The Farmer’s Wife. Rachael Treasure

courtyard, this one flanked by rows of beautifully crafted stables of deep red wood, made even more glorious by shining brass latches and hinges.

      Giant wine barrels spilled with red and white geraniums, the Rivermont racing colours if the flag flapping in the wind was anything to go by.

      At the centre of the yard was a stone horse trough that had a small bronze fountain at its heart. The sound of trickling water soothed the stable courtyard, giving it an aura of tranquillity and opulence. At the other end of the long line of stables, one man was unloading feed bags, another trudging a wheelbarrow filled with stable waste out a side gate and yet another was scraping water from the sides of a deep bay gelding in a washbay. A tiny pasty-faced girl, clearly a trackwork jockey, waved as she carried a saddle pad and disappeared into a stall.

      Surprising Rebecca, Sol whistled low, then called out in a deep voice, ‘Hello, my beautifuls! Come talk to me!’

      Over the tops of the stable doors came the heads of tall thoroughbreds, classy and glossy, their brown eyes bright with curiosity. Some shuddered out a welcoming whicker. Others flicked their ears in Sol’s direction, pawing at the doors and tossing their heads.

      Rebecca was slightly amazed. This big-wig rich man, who had just barked at her and Yazzie, and behaved like a complete self-absorbed tosser, had the whole stable of horses under his spell. She could tell the horses were drawn to his deep cooing noises and giant peaceful presence. She watched as he tenderly rested his brow on the starred forehead of a black racer and lifted his hands to either side of the horse’s face. Just then, as if the gods had flicked a switch, the most beautiful sunset draped golden light across the jet-black hair of the man and the midnight sheen of the horse. Rebecca saw, roaming in the darkness of the horse’s coat, a silver light. She took in a hasty breath and goose bumps spread across her skin. She surprised herself by feeling so moved by this moment of tenderness as she watched the big handsome man communicating in silence with the giant horse.

      She remembered the woman’s words in the shop, how thinking thoughts of positivity and gratitude and living in the moment would allow her life to transform. Suddenly she was grateful something had brought her here. Just this snapshot vision was enough to fill her with hope. Then there was the kindness of Yazzie to be grateful for.

      For the first time Bec really understood the true richness of the gift of seeing how life could be.

      Beauty and bliss were everywhere, if you knew how to look.

      As she continued to feast on the visuals of Sol and the horse, she suddenly thought how the man before her would make a beautiful lover. Shocked, she stamped the brakes on her thoughts. Where did that come from? she wondered. Her cheeks flushed and she swallowed nervously.

      Then Sol was off again, striding down the length of the stable doors. ‘We have thirty horses in,’ he said over his shoulder to Rebecca, who was still jogging to keep up, ‘and only five running at present until we get properly set up. The rest are just young stock we’ve picked up in our travels. Racing blood from America, Ireland and Japan. All a bit of a gamble, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

      He walked up to a dark bay horse and laid his hand on its face. The horse dropped its head into the pressure of his hand, half closed its eyes and let out a contented sigh. Bec wondered if his hands on her body would prompt the same reaction.

      ‘This one here is our hope for the Melbourne Cup in a few years. We’ll see how we go, won’t we, Arthur, boy?’

      But the warm stillness and slowness of Sol as he stood with the horses didn’t last. Without warning, his aloof, abrupt mood seemed to return. He spun about and was off again, quickly pointing out an enclosed sand roll, a high-fenced round yard for education of horses, the heated indoor horse swimming pool, and the tack room where not a bridle or a lead rope was hung out of place and every bit of metal on the gear threw bright reflections out to the world.

      Before she could take it all in, Rebecca was ushered through the door of the staff room.

      Around the table sat a collection of fresh-faced girls, an older man and an extremely good-looking young bloke. All of them were downing beers or bottles of brightly coloured lolly-grog drinks.

      ‘I see you’re hard at it, you lazy lot!’ Sol said in his deep Spanish-draped voice, but the smile in his eyes told Rebecca he spoke in jest. She sensed he was as glad to see them as they were him.

      ‘Just finished the night feed-up, boss,’ said the young man, who was showing no signs of discretion in the way he eyed Rebecca’s breasts.

      ‘This is our neighbour from Waters Meeting, Rebecca Lewis.’

      ‘Saunders,’ Rebecca corrected. It came out of her mouth so suddenly it surprised her. Rebecca Saunders — the name she’d had when she was young. When she was a jillaroo and single. Her days before becoming a farmer’s wife. Before she married Charlie. A name, after today, she wanted again.

      ‘Rebecca Saunders,’ Sol said, sounding slightly irritated once again. ‘I’m giving her a tour.’ He took a step back and surveyed her. She couldn’t tell if his gaze was cold or mocking.

      ‘Rebecca, meet some of the staff who’ve come with us in the move from Scone. We couldn’t get rid of them,’ he said, his fond tone returning when he addressed them. ‘This is Daisy Peters, our foreman; Kealy Smith, our stablehand; Bill Hill, our everything; Simply Steph, because no one can say her surname; and —’

      ‘Don’t introduce her to Joey, boss,’ the older man, Bill, said quickly. ‘He’ll race her off to the sand roll when youse aren’t looking.’ The girls all sniggered.

      Sol Stanton cast them an amused look. ‘Yes, well … and this is one of our riders, Joey,’ he finished.

      ‘Rider’s right,’ muttered the pint-sized Daisy cheekily.

      ‘One of?’ Joey said. ‘Your best rider.’ He had jet-black curly hair and violet-blue eyes, and he scraped the legs of his chair on the timber floor loudly as he abruptly stood up. He half bowed, reached out and shook Bec’s hand. Then he stooped over to kiss the back of it and, as he did, Bec took in the stubble on his chin and the twinkle in the eyes smiling wickedly up at her. His looks set him up to be more like a pretty-boy actor than a jockey.

      At the table, the strong-looking, curvy, short-haired girl in the Blue Heeler Hotel singlet, Steph, gave a mock cough behind her hand. ‘Man whore,’ she hacked. The girls giggled as Steph ‘coughed’ again.