Red Dirt Heart 3 Read Free Page B

minutes behind me, and it wasn’t until we were all buckled in and in the air that I sparked up conversation. I figured a bit of a scenic tour would be nice.
    I pointed out through the windshield, over the expanse of red, red dirt, telling which stations were in which direction. His eyes were as big as his smile, and I figured he probably didn’t do this too often.
    “So, what’s your territory?” I asked. “Which regions do you look after?”
    “Australia.”
    I laughed. “All of it?”
    Blake nodded. “I have a team, but yeah, I go all over.”
    “What’s your favourite part?”
    Blake smiled and looked out the windshield. The desert looked endless. “Different areas for different reasons,” he said. “Whether it’s green pastures and high rainfall, or this”—he waved his hand at the windshield—“all the farmers I talk to think theirs is the best.”
    That made me laugh. “Yeah, but they’re not as right as me.”
    Blake chuckled and nodded, like he’d heard it all before. “I take it you know Jack Melville?”
    I bit back a sigh, wondering what the old bastard had said. “Kind of.”
    “Well, he was saying times are pretty tough out here these days,” Blake started. “But lookin’ out across the desert, I don’t know how you guys tell the good times from the bad, to be honest. I mean, the desert’s pretty to look at, but I don’t envy you trying to get money out of red dirt.”
    My laugh seemed to surprise him. “I used to think you’d have to have red dirt in your veins to do this, but I’m not sure anymore,” I said, thinking of how Travis had settled in so well. “I think you just have to understand it, appreciate it and respect it.”
    Blake nodded. “True.”
    “And old Jack Melville thinks any days that wasn’t the eighties are tough.” Then realising I’d probably sounded spiteful, I lightened the conversation and added, “I remember my old man saying once the eighties had been good for the industry, but I wouldn’t know. I’m what he’d call new-age, and I can only go by what I know.”
    Blake smiled and looked at me. “I see it all the time. The old farmers are still doing things the way they’ve always done them. And they do okay. But they’re getting left behind. People are more educated these days, they use knowledge and research and adapt to suit.”
    “Exactly!” I agreed. And so the conversation about technology, science, man-hours and even the use of the very kind of helicopter we were sitting in continued until the homestead came into view. I told him all about the solar-powered collars Travis had implemented on some cattle on our station, and he was interested to see how they worked.
    I bought the chopper down, and we were met by George, Travis, Billy and the vet, Scott. He’d only beaten us there by five minutes, apparently. I made introductions, and we didn’t waste any time.
    We had herded some yearlings and pregnant cows into the round yard, and Blake got down to business. He fired a dozen questions at Scott as they inspected the cattle. Then he asked to see grain storage areas, feeding bays and a transcript of all vet call-outs, vaccinations and drenches.
    Scott put a call through to the office in Alice Springs, and fifteen minutes later, he had the files in his inbox. As a final step, Blake asked if he could take a look at some cattle in the paddocks. I guess he didn’t want us to herd in the best-looking animals when they may not have been a true indicator to our typical quality.
    I didn’t hesitate. I had nothing to hide. “Sure thing,” I said to both Blake and Scott. “Come inside and I’ll show you how the tracking collars work first.”
    I led them into my office and showed them the program on my laptop. It was a property boundary outline of Sutton Station, and inside were ten little red flashing lights. I pointed to the screen. “Ten collars. They’re solar powered and monitor feeding, location, migration of those select beasts. We