Bella's Run by Margareta Osborn Page A

should just about be over the bashing it got ten years ago.’
    ‘One ride in The Challenge was enough for me. I’m good, but not that good,’ came from under the bonnet. There was a crash and a rattle as something dropped to the ground under the ute. ‘Bugger it.’ Will stood up and stepped away from the ute to stretch his back. Moving across to the workbench, he dropped the spanner he’d been using among the piles of tools lying jumbled together on the slab of red gum stained black with sump oil.
    ‘Mate, that was a hellish ride,’ he recalled. ‘I was only eighteen and I was bloody lucky to stay on the horse.’
    ‘Yeah, I remember.’ Macca rumbled with laughter, the toothpick bobbing up and down in time with his shaking body. ‘When you galloped across the finish line, you were clinging to that saddle like a drowning man hugging a lifesaver.’ Macca wiped tears from his eyes.
    ‘Yeah, well, you should try it, you big wuss.’ Will got down on his belly and crawled under the ute to grab the fallen nut off the floor. ‘At least I know when I’m outclassed.’ He wiggled back out and stood up, the tiny offending nut glistening in his hands. ‘The Challenge’s a feat of bloody good horsemanship. Once was enough for this bloke.’

    Since then Will had left all the riding of four-legged animals at the Muster to the experts, and instead concentrated on attracting the interests of the two-legged fillies who pranced around the plains. The lure of a ride on one of those had kept him – and Macca – going back year after year.
    He walked to the bench, grabbed the spanner and dived into the engine bay to replace the recalcitrant nut, thinking as he went. Macca spread his charms far and wide, making himself a legend of the ‘dawn dash’, that sunrise bolt from a girl’s swag clasping boots and trousers in hand after a hot and heavy night.
    Will was different. Not caring for a one-night stand, waking up the next morning staring at a sheila who looked nothing like you remembered from the night before.
    And as Will tightened the nut on the ute, in his tumbledown workshop on that searing Saturday afternoon, there was only one girl who came to mind as he weighed up whether to go or not. He wondered if she would be there. He should have asked his mum exactly when they were due home.
    Communication with the girls had been intermittent and unsatisfactory. No-one was really certain where they were. But there was one thing he did know for sure: a dawn dash would be the furthest thing from his mind if he finally managed to snare Bella Vermaelon.
    ‘Come on, mate . . .’ Macca wheedled as he spat the mangled toothpick from his mouth. ‘We can grab some cans from the Burrindal pub and we’ll be there in less than two hours. What do you say, big fella? Am I gunna have to stuff you into me ute or what?’ Will straightened and threw the spanner back on the old bench. Wiping his greasy hands on a rag, he stood considering his mate, the bloke with whom he’d played merry hell since they were small boys.

    Should he go? His neighbour, Wes, was probably already there spruiking poetry, and Will loved listening to the old man when he was on a roll. The other inhabitant of the valley, his Aunty Maggie, would be there in the morning, or so she’d said earlier in the week when he’d called in for a quick cup of tea. His mum and dad were away in Melbourne for a few days.
    If he didn’t go, it would just be him in this big, lonesome valley feeling sorry for himself. He’d miss out on all the fun. He could just go easy on the grog then he’d be right to fix the old ute tomorrow night, and maybe he could bale the lucerne on Monday. It would probably just be another dry storm tonight. Again those white-gold tumbling curls flashed past his eyes. Maybe . . . just maybe? Would they be there? He wouldn’t put it past those two, an outside chance for sure. But all the same . . .
    ‘Oh bugger it, why the hell not?’ he finally