Chapter 1

The freezing windhowled through the Snowy Mountains, biting and chilling to the bone. Cold and stoic faces stood around the graveside, hats low, coat collars pulled up. “A good man is laid to rest,” Father Michael said. “On this here day, in the year of 1882 of the Good Lord. Respected by all who knew him, Arthur Bramwell, may he rest in peace.”

Albie Bramwell stood at the foot of his father’s grave, the damp winter air doing little to soothe the burn of his aching heart. Fitting, he thought, that the sun wouldn’t shine on this day. The low, dark clouds clung to the highlands, the trees, and the homestead as if their gloom sympathised with Albie’s loss.

Not even the eucalypt shared their scent on the breeze. Out of respect or heartbreak, Albie dared not guess.

These mountains were forever changed now, as was the man who called them home.

He was alone now, his father taken far too soon by a logging accident. Echo Creek was now his farm to run. And he would, like his father had. Built from nothing but hard work in even harder times. Albie would forge on like his father would want him to. Expect him to, more to the point.

Stop with the foolishness, boy, his father would have said. Chin up and get back to work.

A hand clapped on Albie’s shoulder, snapping him from his memories. He turned to find Des behind him, his hat in his hands. In all the years Des had been Arthur’s leading stockman, Albie had seldom seen him remove his hat.

Albie noticed then the wagons were leaving, folks from the town heading home before the weather truly set in. “The men would like a word,” Des said, a scowl in place. “Best get it over with.”

Four stockmen stood in a nervous circle, and Albie noticed a little too late that their horses were tethered to the railing and packed with their gear. The eldest of them, Fitzgerald, a tall, brusque man who had worked for Arthur Bramwell for ten years, raised his bearded chin. “We are sorry for the loss of your father, Albie. He was a good, good man,” he said. “But these are no parts for a boy to call his own. We wish you well, son, but our time here is done. We’ll be seeking work elsewhere.”

Albie couldn’t believe his ears. “You would leave me now, of all days?”

Williams tipped his hat. “These mountains have broken men twice your age. If you want some advice, go to the valley and earn your keep. Put your head down and learn from the men who know what it takes to live up here.”

“You need to do your time, boy,” another added. “And come back a man.”

Albie clenched his jaw, his anger bubbling with indignation and grief. “I have two thousand hectares of mountains to farm, and you would see me fail because you think I’m not a man! My father thought me a man. Man enough to give the orders in his absence, and none of you would have dared question me then, but now you think I’m not capable?” He pointed his finger at them. “You lot can get the hell off my property. If you doubt me, then I don’t want you here. And that goes for anyone who thinks I’m not man enough.”

Not man enough... Albie couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was pure disbelief that these men, whom he’d known for years, would abandon him on the day of his father’s funeral. The four men walked toward their horses without another word. Their heads down in shame.

As they should, Albie thought.

Albie turned to Des, and Robert, who stood behind Des. “If you think I’m not capable, feel free to join them.”

Des looked Albie right in the eye. “I stood by your father, and he was good to me. I’ll stand by you.”

Albie then looked at Robert. He was a weedy man who’d found himself in trouble with the bottle and the law, but Albie’s father had sorted him out and given him a job. He was good with horses and a hard worker, and he’d always been good to Albie. “I’m staying,” he said.

Albie lifted his chin in pride and defiance. “I might not be my father, but I was raised in these mountains. It’s all I’ve ever known. And I will prove those bastards wrong.”

Marcy and Evalyn appeared on the veranda, dressed in their Sunday clothes, heads bowed. “Ain’t nothing personal,” Marcy said. “I wish?—”

“Come along,” Fitzgerald called out to his wife.

Marcy gave Albie a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Albie. There’s enough supper to last awhile. I made sure of it.”

Albie should have known that Marcy and Evalyn would leave with their men. It was only right.

“Thank you.”

Evalyn was teary. “Sorry, Albie.”

“Wagon’s leaving,” Williams called out, his horse turning under his hard reins, and both women hurried along.

That left them four stockmen down and without a cook or a housemaid.

The three men stood there by the veranda and watched them ride down to the property gates. Albie was furious and hurt, but he refused to show it. He had no clue what he would do, or where to even start, but he was in charge now. He was the boss. At just nineteen years of age, freshly orphaned, and shot into a role he wasn’t sure he could handle. But he had no choice.

“Right then,” Albie said. “Let’s get to work.”

* * *

Four days later,Albie saddled Minnie in the stable before daybreak. Minnie was a chestnut mare, barely fourteen hands high, a mountain pony through and through. More mountain goat than horse, Albie’s father had once said with a laugh. But if any man was only as good as his horse, as the saying went, then Albie was confident. She was as smart as she was sure-footed, and Albie trusted her with his life. When you were riding flat strap, chasing cattle down the slopes, dodging trees and rocks, that trust was the difference between life and death.

These mountains rarely afforded second chances.

Des appeared, not quite awake yet, and began to ready Ox. The tall black gelding was, or rather, had been, Albie’s father’s horse. Albie was still struggling with thinking of his father in the past tense. Ox had been a bit skittish as a colt and took a firm hand to yield, but he was a good stock horse: as strong as his name suggested.

Albie was riding to town, and for the two-day return trip, he would ride Minnie and tether Ox behind. Ox would serve as the pack horse. Albie had a few matters to attend to in town and a list of supplies to bring back. It was a half-day’s ride into Alpine Falls following the narrow road down the mountains, and Albie had made this journey countless times.

The plan was to see his lawyer, collect all the supplies, stay overnight, and return home by midday the following day. He also planned on putting the word out for any men who were looking for work.

He wasn’t optimistic, but it couldn’t hurt.

No doubt word had gotten out about Fitzgerald and his men leaving, and Albie had to wonder what rumours had followed. He’d never cared for the town life. There were too many people and too much fuss for his liking, but this trip couldn’t be put off any longer. He was, after all, the man in charge now.

Des finished putting the saddlebags on Ox and took the bridle in hand. “You ready?”

Albie double-checked the girth strap and gave a nod. “Yes. I’ll be back around noon tomorrow. There’s enough stew and damper to last the night, and fresh eggs if you collect ’em.”

Des grumped and led Ox out of the stable. “Robert can fetch the eggs,” he drawled, his deep voice as stoic as he was. “I’ll worry about the horses and cattle.”

Albie put his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up into the saddle. Minnie tossed her head to the side and Albie tightened the reins and gave her a nudge. “Come on, girl.”

Once they were outside, the sun was turning night into day along the mountain ridge that lined the eastern sky. Des tethered Ox to Minnie, and with a tip of his hat, Albie said, “You’re in charge, Des.”

“Got it... boss.” The man almost smiled like he found something funny in calling him boss. But then he frowned. “Watch the crossing.”

Watch the crossingwas something Albie’s father had said whenever Albie had gone down the mountain, and hearing Des say it now sent a pang of grief through him that made it hard for Albie to breathe. The best he could manage was a nod, and with another nudge to Minnie, he rode down the long entrance and out his property gate.

The trek down the mountain was cold, damp, and peaceful. The winter mist clung to the slopes like a shawl, the smell of wet earth and eucalypt the perfume that would always remind Albie of home.

He’d been a small boy on childish adventures in these parts, pretending to be a bushranger, climbing trees, and building lean-tos from bark. He’d been a teen, taking off on horseback when his father allowed, spending time by himself trying to get away from it all, giving himself time to think...

He loved these mountains.

The birds, the trees, the winds, they knew his stories. They knew his secrets.

And so he rode. The trip was mostly a chore for everyone else, but Albie didn’t mind it one bit. It gave him uninterrupted head-clearing time, and by the time he rode into Alpine Falls, he was determined to do everything on his list, already eager to get back home.

The township of Alpine Falls was a decent size. Stores and saloons with verandas lined the dirt street that became mud with the hint of rain. Posts to tether horses dotted the streets, troughs of water, and people milling about with important business that Albie never much cared for. The tannery reeked, the bullock trains did too, noise and foul language spilled from the saloons, children ran and yelled, and it was all too loud and busy for Albie’s liking.

He rode past the saddler’s store, the bank, and the barbers, and a few of the townsfolk nodded his way. He tipped his hat and offered no more than a smile until he found the place he was looking for.

First stop was to see Mr Bill Flannigan. He had helped Albie’s father over the years, and Bill had told Albie at the funeral he’d need to come to town to sign the paperwork to transfer the title deeds over to his name. It was easy enough.

“Ah, the man from Echo Creek,” Flannigan said, greeting him warmly the way he used to greet his father.

The man from Echo Creek...

The reminder was a little too raw and it seared Albie with fresh grief, right where he stood.

Flannigan seemed to notice and regretted his choice of words. “It’s good to see you, Albie.”

“Likewise,” Albie replied. He hadn’t realised how much he’d needed to see a friendly face.

A handshake, further apologies and condolences at the loss of a good man, and Flannigan quickly explained how the ownership of Echo Creek now rested on Albie’s shoulders.

At just nineteen, Albie was the owner of two thousand hectares of mountain country. He should have felt pride or something—men twice his age rarely had what he did—but all Albie felt was loss and a huge weight of responsibility. His father’s passing had left him with quite the burden, and he’d have given it all back to have his father alive again.

Albie couldn’t read too well: he’d never had much time for school, but he could read well enough. His name, his father’s estate, and the deeds to Echo Creek. That was all he needed to know.

And so, with a scribble of a blue fountain pen, it was done.

Albie had perhaps expected more. He wasn’t sure what exactly he expected more of, but when Mr Flannigan congratulated him and said it was done, Albie felt... empty. Sad, and a little lost.

And very much alone.

Deciding he should eat and find a bed for the night, Albie rode to the hotel he’d stayed at before. The saloon was always loud and rowdy, but the food was good and the rooms were clean. He slid down from his horse and tied her to the railing just as a dog came from nowhere, barking and snapping at his horses.

Albie held onto Minnie’s reins as he tried to kick at the still-barking dog, yelling at it to get lost. It snapped at his ankle and Minnie shied away, but Ox pulled and stomped, and Albie tried to calm both his horses. Then the feral dog snapped at Ox’s hind fetlock and the big horse kicked and pulled, his tether coming free.

He reared up, his eyes wild, all while the dog still barked. People stood by and watched, and Albie grasped for Ox’s tether, but Ox pulled back, out of reach. He neighed and stomped at the dog, ready to bolt. The crowd scattered, and Minnie jacked up now as well, and Albie was about to lose control of both horses in front of everyone...

Until someone raced in from behind, quick as a whip, and grabbed Ox’s tether. Albie was so busy trying to calm Minnie and get rid of the menace dog, he hadn’t realised just how fast Ox had quietened.

“Woah, boy,” the man said, talking calm and gentle, holding the tether near the bridle—holding strong but talking sweet—and he soon had Ox under control. The dog had been scared away, and all that was left was the chatter of the spectators, the hard breathing of the horses, and Albie’s hammering heart.

It was then the man turned around and walked Ox back toward him. He looked no older than Albie. He had straight blondish hair, a little longer than men normally wore. He had blue eyes and a roguish smile. His white shirt wasn’t too clean, his brown pants not much better, his boots were well-worn, and his muscled forearms were that of a horseman.

“He almost got away from ya,” he said, handing the tether to Albie. “Fine-looking horse it is.”

“Thank you,” Albie said, still a little breathless. He gave Ox a reassuring pat and did a quick once over. He was, thankfully, fine. “That blasted dog.”

“Nuisance dog, it is,” the man said. “It’s with the last bullock team that came through. Reckon they’ll be gone tonight.” He ran his hand through his dirty blond hair and licked his lips, and Albie was taken aback by just how handsome the man in front of him was. He’d only dreamed of such men, and even then, his dreams didn’t quite do this man justice.

It took a moment for Albie to remember his manners. “I’m indebted to you.”

“It was no problem at all, mister.”

Albie stuck out his hand. “The name’s Albie Bramwell.”

The man smiled, all roguish and charming. His grip was firm and warm, but his eyes were like blue fire. “Nice to meet you, Albie. I’m Percy Collins.”