The last nail went in with a dull thud, and the sound of it seemed to hang in the warm, still air of the stables. Bryce pulled the hammer from his belt and let it drop into his open toolbag with a clatter. He ran a hand over the new timber of the stall partition, feeling the smooth grain where the plane had taken it, the solid give of the wood under his calloused fingers.

“That’ll hold,” Grant said from behind him, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better days. The rag was stained dark with old oil, smeared with grease that had long since become part of its fabric. He tossed it over his shoulder and walked over, running his own palm along the fresh pine. “Good work, mate.”

Bryce shrugged, the movement easy in his shoulders. “Wasn’t much to it. New timber, a few hours, and a man who knows which end of a hammer to hold.”

Grant laughed, a warm sound that echoed off the stable walls and mixed with the soft nicker of a horse in one of the nearby stalls. A bay mare stuck her head over the door, ears pricked, watching the two men with the quiet curiosity that horses always had. Bryce reached out and let her sniff his hand, her breath warm and damp against his knuckles.

“She likes you,” Grant observed.

“She likes that I smell like hay and apples.” Bryce scratched the mare’s forehead, and she leaned into it, her eyes half-closing. “Same thing, really.”

The stables were settling into the hush of late afternoon. The day’s heat had built up under the tin roof, and it pressed against them, thick with the smell of hay dust and warm horsehide. Dust motes floated in the shafts of light that cut through the gaps in the boarding, spinning lazily in the still air. Somewhere deeper in the stables, another horse stamped, the dull thud of a hoof on packed earth echoing through the dim space.

Bryce packed up his tools methodically, the leather of his belt creaking as he moved. Fences, gates, the roof of the feed shed, and now these stalls. Bryce had stopped keeping count of the jobs he’d helped with at Ironstone. It was easier that way.

“You staying for dinner?” Grant asked.

Bryce glanced up from his toolbag.

“I wasn’t going to invite myself.”

“You’re not inviting yourself. I’m asking.” Grant grinned. “Elara’s got a roast going.”

“Yeah,” Bryce said. “I’d like that.”

A voice came from the stable door.

“He says that like there was ever a choice.”

Elara leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She was dressed in her usual work clothes—frayed flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, denim jeans worn soft at the knees, her chestnut hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that had escaped its tie hours ago. The low evening light behind her caught the edges of her silhouette, turning the loose strands of hair to copper.

Grant pointed at her. “See? I think she made roast just because you’d be here.”

“I make a roast because I like roast,” Elara said. “And because you eat like a man who’s been starved since breakfast.”

“That’s also true.”

Elara’s eyes found Bryce’s across the stables.

“You’ve got dust on your face,” she said.

Bryce reached up and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, smearing the dust rather than removing it. “Better?”

“Worse.” She laughed, a low, warm sound. “You’ll want to wash up before dinner. You look like you’ve been wrestling a bag of flour.”

“It’s been a long day.” He slung the toolbag over his shoulder, the weight settling against his hip. “But the stalls are solid now. That partition isn’t going anywhere.”

Elara pushed off the door frame and walked into the stables, her boots crunching on the packed earth. She ran a hand along the new timber, her fingers tracing the same path Bryce’s had taken minutes before.

“It’s good work,” she said. “Really good work.”

“I’ll send you the invoice.” Bryce laughed.

“Settle down, we’re not made of money,” Grant added.

“Fine. I’ll take dinner as payment instead.”

“That’s the best deal we’ve got all day.” Elara’s hand dropped from the timber. “Roast’s nearly done. Give me halfa to get the veg sorted.”

“I’ll finish packing up out here,” Grant said.

Elara turned and walked out of the stables. The door creaked as she pushed it open wider, letting in a wash of golden evening light, and then she was gone, her footsteps fading on the gravel path toward the house.

Grant gathered the last of the tools.

“Come on. Let’s get washed up. Elara’ll have our hides if we let dinner go cold.”

They walked out of the stables together, Bryce’s boots scuffing on the packed earth, his toolbelt jingling with each step. The evening light was soft and golden, painting the paddocks in long shadows. A horse whinnied in the distance, answered by another from the stables. The air was cooling, carrying the first hint of the night to come, and with it the smell of wood smoke from the house.

Grant was already halfway to the house, his long strides eating up the ground. Bryce followed, his toolbag heavy on his shoulder.

Elara was standing on the veranda when they reached the house, a cold beer in each hand. She held one out to Bryce, and he took it, their fingers brushing briefly. Her skin was warm from the kitchen, and she smelled of rosemary and garlic.

“Wash up first,” she said. “You’re not tracking that dust into my kitchen.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bryce set down his toolbag and headed for the outdoor tap.

⸻

The tap ran cold and hard, and Bryce cupped his hands under it, letting the water spill over his knuckles and wrists before he splashed it across his face. The dust came away in grey streaks, and he dried himself on the tail of his shirt, leaving a damp patch across his stomach.

The beer waited on the veranda railing where he’d set it.

He picked it up and took a long pull before walking up the steps.

The kitchen smelled of rosemary and roasting meat, the heat of the oven pressing against the cooling evening air. Elara was at the bench, her back to him, slicing bread with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. Grant had already settled at the table, a beer in front of him, the day’s work loosening the set of his shoulders.

Bryce was about to take his seat when headlights swept across the kitchen window, cutting through the dusk.

The beam swung wide and then cut.

Footsteps on the gravel, light and quick, and then the screen door creaked open.

Mauve stepped inside.

She was dressed in old jeans and a worn grey jumper, her sandy hair pulled back in a hasty knot that had strands escaping everywhere.

“Mauve,” Elara said. She set down the knife. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know.” Mauve looked around the table. “Hope it’s okay.”

“Of course it is. There’s plenty of food, just need to set another place.”

Elara crossed the kitchen and hugged her. Mauve hugged her back, then kissed her cheek before pulling away.

Grant glanced toward the door.

Bryce did the same.

No Callan.

“Where’s Callan?” Bryce asked.

Mauve looked at him.

Then she pulled out a chair.

“Callan and me. We’ve split up.”

The words landed in the warm kitchen.

Grant stared at her.

“Split up?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

Grant ran a hand through his hair. “Christ, Mauve. I had no idea.”

“It’s been coming for a while. We both knew it.” She shrugged. “Just took one of us to finally say it out loud.”

Bryce stood by the table.

He’d only ever seen Mauve as part of a pair.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For what it’s worth.”

Mauve’s eyes found his.

“Thanks, Bryce.”

Elara guided Mauve toward the chair.

“Sit. I’ll get you a glass of wine.”

Mauve sat, and Elara slid the glass toward her.

Grant was still looking as though somebody had changed the rules while he wasn’t paying attention.

“You’re not surprised,” Bryce said.

It wasn’t a question.

Elara’s hand paused on the stem of her glass.

Grant looked at her.

Mauve laughed.

“I tell her everything.”

“How long?”

Elara looked at Mauve.

Mauve took a drink.

“Long enough.”

Grant shook his head.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Mauve said.

The roast was good, rich and tender, and Bryce ate more than he meant to. The conversation ebbed and flowed, touching on horses, the weather, the new stall partition, Callan when Mauve brought him up herself.

They weren’t fighting.

Nobody was being asked to take sides.

Callan was still Callan.

Mauve was still Mauve.

By the time the plates were cleared, she was laughing at one of Grant’s stories and telling him he’d already told it twice.

⸻

The evening stretched on.

Another drink.

Another story.

Mauve had settled sideways into her chair, one leg tucked beneath her, while Elara sat close enough that their shoulders touched.

Eventually Mauve glanced at the time.

“Shit. I should go.”

Grant looked at her.

“No.”

Mauve laughed. “No?”

“No. Stay.”

“I can’t.”

“You absolutely can.”

Elara turned toward Mauve.

“I agree with him.”

“That’s because neither of you can be trusted.”

Grant smiled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Mauve shook her head, but she was smiling.

“I have to get home.”

“You could get home tomorrow,” Elara said.

Mauve looked at her.

“That is extremely tempting.”

“Good.”

Elara leaned across and kissed her.

Mauve kissed her back.

Not quickly.

When they separated, Grant was grinning.

“See? Stay.”

Mauve laughed.

“You two are terrible.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Elara said.

“For another five minutes.”

“I can work with that.”

The five minutes became longer.

Eventually Mauve stood.

“No. Seriously. I have to go.”

Grant groaned.

“You’re ruining a perfectly good evening.”

“I know.”

Elara wrapped an arm around Mauve’s waist.

“You could improve it again.”

Mauve laughed and kissed her.

“I really want to.”

“So?”

“So I really have to go home.”

Grant stood with them.

“Last chance.”

“You’ve both said last chance about six times.”

“And one of them might work.”

Mauve shook her head and headed for the veranda.

⸻

Elara followed her outside.

Mauve turned at the top of the steps, and Elara caught her around the waist.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

Mauve laughed.

Elara kissed her.

Mauve’s hands came up around her, and she kissed her back, their laughter disappearing for a few seconds before Mauve finally pulled away.

“I have to go.”

Elara kept hold of her.

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

Mauve turned toward the steps.

Elara’s fingers caught the thin waistband of Mauve’s G-string where it showed above her jeans.

Mauve stopped.

“Elara.”

“Stay.”

“Let go.”

“No.”

Mauve laughed and tried to move toward the steps.

Elara stayed where she was, still holding on.

The elastic stretched.

“Elara.”

“Stay.”

“I’m going.”

Mauve pulled harder.

The fabric stretched between them.

Then snapped.

For a second nobody said anything.

Elara looked at the torn underwear in her hand.

Mauve looked over her shoulder.

Grant started laughing.

“You bitch.”

Elara laughed too.

Grant pointed at the torn fabric.

“That’s the universe telling you something.”

“Exactly.” Mauve nodded toward her car. “It’s telling me I should go.”

Elara held up what remained of the G-string.

“I was thinking it means you should get undressed.”

Mauve laughed and stepped back toward her.

“You would.”

She kissed Elara again.

Then turned to Grant.

“Walk me out before she steals anything else.”

“Still time to change your mind.”

“Grant.”

“Worth a try.”

He followed Mauve toward the car.

⸻

Elara watched Grant and Mauve cross the yard for a moment, then walked back inside.

Bryce was still at the table.

She looked down at the torn lace still hanging from her fingers.

Bryce looked too.

Elara caught him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re looking.”

“You’re holding them in front of me.”

Her smile widened.

She dangled the G-string from one finger.

“Want a sniff?”

Bryce stared at her.

Elara laughed and held them closer.

“Elara.”

“What?”

She moved them closer again.

Bryce leaned away.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re curious.”

“I can’t believe you ripped them off her.”

“Technically she ripped them.”

“You wouldn’t let go.”

“Details.”

Bryce shook his head.

Elara was still laughing when Grant came back up the steps.

He stopped at the screen door and looked between them.

“Stop tormenting the poor bloke.”

Elara immediately turned toward him.

“You want a sniff instead?”

Grant laughed.

“Fuck off.”

She followed him into the kitchen, holding the torn G-string toward him.

“Come on. Just a little one.”

“Get those bloody things away from me.”

Bryce laughed as Grant moved around the table and Elara followed him.

“Coward.”

“Menace.”

Elara laughed again, Mauve’s torn underwear still dangling from her fingers.