The Shearing Gun Read Free

can’t keep popping them out like your prize ewes do.”
    I grinned at her. “My best ewe is an eight-year-old who I bottle fed back on Dad’s spread. I called her Lilly, and she throws me the best fleeces you could imagine. And every year she presents me with a pair of twins.”
    Keira paled at the thought of twins and rubbed at her gigantic girth. A minute later Doc Larsen called her into his rooms. “There’s no way this is twins, is it, Doc?” I heard her ask as the door closed.
    A few minutes after that, Doc Elliot opened the door and called me by my name. “Hank?”
    At least he had remembered that bit. I lumbered in and took a seat in the chair next to his desk. Today my head was clear from the cloud of pain, and I noticed more things about the guy. Smaller than my six foot three by at least five inches. Short, dark, curly hair, trimmed neatly. Completely shaven, with none of that designer stubble some guys sported, or the can’t-be-bothered-to-shave shadow. Not unattractive, but not model-gorgeous. His eyes were a nice hazel color, and for some reason, I was struck by the length of his eyelashes. Now I’m not the type of guy to notice eyelashes, so I was a little perturbed about noticing this guy’s.
    He was dressed, once again, in light colors—light brown trousers and a cream shirt. I winced when I thought of the ironing he must have to do. With my arm in a sling, I was unable to lift it above my head for any sort of pullover-type top, so I had dug in the back (and bottom) of my wardrobe and found two shirts that buttoned up the front. One long-sleeved, one short-sleeved. Both of them needed ironing, and I wouldn’t iron, even if I owned an ironing board and the necessary appliances. Therefore my current shirt was badly wrinkled and sported a stain on one side where I’d carried the chook feed that morning.
    Doc Elliot settled into his chair with my file open and gave me a sunny look. “So, how have you been, Hank?”
    I fisted my right hand on my knee and grumbled, “I’d be a lot better if you could just fix this bloody arm. Don’t you guys have magic pills or something?”
    The guy beamed at me. “Sorry. I left my magic pills back in Melbourne with my magic wand and diamond tiara. Now tell me, have you been following my instructions? Have you been resting that arm?”
    “Umm….” I cast around for something to say.
    Doc Elliot frowned and sternly told me, “Look, Hank. You have a broken bone that’s not going to heal overnight. If it were your arm, I could put a cast on it to immobilize it, but your collarbone can’t be cast. So you’re just going to have to find someone else to do the work, or else you’ll end up with an even worse injury.”
    I shrugged my good shoulder. “That’s well and good, Doc, but there isn’t anyone else to do everything. I can get my brother to come across for a weekend and do the seeding, and a few mates to help out with the big jobs, but the place needs more’n that or else all the stock will die. I’ve been carrying stuff one-handed and trying not to use it, but you’re gonna have to give me a break on the other stuff.”
    He puffed and glowered at me like my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Brady. You know, that exasperated, I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-you, flamin’ heck, type of sigh? Finally he shook his head and pointed to the examination table tucked in behind the door of his room. “Jump up there, and I’ll check to see if the bone has moved.”
    He instructed me to remove the blue sling from my arm, and my arm from my shirt, so he could see my body. He helped me tug off the straps and even undid two buttons for me when I struggled. It was a little disconcerting to be removing my clothes with him standing so close. The problem was that I couldn’t simply take the sore arm out of the shirt—my good arm had to go first and then the material threaded around my left shoulder so I didn’t have to lift it. So Elliot gently helped.
    Working the land