Breaking the Drought

Firstly, many thanks to Hal1 and Todger65 for their editing skills and time taken to educate the author, correct and polish the story for all to enjoy.

Introduction: Breaking the Drought is a completely fictional story based in the wide-open spaces of Western Queensland in Australia. The cattle stations are measured in square kilometers with many stations extending into millions of acres each. I have penned it with a certain gentleness and vulnerability in contrast to the harshness of the drought in the story. I have posted a glossary at the end.

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Part One

Monica watched as the tail lights faded into the dust. Another asshole of a 'want-to-be-lover-turned-fighter' driving down the exit lane of her life. Shame, he wasn't a bad worker when he had his mind on the job. Yet he had objected to being told what to do this afternoon and suggested a good fuck instead. She declined, so he had called her a few choice names, stood over her and tried to punch her into submission.

She had kneed him savagely and dropped a work boot into his solar plexus as he fell. She stood over him and told him to pack his gear and leave. The worst guys usually came to work as station hands, got lazy and drunk in the dry camps, made her all sorts of suggestions and promises to help work the station, but apart from the occasional cowboy sex, she was as emotionally devoid as the station was of rain since the drought began.

In her early 40's, she was still single, however she was for all intents, married to the million and something hectare cattle property, Myimbarr Station. As far as premium partner material went, four to six permanent employees and the seasonal mustering contractors, weren't much to pick from. She hadn't had a holiday since leaving university to care for her Dad when a mustering pilot crashed with him on board. He died a few months later, leaving the station to his daughters.

Her sister wanted off the property as soon as she hit boarding school. She was now a latte sipping, world traveling research vet with the state government and had 3 kids with her handsome builder husband. Worlds away from Myimbarr Station and the solitary life remote cattle stations entailed.

She usually had a handful of employees through the year on graders, fencing, dam building and mechanical repairs. Most of the good ones were married or with long term partners, too young or inappropriate for some other reason. Some were running away from lives that haunted them elsewhere.

The singles and playboys came to work, but any work ethic the guys had before she turned them down usually disappeared like the pasture grass into the hot wind when she denied them access to her bedroom. She never had time to wonder if she were bi, gay or any one of the other selections she had heard of. Other station wives just thought she worked too hard, or wanted to be a spinster. For a handful with significant others known to stray, she was a possible threat to their partners fidelity.

Monica had concluded that most of the men she had make passes at her were just revolting, like the wild bulls that broke into the station cattle herds on occasion. She only ever seemed to go through the motions if she felt horny enough.

The guys got their rocks off and rarely looked after her needs. It was easier just to switch the biology off than to deal with petty, mini-dicked, misogynist jackaroos who were either all ego, after money, or to take over the station having predetermined she wasn't up to the task. Jillaroos rarely applied for the positions and if they did, generally came with a partner. She had caught herself checking out more than one of the girls on the rare occasion though.

Her father always expected that she would find a decent man to help her run the station eventually. She was well educated, but out here, life was pretty mainstream traditional, and a fancy education meant nothing. So far, half last season's lot wanted a fuck buddy or more drinking money. Some didn't like being told no either. She had decked a couple over the years.

Like most station raised girls, she could take care of herself. She even zip tied one would be knife wielding rapist in the back of the Toyota, drove with him in the tray six hours on the gravel roads and dumped him at Julia Creek police station naked except for a pink bow around his neck much to the locals' amusement. She was unequivocally not into non-consent. But for the time being, she needed a couple more jackaroos to help with bores and fences.

She sighed and slumped down on the ancient timber steps. The border collie who refused to ever do a days work with stock had somehow dodged a bullet years ago, and now lay his fluffy black and white head on her lap. His eyes never leaving hers. It was a scene repeated every few months as blokes fell for her and then did something stupid and left. He was a veteran at the routine. No other dog was allowed in the house except him.

House dog was also quite adept at reading her suitors, but she never seemed to take any notice. This time, she did. This time, she ruffled his ears and looked back into his eyes. He'd even growled and nipped at a couple of rough riders as they opportunistically grabbed Monica's toned butt or breasts, and been kicked by them savagely in the gut for expressing his canine opinion. The offending males were kicked off the station instantly. Not so much for grabbing her, but for kicking the dog. No one touched House dog.

"You knew, didn't you rat-bag. You knew he wasn't right in the head." The tears welled up. The drought was really starting to take its toll on her. It was a slow and insidious darkness creeping into her soul, reducing her to tears way too often lately. The dog licked her hand and crawled into her lap, and closed his brown eyes.

"Bloody lap dogs", she laughed through the frustrated tears and snot, unceremoniously pushed the dog off, filled his dinner bowl and turned the house lights off to go to her empty bed.

The following morning in the dark, she pulled on her worn leather boots over some old socks with holes in the toes, argued with the zipper in her jeans, brewed a coffee, and did battle jump starting the old fencing ute. She dropped the .222 rifle into the gun lock behind the seats where it always went. She hated using it, but lately, the cattle had dropped condition and were now becoming trapped in bogs where the dams used to be full of water.

She'd fenced most of the bigger turkeys nest dams, but the natural watercourses were problematic. It was more humane to shoot them, and then chain them out later with the bulldozer than let them die slowly and contaminate the precious surface water. It was still an economic nightmare. Each cow was worth thousands to the breeding program. House dog took his customary place in the tattered passenger seat while the working dogs all jumped up in the tray, barking in anticipation. It was going to be hot and dusty again, with no hope of rain in the forecasts for months yet.

Hours later, she had cut a load of drought feed for the weaners in the yards back at the homestead, fixed a fence line, pulled a mill water pump up to service it and patched the old donkey engine with a new glow plug and some pipe seal on the water tank. Afternoon jobs had been scheduled in the river paddock. Millions of gallons of water had flowed through Myimbarr Station every day for most of her life, but now she saw the old river gums sighing over dry beds and eroded banks.

Even the flocks of red tailed cockatoos had left weeks ago. The huge squawking clouds of corellas would be next as the food along the river dwindled. They were flying east to the dividing range she heard. She pulled the rattling Toyota to a standstill but left the engine running. She'd have to order a set of new batteries and starter motor, but it wasn't going to happen until after the muster when the first lot of cattle went to sale. She clambered down the bank and whistled the dogs down for a swim in last of the spring fed river billabongs and checked for bogged cattle.

Seeing none, she thought about the packed lunch in the portable fridge, but instead of eating she sat, stared and started crying as if nothing could turn the taps off. House dog nuzzled in again. Perhaps she should ring the health clinic and ask about some anti-depressants. Her version of hell, was her inability to hold herself together for more than a day.

The station with its millions of years of natural history would still be here millions of years long after she and her stock had broken down into basic elements. She was insignificant in the scheme of life out here. She wouldn't be missed. But there was something alive about the rocky escarpments, the spinifex plains, the saltbush and the riverbeds. The living seasons and the yearly cycles of life were her life support. She just really missed the idea of having someone to share it with.

A trio of working dogs suddenly started a cacophony of barking, alerted the others, dashed up out of the water, effortlessly flying up the bank and disappearing over the crest in a cloud of red, black and tan dogs misted in grey river dust. House dog pricked his ears and watched them energetically depart. They often took off after goannas, kangaroos and the odd wild dog. He sunk back down beside her. She was his everything and he stayed.

She thought she heard a helicopter above the chugging of the Toyotas diesel engine noisily idling without its muffler, but dismissed it. The new mustering pilot wasn't due until tomorrow. The last thing she wanted was to be social with some "cowboy-hero-pilot-legend-in-his-own-lunchbox" type. Most of the trusted contract and Royal Flying Doctor Service pilots knew where she stored fuel and paperwork at the homestead airstrip if they needed it. The hot afternoon breeze cooled across the water and steadied her emotions again.

Thirst and a sense of obligation eventually pulled her to her feet. She filled her battered hat with tepid water and had a quick rinse off before she climbed back up to the noisy ute on the track. She grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, crunched the recalcitrant gearbox into one of the remaining forward high range gears, drove down through the rocky crossing and stirred up the bull dust into huge rolling clouds along the tracks back to the homestead. Rumbling over the homestead grid, she saw the tail of an R22 mustering helicopter owned by mustering contractor she often used, Matt Kowsinsky.

It was parked on the remnant of homestead lawn she refused to let die. To let it die would be akin to giving in to this terrible drought. The helicopter parked on it seemed like an insult to her efforts to keep it alive however practical it may have been for the pilot. Grass doesn't grow without a lot of water. Love dies here she thought. Hell, even lust cannot seem to find a foothold in the past couple of years.

She looked over the curves of the R22 cabin and wondered at the lack of bug splatter over the windscreen. Someone was careful. The seatbelts were clasped, the covers had been pulled over the pitot tube and doors on. Very unlike the choppers that normally contracted for the mustering season she mused.

The pilots usually landed them over on the strip and dragged them dirty straight into the hanger. Matt must have gotten some city idiot to deliver the urgent supplies she was expecting for the muster. She ran a finger across the dustless tail boom. "Well, that will last all of five minutes out in the cattle runs", she told House dog. She almost wished the black and white mutt would cock his leg on the skid before she sent the machine back over to the airstrip off her grass. Clean things were so out of place here now.

She sat down on the old iron bark slab bench near the front door and jammed her boot heel into the old cracked boot puller only to have the boot puller fly apart, sending her off balance backward onto the wall.

"Fucking useless fucking cunt of a piece of shit", she exploded at the world in general. She hurled the nearest piece of boot puller over the decaying remains of the rose bushes in the general direction of the helicopter.

"That's some arm love! Better put it to good use with this."

Monica swung around ready to belt the owner of the voice, only to be met with a smiling face, startling grey eyes armed with a mischievous grin and a rum and coke can she dare not spill. For the first time in years, she was almost embarrassed to be covered in dirt, grime, cattle dust and grease.

"Oh god, I'm sorry. It's been a hell of a week", she apologized to the bearer of the offered drink. She accepted and drunk deeply of the liquid sanity nearly emptying the can in one go. Having a mouthful of the sweet tasting spirit was an excuse to have time to think of something sane to say. Thank you was about all she could manage. She was really thrown by her primal awakening to the woman in front of her.

"And you are?"

"Leesa. I'm here early. Matt said I could bring the chopper over a couple of days before the first big muster and get familiar with the layout of the place. You know, power lines, trees, yards and water. Any nice fishing spots? I'm a sucker for garlic Yabbies."

Monica was just standing silently watching her face. She had totally forgotten to tell the pilot off for landing on her handkerchief of green grass. Leesa continued.

"Matt sent a heap of supplies, but I could only fit a few things in. You know, weight and balance and legal stuff. Mel the cook is bringing the truck in tonight. The rest is coming with the crew tomorrow. Matt said something about ute batteries and a starter motor. He found some and put them on your account. I fitted the most important stuff in though!" She brandished the rum and cola six pack with a flourish. Still captivated and speechless, Monika stared.

She watched Leesa's face. It was mesmerizing. Those grey eyes. There were wisps of grey flecking through the temples and into a smart brown ponytail poking out from the blue cap she was wearing. She must have been around forty she thought. She was country. That was for sure, but other than that, Monica couldn't place her.

Leesa would have been perfectly at home anywhere. She was suddenly brought back to her senses when Leesa looked concerned, and asked if she was okay. Monica nodded, crunched the first can to a flat disk and took another full can offered to her.

House dog, got up and sat in front of Leesa, lifting a paw to shake. She looked down and smiling, obliged the dog before he rolled over onto his back for a belly scratch. Well, that went well, Monica thought sarcastically. I'm an anti-social buffoon. Even the dog is looking for a way out now. After two of the rum cans, some awkward small talk out of the way, Monica then showed Leesa to the "shearers" quarters.

The old pepper tree looked the same as it had 40 years ago at the center of the four donga complex, 4 rooms to a unit, arranged in a U shape, it still had its obligatory grey green foliage and small wrinkled pink fruits messily littered over the ground and verandah. It had a small kitchen with laundry in another unit attached by a covered walkway. Each room had its own toilet and bathroom to keep the peace.

Part 2

Leesa crunched her way up the steps and waved thank you to Monica as she kicked open the door to room number 4 which was set up with a phone, lap top, Wi-Fi and printer for the pilots. She tossed her swag inside, flipped on the air conditioning switch and turned on the shower. Mel had recommended this job, only now she wasn't sure why she had been so adamant it had to be Myimbarr Station. She'd had offers to go fly for some of the largest cattle operations in Australia.

Her new boss seemed a bit uptight and antisocial. Nice physique though. People on stations like this were generally fit and lean from the physical work and Monica was no exception. That butt in those worn jeans she recalled with a definite tinge of sexual attraction. The dog was cute though and it was worth it to stay the season with Mel's cooking.

Three years ago, after 25 years as a highly qualified paramedic, obtaining a chopper license was a total career change for Leesa. She had tried staying on after her paramedic partner was killed in a prang with a drunk driver. Flying was a world away from her relationship and the incestuous politics of the emergency health industry.

Outside, Monica made a mental note to get someone to clean the summer dust out of the a/c filters. They were going to get a lot of use over the next few weeks. She turned on her heel and walked back to the house absorbed in the confusion of her feelings. Mel, the camp cook rolled up later that evening in the truck. No one was ever game to argue with Mel.

Any idiot who had any notion of complaining about the food quickly found themselves on the outer with everyone. Cooks were a protected species in general, and good cooks were valued well above any other member of the camp. Mel was a sought after treasure as she was quick witted, good with the crews and amazing in the kitchen.

Mel liked coming to Myimbarr. She'd initially kept coming as a favor for Monica's deceased father apparently. Monica knew she would be paid more with better conditions and her own staff at other bigger camps, but Mel liked working for Monica. They made a good team and she was more than a competent manager. Mel's other talent lay in being able to read people. She had a fearsome reputation as an old school match maker and mother hen of sorts.

Leesa, came over and helped load up the cool room and sort the new cookware in the kitchen. Mel was an affable easy-going type. A bit of an enigma with short grey hair and a law degree with honors, she left her pampered life in Melbourne as she just loved the simplicity and reality of station life. Her financier husband of 40 years had done the tree change with Mel, and was out on a water bore run for another out station. He would be arriving in a week.

Mel watched both Leesa and Monica before she turned to Leesa. "Be gentle with this one. She looks tough, but she's like one of her grandmothers' roses out there. Needs some nurturing." She winked and hung some cryo-vacced meat in the cool room.

Monica's eyebrows creased and raised involuntarily. She wasn't sure if she heard right. Perhaps, Mel was laughing at her lack of stomach for idiot pilots and rough air. She was always getting paid out for it. Besides, Monica assumed Leesa was straight. No one really talked about gays out here, let alone admit it. Everyone just went about their days work and if someone wanted to share their bed in the dongas, she didn't really care with the proviso that they kept private lives and work separate.

She grabbed another box of vegetables and nearly had her eyes pop out as Leesa slapped her bum as she passed by. Fuck it. She'd have to change her underwear now. Mel laughed and handed Leesa another box from the truck. "Here, don't let the cool room get too hot eh!"

Leesa's eyes met Monica's again in the cool room. The innuendo had been hung out like washing on a line in the breeze. House dog ran between them like an exuberant puppy as they walked in silence back to the kitchen where Mel had made a pot of tea. She raced to the bottom of her cup nearly burning her mouth on the hot beverage. She could feel herself getting very wet. She couldn't bear sitting here anymore.

Small talk was so stilted, and she couldn't find words. She felt her face heat up in readiness to cry in disappointment and frustration. So, she excused herself and bolted for her bathroom. She turned the taps on hard. When the rainwater had run out, she had to switch the water source to the house bore. It was always hot, and had a distinct odor. Who cares she thought? Everyone is going to smell the same in a week.