Dark Horse by Honey Brown Page A

evenly spaced, out of firewood and had left gaps for the ends of beams and planks to be slotted in, held in place by the firewood, without the need for nails. He’d done a lot in a short space of time. Near the shed wall was an area he’d left for a gateway into the stable and yard. Sarah continued down to the potbelly stove – no sign of any of the socks being moved or swapped. She approached the van door.
    Heath stepped into the doorway. In his hand was a large roll of cling film. ‘Remembered seeing it,’ he said, holding up the roll. ‘Gonna strap my knee with it.’
    It was a catering-size roll, thicker and more heavy-duty than what you’d find at a supermarket.
    ‘That’s a good idea. I meant to tell you I’ve got some painkillers too, if your knee is giving you trouble.’
    ‘This’ll help I reckon. Save your tablets.’
    He was blocking the van entrance.
    ‘I want to check my phone. To see if it’s working yet.’
    He moved to the side and she stepped in past him. Her phone was where she’d left it on the bench, as dead as ever. There were a few specks of dirt and thin strands of bark on the bench. Heath’s muddy boot prints were concentrated on the floor nearby. It was to be expected, she guessed, that he would check also to see if her phone was working . . . But did the device feel lighter in her hand? Unbalanced slightly?
    Heath was perched on the end of the caravan bench seat, his sore leg across the narrow walkway. He was feeling for the edge of the cling film on the roll.
    ‘You’ve got fingernails. Can you find the end of this for me?’
    She took the roll from him.
    ‘No luck with your phone?’
    Sarah found the edge of the film and peeled it back. ‘No.’
    After he’d strapped his knee, Heath did what he said he’d do – he built a yard. It was remarkable to watch him do it. He didn’t waste time making it too big or elaborate: its purpose was to hold Tansy safely. The main effort went into making it strong. He certainly did that. He worked fast and without any more breaks.
    Mushy ground posed the biggest problem. Holes Sarah had dug filled with water. Sloppy earth didn’t tamp down well around the corner posts. To compensate, Heath added a bottom rung to the fence. He laid the poles of scaffolding across the grass and fixed them to the base of the corner posts. The fence had a top rail, and now this ground-level rail to brace the structure.
    As a final touch in strengthening the yard, Heath ran short poles across each far corner and attached them, using scaffolding connectors and elbows. The poles he picked for the job were smooth, without joins or protruding screws, so there was no chance of Tansy hurting herself. Once done digging holes, Sarah held things for him. She was his apprentice, standing beside him, waiting for instruction, passing things, getting things, keeping out of his way. It was hard to find fault in him while he was toiling away so resourcefully for her horse. Although the whisper in the back of her mind wondered if his kind act was one of counterbalance – look what I did for you, now all you have to do is not question me .
    He got dirty, mud caked his knees, his clothes were wet. Droplets of mist beaded along strands of his hair, and his face was greasy with sweat. He jammed his fingers, bumped them, pinched the skin on his arm, nicked his elbow. The fog was maddening in that it didn’t dissipate at all, Sarah’s chest felt tight, and his did too – he sucked in a breath, shaking his head as though to clear it. ‘It’s like smog not fog.’
    For all their earlier talk of saving food, they began discussing what they’d eat next.
    ‘Should we have our Christmas?’ Sarah put forward. ‘Because we missed out.’
    ‘I’m pretty bloody hungry.’
    ‘Me too.’
    ‘Did you bring all that Christmas food though? It’s yours.’
    ‘As if I’m not gonna share it.’
    ‘It’s the most perishable, I suppose.’
    ‘The cheese and ham we really have to eat