Brumbies in the Mist

Books in this Series

Brumbies

Brumbies in the Snow

Brumbies in the Mist

Brumbies in the Outback

Brumbies in the Mountains

Book 3 of

the Brumbies Series

Brumbies in the Mist

by

Paula Boer

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places, events or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the publisher.

Brumbies in the Mist

Book 3 of the Brumbies Series

All Rights Reserved

ISBN-13: 978-1-925759-35-8

Copyright ©2018 Paula Boer

All maps in this book were designed by

Paula Boer and rendered by Rowena Evans

Second Edition

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

IFWG Publishing International

Melbourne

www.ifwgpublishing.com

For Brodie, an Anglo-Arabian gelding, and all the other horses that have inspired my stories

A glossary of horse-related terms

can be found at page 129

Chapter 1

The roar of water surging over the cascades made conversation impossible. Millions of droplets sprayed in the air, creating rainbows wherever Louise looked. She stared in wonder at the spectacle—last time she had been here the rocks lay dormant under snow and ice; now they had come alive. Ever changing shapes reminded her of the frothy waves she thought of as white horses.

Ben signalled for her to come away from the river.

With reluctance, Louise turned Honey, her buckskin mare, away from the mesmerising torrent. Walking across to where Ben sat on Snip, his black Thoroughbred-cross stockhorse, she lightly brushed mist out of Honey’s mane. That’s awesome! No-one’ll be able to cross there for weeks.

The cascades usually made a natural rock bridge that hikers in the park used to scramble over the Dalrymple River. Further downstream the fire trail crossed a ford where vehicles could cross.

Ben reined-in Snip who fidgeted on the spot. I’ve never seen the river this high. The snow melt is really adding to all that spring rain we’ve had.

Ben had lived all his life on a nearby property, Tumbleford Farm. He spent every leisure day riding in the park, especially since he had met Louise a year ago.

Louise had moved to Crowhurst from the city. Soon after she and Ben started riding together, they had mustered brumbies to save them from being shot for dog meat. Ben had caught himself a magnificent liver chestnut colt, Brandy. Louise had captured and broken in Honey.

The young mare ducked her head and tried to graze. Louise pulled her head up. No you don’t, you’re working. No eating until I take your bridle off.

Summer came late in the high country. With the hard winter and wet spring, the meadow flowers had only just started to emerge. Dots of purple, yellow and white carpeted the plains. Moss-covered boulders jutted out from amongst the tiny blooms like giants’ marbles. Louise liked to pretend the granite outcrops were ancient animals, grazing their way slowly across the hillsides; this one a hairy-nosed wombat, that one a spiny anteater. She always saw animals in cloud formations too. As she gazed up, she imagined herds of horses with their manes and tails blowing in the wind.

The image reminded her of the first time she had seen brumbies galloping in high spirits across the grasslands. We haven’t seen many horses up here recently.

Ben walked Snip alongside Honey on a loose rein. No. I’ve only seen a few bachelors off in the distance and a small herd that I didn’t recognise. I wonder where the main mob with the grey stallion are?

There hasn’t been a muster up here, surely? We’d have heard about it. Louise frowned as she thought more about the lack of horse sign.

I doubt the ranger would have organised one. He wouldn’t want the park turned into a quagmire. Ben waved his arm to indicate the boggy patches that would normally be dry grasses at this time of year.

Louise grabbed her reins as Honey made another snatch for a mouthful of flowers. But the muster isn’t usually until February. It could be dry by then.

Maybe. But it’s very mild for December. That means the snow will be melting, maybe even on the top of Mt. Evans. The long range forecast is for rain right through summer, too. Come on, let’s trot. Ben shortened his reins and sat easily in the saddle as Snip surged ahead. The black gelding pricked up his ears at the change of pace and powered ahead of Honey.

The brumby mare fretted at being left behind, dancing sideways and tossing her head. Steady, girl. You’ll catch up quicker if you go straight rather than playing around.

The further behind Snip left them, the more agitated Honey became. Ben! Can you slow down? I’m having trouble.

Ben looked back over his shoulder as he pulled Snip up and waited for Louise. Sorry, I thought you were right behind me.

Louise grimaced as she struggled to turn Honey straight. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She isn’t listening to me today.

Ben and Louise had broken in their brumbies six months ago, but since then the bad weather had prevented them riding out much. This was the first time Louise had ridden Honey further than the derelict homestead where the previous summer they had built yards to muster brumbies.

Do you still want to go all the way to Kingfisher Lake for lunch? Ben sat to Snip’s slow trot as if he was glued to the saddle.

Honey had settled now that she had caught up with Snip. We may as well. Wouldn’t it be good if we saw Harry? We haven’t seen him for months.

Old Harry, as the locals knew him, lived rough in the park. Although adults treated him with suspicion, Ben and Louise had made friends with the hermit who had helped them catch Brandy and Honey. He had taught them a lot about horses and helped any wild animals he found in difficulty. Louise still wanted to meet his tame wombat, Lucky, that he had rescued from a metal trap.

We could leave him a message at the signpost tree on our way past. If he’s somewhere near, he’ll know where we are. Ben had first thought of the dead tree as a way to pass messages to Harry when Mrs Smythe-Waters, a local landholder, had asked him to deliver cakes and biscuits to the old man as a thank you for helping rescue two hikers trapped in the old mines during the winter.

By marking out Harry’s name in sticks in the snow, Ben and Louise had pointed to the saddlebags hung on a lower branch. Since then, they had agreed with Harry that they would always check under a rock at the base of the tree for any note. The tree marked the way to the secret ravine where Harry had showed them how to catch the brumbies, which wasn’t far from where he lived. Despite Ben having been to Harry’s home when feral pigs injured his leg, he had never been able to find the shack again; familiar tracks always seemed to be blocked by logs or rocks.

Louise leant back on her hands where she sat at the edge of the lake and splashed her toes in the water. This is freezing! I’d thought of going for a swim, but no way.

The horses grazed nearby, hobbled and unsaddled. Louise had been worried about letting her brumby loose but Ben argued that the mare wouldn’t leave Snip. Their noses almost touched as they sought the same sweet fodder.

Ben chewed on a blade of grass as he lay on his back and stared at the sky. I’ve really missed being up here. It seems like it’s been either snowing or raining for years.

I know what you mean. I didn’t think I’d ever feel trapped living in the country, but even Crowhurst seems big to me these days. I love being away from everything man-made, just us and the horses.

Louise watched a willy-wagtail as it flitted from branch to branch in a nearby tree. The next moment it sat on Snip’s rump, catching insects hovering over the horse’s back. Snip doesn’t seem to mind his new rider at all.

Ben sat up and swigged from his water bottle. Harry must have seen our sign. Here he comes.

The horses noticed the approach of the mule at the same time, lifting their heads but continuing to chew mouthfuls of meadow flowers. Honey whickered a welcome.

The ancient hermit rambled alongside Jenny, rolling in his rocking gate on bent legs. I wondered if you’d be out on a fine Saturday like today.

Isn’t it gorgeous? And look! I’ve got Honey. Louise leaped up and gave the old man a hug. The two horses wandered over to snuffle noses with Jenny.

Ben shook hands with Harry. We’ve plenty of lunch. How about chocolate brownies? I think there’s a pear left, too.

That would be good. The native raspberries are late this year. Everything is late this year. Harry left Jenny to wander on her own and sat down with Louise and Ben at the edge of the lake.

Have you seen many brumbies since the winter? There doesn’t seem to be much sign of them around. I hope they didn’t all starve or freeze to death in that awful weather. Louise suspected Harry knew the whereabouts of all the herds. He seemed to have a natural rapport with wild creatures.

Harry stroked his long beard with gnarled fingers. I’ve seen a few of the smaller herds that are normally way down south, but I haven’t seen that main herd with the grey stallion. You’re right, it’s odd.

Ben flapped flies away from his face with a twist of long grass. There’s plenty of feed now, so maybe they’ve gone higher into the hills.

That’s what I thought, too, at one stage. But I haven’t seen any sign of them anywhere.

The evening still had plenty of light left when Louise cycled home. She and Ben had spent nearly all day out in the park. By the time they arrived back at Tumbleford Farm, Honey had become tired and tried to jog all the way. Louise’s back ached and her arms felt twice as long as normal from trying to hold on to her young mare.

She wondered if her riding skills were up to training a green horse. She hadn’t wanted to say anything to Ben. He hadn’t said anything when Honey played up which made her think that he also thought she couldn’t cope. In