finally handed in, only to have the barest minimum of
punishment given to the person or people who had committed cruelty.
Sometimes Moz wondered just what side the court was on. But then
sometimes the judge would hand down the maximum, or at least hit
them where it hurt, and those days helped balance the frustrating
ones. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to happen as often as it
should. But he never gave up. As long as the animals needed him and
he could stand up for them, he’d keep going.

The trucks
were parked to one side at the sale yards, most of them empty, some
getting ready to leave. The buyers stood near the sale yards
checking out the sheep.

As luck would
have it there was a big red truck with ‘Steam Head’ printed in
proud, glaring letters on the top of the cab. Way to stand out in
the crowd. Moz figured the bloke standing beside it was the driver.
Dressed in shorts, black singlet and thongs, he was happily
knocking back a coffee from a thermos mug while talking to another
truckie.

They both
watched Moz approach.

“G’day,” Moz
said pleasantly. “You the owner of this truck?”

The truckie
looked at him a little uneasily. “Yeah. Who’s asking?”

Like the
uniform Moz wore and the canopied work ute with ‘RSPCA” on the side
wasn’t identification enough. “Name’s Moz Baylon. I’m the RSPCA
inspector.”

“You don’t
say.”

“Oh, I do.
Mind giving me your name?” When the truckie didn’t reply
immediately, Moz added, “Unless you’ve something to hide.”

The truckie
scowled. “Ken. Ken Light.”

“Who are you
carting sheep for, Ken?”

“Farmer name
of Ben Judding. Why?”

“You know
anything about a couple of sheep and some newborn lambs dumped on
the side of the road not far from Ellor’s Loop?”

“Nope.”

Couple of more
truckies gathered behind Moz, but he wasn’t fazed. Standing easily,
arms by his side, he studied Ken. “Mind if I have a look around the
truck?”

This time Ken
shifted nervously. “What for? Told you I don’t know anything about
the sheep.”

“Then you
won’t mind, will you?” Without waiting for a reply, Moz did a slow
walk around the truck, studying the double trailer holding the
sheep.

The smell of
sheep, faeces and urine was heavy in the air. Personally, he hated
live transport but it was a part of life, no escaping it.

It didn’t take
long to find some dried blood that had seeped from the trailer to
drip off the side. “Where’s the blood from?”

From behind
him, Ken shrugged. “No idea.”

One of the
truckies aimed a frown at Ken.

“When are you
unloading this truck?”

“Right now.”
The sale yard owner walked up. “What’s going on?”

“Couple of
sheep and some newborn lambs dumped back near Ellor’s Loop,” Moz
replied.

The owner
looked at Ken.

“Wasn’t
me.”

Moz pushed his
sunglasses a little higher on his nose. “Your truck was seen along
the same stretch of road.”

“Doesn’t mean
it was me.” Ken braced his hands on his hips. “Hundreds of trucks
go along those roads. So someone pointed the finger at me, so what?
Doesn’t mean a bloody thing.”

Moz smiled
slowly. “No, it doesn’t. I’ll just hang around, wait until the
sheep are unloaded.”

Ken’s jaw
clenched.

“Come on,
Light.” The sale yard owner shifted impatiently. “I’ve got more
trucks coming and buyers waiting. Empty your load and hurry
up.”

Dust filled
the air, the stink of sheep. Another truck pulled in, air brakes
sounding.

A four wheel
drive pulled up beside Moz’s ute as he leaned against it waiting
for Ken to back his truck up to the unloading ramps.

Moz nodded to
Grant as the vet got out, slapping a Stetson against his leg before
placing it languidly on his head. “Here to check the sheep?”

“Yep.” Grant
stretched. “You here to do a check?”

“I’m here
following a lead.”

“Do tell.”

“A couple of
dead sheep and some newborn lambs found on the road. That truck
getting ready to unload was seen not far away. Driver’s a little
uneasy. Has blood on the back of his trailer he doesn’t know where
from, surprisingly.”

“Surprisingly,” Grant agreed dryly.

“I’m wanting
to have a little peeky-boo in his trailer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m thinking
you could have a peeky-boo with me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You could
have a peeky-boo at the sheep, too.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re
killing me with all this chatter.” Moz straightened. “Let’s
go.”

Moving across
the sale yard, they stood near the railings to watch the sheep come
down the ramp. Ken was definitely perturbed now.

Grant pointed
as one of the sheep stumbled past them, bleating loudly.

“I see her.”
Yeah, Moz could see her, all right. Drying blood and mucous down
her back legs, glaring evidence.
Goddamn it. So bloody
cruel
. There was no doubting she’d given birth recently.

With the back
of the trailer empty, he could see the bottom clearly. Blood and
afterbirth from more than one sheep.

Turning to
Ken, he said coldly, “Let’s have a little chat about how many sheep
you’re supposed to have, how many you actually have, and this
farmer who loaded very pregnant ewes on this truck.”

Ken swore.

Moz pointed to
his ute. “Park your truck and then step into my office. I’m wanting
details.”
Gotcha, you bastard
.

It wasn’t the
end of the day. On his way home he got diverted to help untangle a
young horse from fencing, sustaining a kick to his leg. Mild, true,
but he’d have a bruise regardless. The rain started during this but
the owners and Moz managed to get the horse untangled and into the
horse float. By then he was soaked and sore.

The storm hit
before he got home, the late afternoon dark and gloomy. He was
looking forward to a hot shower, dry clothes and a relaxing evening
when he got a call from Phil to say that there was a bird tangled
in fishing line hooked up on a fence near the river. Those who
found it were waiting for him.

That was a
detour down to the river where he found an elderly couple
sheltering in their caravan. The lady was tearful, the man anxious.
Tugging on his rain coat, a plastic animal cage in his hand, he
followed them along the walkway until they reached the fenced off
area proclaiming the next farm. And there, drenched and looking
almost defeated, was a magpie, one leg caught up in fishing line
tangled on the fence.

Covering the
flapping bird with the tea towel the elderly lady handed him, Moz
had the man hold the bird while he carefully cut the line from the
fence. The fishing line was embedded in the magpie’s foot, nothing
he could do here, so he placed the bird in the cage, thanked the
couple and headed back to the ute.

Grant wasn’t
back from the sale yard yet but was on his way, so Moz phoned Tish,
the vet nurse, gave her the heads up and met her at the clinic,
handing her the cage.

“You look like
hell,” she said bluntly.

“Not as bad as
the magpie is feeling,” he replied.

“I’ll take
care of it. Grant won’t be long, about another ten minutes. I’ll
get the bird warmed up, let it settle down a little meanwhile, and
then we’ll get the fishing line off when he gets here.”

“Sounds good
to me.”

Going home
sounded like Heaven, but he made one last detour, pulling in at the
office to get the report done on the sheep. By the time he finished
it was going on seven thirty and he was tired and hungry.

Pulling up in
front of the house, he thought how welcoming it was. The outside
light was on, a warm halo in the cool, wet night. Locking the ute,
he trudged up onto the veranda, toeing off his muddy boots before
putting the key in the door.

As he entered
the hallway he sniffed appreciatively.

“Hey.” Del
peered around the corner of the kitchen. “Man, you look like
crap.”

“Nice to see
you, too, baby.” Walking up to her, he dropped a kiss on her lips
before looking over her head. On the stove stood a big saucepan,
the smell coming from it delicious. “Smells good.”

“I’m not a
fancy cook but I can make a mean stew.” Del studied him. “Go and
have a hot shower, then flop in the lounge and put your feet up.
I’ll bring you a tray.”

Sounded
Heavenly, but - “You don’t need to do that.”

“I’m not often
motherly, so take advantage of it while you can.”

As she headed
back to the stove, he admired her backside in the old jeans that
clung to her shapely rear. “My thoughts about you aren’t exactly
suited to a mother.”

Grinning, she
pointed towards the bathroom. “Shower. Now, sonny.”

“Yes Ma’am.”
With a salute, he headed off to the bathroom.

Mozart met him
halfway and proceeded to meow anxiously, matching him step for
step. Moz was hard put not to stand on him, so the progress was a
lot slower than normal as he took bigger steps over Mozart who was
trying to wind around his ankles, talk and observe all at once.
Finally, he simply scooped him up under one arm and carted him into
the bedroom to collect clean clothes.

Old trackie
pants soft with age, a t-shirt and thick socks completed his
less-than-sexy ensemble. There was no way Mozart was going to leave
him alone, so Moz showered while Mozart gave him a running
commentary of the day’s events. He just had to laugh when Mozart
stuck his head around the shower curtain to squint his eyes and
check that Moz was really still there. Apparently it had been a
pretty exciting day.

Finally
finished, the smell of stew was floating down the passage, leading
him unerringly into the lounge to find a tray on the coffee table
containing a bowl of steaming stew, a plate of toast and a mug of
hot tea.

Del was curled
up in the corner of the sofa watching the TV, a mug of tea in her
hands, Missy a tiny ball of black fur on her lap. The rain was
pattering on the roof, no chill in the air because it was summer,
and the room was cosy without being uncomfortable Definitely
Heaven.

“Sit, eat,
relax,” she ordered.

Not about to
argue, he did as told, taking a sip of hot tea before tucking into
the stew with a moan of appreciation. No lie, the woman could make
a mean stew. “Del, you really need to give me this recipe. What did
you put in it?” Glancing up, he found her watching him with
interest. “What?”