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A Bantam book Published by Random House Australia Pty LtdLevel 3, 100 Pacic Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060www.randomhouse.com.au

First published by Bantam in 2011

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011

The moral right of the author has been asserted.All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any formor by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except underthe statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording,scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the priorwritten permission of Random House Australia.

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found atwww.randomhouse.com.au/ofces

National Library of AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Alexander, Nicole.A Changing Land

ISBN: 978 1 74166 943 5 (pbk)

A823.4

Cover photograph of woman MasterleCover photograph of landscape Photolibrary Cover design by Blue Cork Internal design and typesetting by Midland Typesetters, AustraliaPrinted in Australia by Grifn Press, an accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004Environmental Management System printer

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper this book is printed on is certied against theForest Stewardship Council Standards. Grifn Press holds

FSC chain of custody certication SGS-COC-005088. FSCpromotes environmentally responsible, socially benecialand economically viable management of the worlds forests.

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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Prologue

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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3

Spring, 1987

Wangallon Station

Sarah stared at the headstones, at the ageing monumentssilhouetted by the rising moon. The clearing was strangely quiet and she wondered whether the spirits of Wangallon werewelcoming her grandfather, Angus, at some other sacred place onthe property. Lifting the latch on the peeling wooden gate, shestepped through grass grown long by recent spring rains. Twigs

and leaves crackled beneath her, the soft soil creating an imprintof her passing. The familiar pounding of a kangaroo echoed acrossthe narrow stretch of water that formed the twisting WangallonCreek, and with their movement a ock of lorikeets squawked ina tall gum tree before resettling for the night.

Sarah stopped rst by her brother Camerons grave, and thenat the freshly turned mound that covered her beloved grandfather.

For the rst time the enormity of his passing settled on her slightshoulders. To have lost him, of all people, was incomprehensible,

yet curled about her grief like a shroud was a sense of respons-ibility almost too great to imagine. She was now the beneciary

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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of a thirty per cent share in their family property, Wangallon. Shewas, as her father pointed out, the only legitimate Gordon left,

apart from himself; nearly everyone else was buried here within thearms of the property that her great-grandfather, Hamish Gordon,founded in 1858. Sarah looked at the ancient headstones: grand-mother, brother, great uncle, wives, young children and HamishGordon. He that had amassed what was now one of the largestprivately held properties left in north-western New South Wales.

Years ago Sarah had wished for such an opportunity, dreamt of itand could admit to resentment at having been passed over becauseof a chance of birth. Then Cameron died and Anthony the hiredhelp as her mother called him eventually became manager. Noweverything was different. As a direct descendent, Sarah knew thefates had anointed her as custodian of Wangallon and she feltill-prepared for the future. She shook her head, hoping to clear alittle of the fatigue and grief that had seeped into her veins overthe last week. Soon they would be booking the contractors up forlamb marking, soon they would . . . but she couldnt recall whatwas scheduled next, she was too tired. Leaning against the trunk of a gum tree, Sarah rested her palms on the bark beneath her.Through the canopy of leaves above her, the sky was gun-metalblue. There were few stars, for what elements could compete with

the moon that now blanketed her in a mantle of silver.Sarah?Anthonys voice startled her. Shed not heard the Landcruiser

approach and was unsure how long she had been weeping beneaththe moons glow. Anthony took her hand and helped her to herfeet, brushing the soil from her clothes.

I didnt want to leave you out here any longer. I know you

needed to say goodbye without the hordes that were here earlierbut

Sarah kissed him on the cheek. Its okay. Im okay.He looked at her tear-stained face and cocked an eyebrow.

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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5

Wangallon Station

Youve barely slept this last week. He knew, for he had laid besideher and oated on the memory of sleep as she tossed and turned

through each successive night. You should get some rest.Sarah allowed herself to be led from the graveyard, listened as

the latch on the small gate clicked shut. Moon shadows followedtheir progress.

Anthony placed a supportive arm around her slight waist. Hisgirl had lost weight in the week since old Anguss death. Anthony was worried about her. We need to sit down and work out themanagement plans for the next twelve to eighteen months. Howdoes that sound? Sarah looked at him blankly. Weve the lambsto mark and . . . He could tell she wasnt listening; her gaze wasxed somewhere out in the darkness of the countryside. Dontworry, Ill handle things until you feel more up to it. Leading heraround to the passenger-side door, Anthony helped her into herseat. Look, I brought a little friend for you.

Sarah stroked the shiny fat pup Anthony placed in her lap.It was Bullet, one of the pups by Anguss dog Shrapnel. She huggedthe little dog ercely. Grandfather wanted this one.

Reversing the Landcruiser away from the cemetery, Anthony headed in the direction of Wangallon Homestead. Hes yours.

Sarah rested her hand on Anthonys thigh.

Everything will be ne, Sarah. His grip tightened on her ngers.The words were so familiar. Anthony uttered them after

Camerons death, after the ood of 1986, after her parents retired tothe coast and once again when her mother went into respite care.

Really, everything will be ne, Anthony repeated.Once is a comfort, Sarah thought, pressing the warm, wiggling

pup against her cheek, twice is not.

As they drove away a lone fox moved stealthily through the ageingmonuments. The animal padded carefully through tufts of grass,pausing to sniff the air. Finally he located the freshly turned soil of Angus Gordons grave and curled up beside the mounded earth.

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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Tucked up in her bed, with Anthonys rhythmic breath marking outthe long hours of the night, Sarah tried unsuccessfully to sleep.Her heart seemed to have taken on a life of its own and it utterederratically. At times during the night she found herself clutchingat her chest, her breath catching in her throat, her eyes tearing infright. She knew grief and uncertainty were causing the symptomsshe experienced, yet common sense didnt ease her distress.

As the night dragged and the moon spread its glow through theopen doors leading out onto the gauze verandah, Sarah watcheddancing shapes ickering about her. Outlines of branches andleaves jostled for attention like paper puppets against the creambedroom wall as she drifted through snippets of conversa-tion shared with her grandfather. This moment was akin to thepassing of her brother, for it heralded both unwanted change andan unknown future. Who would guide them now the wily AngusGordon was no longer with them?

Near dawn Sarah felt a numbness begin to seep through her. With a sigh she rolled on her side, only just conscious of Anthony rising to meet the working day. As the morning sun penetrated thecalming dark of the room, she pulled the bedclothes over her head

and closed puffy eyes against all thoughts of her changed life. Thehouse was quiet, too quiet. A scatter of leaves on the corrugatediron roof competed with morning birdsong. Sarah huddled furtherdown beneath the covers, tears building. She sensed movementon the verandah and tried to calm herself with her grandfatherswords: Its only the old house stretching itself, girl, he would say.Now more than ever, Sarah doubted his words. She was one of the

custodians of Wangallon now and the spirits from the past werewell aware of a newly delineated present.

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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Part One

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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9

Autumn, 1989

Wangallon Station

Forty emus raced across the road, their long legs stretchingout from beneath thickly feathered bodies as their small erectheads fastened on the fence line some ve hundred metres away.Sarah couldnt resist going up a gear on the quad bike. She pressedher right thumb down rmly on the accelerator lever and leantinto the rushing wind. Bullet, her part-kelpie, part-blue cattle dog,

pushed up tight against her back, squirrelling sideways until hishead was tucked under her armpit. She swerved off the dirt roadin pursuit of the emus, the bike tipping precariously to one sidebefore righting itself. A jolt went through her spine as the quadtyres hit rough ground. Then the bike was airborne.

Bullet lost his balance on landing. He gave a warning yelp asSarah grabbed at his thick leather collar, managing to drag him up

onto her lap. Despite the urge to go faster, she slowed the bikedown, the brown blur of feathers dodging trees and scrub to outrunher. Sarah loved emus, but not the damage they did to fences orthe crops they trampled. Chasing them off Wangallon, albeit onto a

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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neighbouring property, seemed a better alternative to breaking theireggs in the nest to cull numbers. She poked along slowly on the

quad until she reached the fence. A number of emus had managedto push their prehistoric bodies through the wires, while the rest ranup and down the boundary trying to nd a way out. Bullet whim-pered. Sarah reached the fence as the last of the mob disappearedinto the scrub, scattering merino sheep in their wake.

Sorry. Sarah apologised as the dog jumped from the bike,turning to stare at her. Bullet never had gone much on losing hisfooting and it was clear Sarah would not be forgiven quickly. Hewalked over to the nearest tree and lay down in protest.

Two bottom wires on the fence were broken and the telltale signsof snagged wool and emu feathers on the third wire suggested thiswasnt a recent break. Sarah walked along the fence-side, steppingover fallen branches, clumps of galvanized burr and a massiveants nest of mounded earth a good three feet in height. Eventu-ally she located the two lengths of wire that had sprung back onbreaking. Taking the bottom wire she tugged at it and threaded itthrough the holes on the iron fence posts until she was back nearthe original break. She did the same with the second wire and thenwalked back to the quad bike where an old plastic milk crate wassecured with rope. Inside sat a pair of pliers and the fence strain-

ers. Grabbing the tools, Sarah cut a couple of feet off the bottomwire, then interlaced it with the freshly cut piece until it lookedlike a rough gure eight. She pulled on it, feeling the strain in herback, until it tightened into a secure join, then she attached thestrainers and pulled back and forwards on the lever. The actiontightened the wire gradually. Once taut, Sarah used the pliers to

join the ends. More wire was needed to repair the bottom run but

at least it would baulk any more sheep from escaping. Whistling to Bullet to rejoin her, Sarah followed the fence for

some distance on the quad before cutting across the paddock.Little winter herbage could be seen between the tufts of grass. The

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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11

Wangallon Station

rain long hoped for in March and April had not arrived and May was also proving to be a dry month. It was disappointing consider-

ing the rain which had fallen in early February. Within ten daysof receiving nearly six inches, there was a great body of feed andthen four weeks later, with a late heatwave of 42 degree days, theheavy grass cover sucked the land dry and the feed that would haveeasily carried their stock through a cold winter began to die off.The pattern of the next few months was trailing out before her likea dusty road. In one month they may have to begin supplement-ing the cattle with feed; in two they may have to be feeding thesheep corn. By mid-July they would begin the search for agistmentor perhaps place a couple of mobs of cattle on the stock route.

Mice, lizards, bush quail and insects all disturbed into movementby her bike created a sporadic pattern of scampering life amid thetufts of grass. A at expanse of open country lay ahead, punctuatedoccasionally by the encompassing arms of the wilga and box treesthat dominated the landscape here. Ahead, the edge of a ridge was

just visible; a hazy blur of distance and heat shimmering like anisland. Soon the rich black soil began to be replaced by a sandiercomposition, the number of trees increasing, as did the birdsong.

The midmorning sunlight streamed into the woody stand of plants, highlighting saplings growing haphazardly along its edges.

They were like wayward children, some scraggly and awkwardin appearance, others plump and fresh with youth. Sarah drovethe quad slowly, picking her way through the ridge, passing wild-owers and white owering cacti. The trees thickening as sheadvanced deeper. The air grew cooler, birds uttered and calledout; the cloying scent of a fox wafted on the breeze. The pathgrew sandy and the quads tyre tracks became indistinct as the

edges collapsed in the dirt. Above, the dense canopy obliteratedany speck of the blue sky.

Sarah halted in the small clearing. The tang of plant lifeuntouched by the suns rays lled the pine-tree-bordered

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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enclosure. She breathed deeply, revelling in the musky solitude.Through the trees on her right were the remains of the old sawpit.

The pale green paint of a steam engine from the 1920s could just be seen. It was here that her grandfather Angus had cut thelong lengths of pine used to build the two station-hand cottageson Wangallons western boundary. The sawpit, long since aban-doned, also marked the original entrance to Wangallon Station.Long before gazetted roads and motor vehicles decided the pathsthat man could take, horses, drays and carriages bumped throughthis winding section of the property, straight through the ridgetowards Wangallon Town.

Sarah continued onwards. Soon the tall pines began to thinout, the air lost its cool caress and within minutes a glimpse of sky gradually widened to a view of open country. She weaved away from the ridge through a tangle of closely growing black wattletrees and belahs, the thin branches whipping against her face.

She was in the start of the swamp country where a largepaddock was cut by the twisting Wangallon River in one corner.The area was dened by scattered trees and bone-jarringly uneven ground. A ridge ran through the paddock and it was herethat sandalwood stumps spiked upwards from the ground. Sarahstopped the bike and alighted.

Years had passed since shed last been in this area alone. It wasalmost impossible to believe that her beloved brother had diedhere in her arms over seven years ago. Kneeling, Sarah touchedthe ground, her ngers kneading the soft soil.

In snatches the accident came back to her. His ankle trappedin the stirrup, his hands frantically clawing at the rushing ground,and then the sickening crunch as he struck the fallen log and the

spear-like sandalwood stump pierced his stomach. Sarah swipedat the tears on her cheeks, her breathing laboured. Closing hereyes she heard the shallow rasp of his breath, like the rush of windthrough wavering grasses.

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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13

Wangallon Station

Anthony caught up with her a kilometre from Wangallon Home-stead. Sarah could tell by the lack of shadow on the ground thatshe was late. His welcome gure drew closer, just as it had whenhe had come searching for her and Cameron all those years ago. Atthe sight of him the tightness across her chest eased. As the whiteLandcruiser pulled up alongside her quad Sarah leant towards himfor a kiss. Her forenger traced the inverted crescent-shaped scaron his cheek, the end of which tapered into the tail of a questionmark. Sometimes the eight years since his arrival at Wangallononly seemed a heartbeat ago.

Youre late, Anthony admonished.Sarah sat back squarely on the quad seat. So much for the

welcome.I was worried. Whats with all these long rides around the

property?Its his birthday.Oh. Each passing year Cameron faded a little more from

Anthonys memory. He gave what he hoped was an understandingnod. Been fencing? he nodded towards the milk crate. You donthave to do that stuff you know, Sarah.

If she expected a few words of comfort, Anthony was not theperson to rely on. He rarely delved past the necessary. She gave aweak smile. I am capable of xing a few wires.

I dont want you to hurt yourself, Anthony replied with a slighthint of annoyance. And whats with taking off and not letting meknow where youre going or how long youll be away?

Sorry.

He scratched his forehead, the action tipping his akubra ontothe back of his head. Well, no harm done. Lets go back to thehouse and have a coffee.

Would that be a at white? Latte? Espresso?

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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Anthony rolled his eyes. How about Nescaf?Bullet barked loudly. Sounds good. Sarah pushed her hat

down on her head and sped off down the dirt road with Bulletsback squarely against hers. She slowed when they passed someHereford cows grazing close to the road. Gday girls, she calledabove the bikes engine. Bullet whimpered over her shoulder andgave a single bark as they crossed one of the many bore drainsfeeding their land with water. These open channels provideda maze of life for Wangallons stock and Sarah never failed towonder at the effort gone into their construction nearly a century ago under the watchful command of her great-grandfatherHamish. Shifting up a gear, she raced through the homesteadpaddock gate to speed past the massive iron workshed and themachinery shed with its four quad-runners, three motorbikes,Landcruisers and mobile mechanics truck. Weaving through theremaining trees of their ancient orchard, Sarah braked in a spurtof dirt outside Wangallon Homestead. She smiled, watching asBullet walked through the open back gate, pausing to look overhis shoulder at her.

Im coming.Bullet spiked his ears, lifted his tail and walked on ahead.

Copyright Nicole Alexander 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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