The Golden Stranger by Karen Wood Page A

‘He’ll have to . . .’ She closed her mouth tightly, as the pain of talking about him caught her throat. ‘He’ll have to take Rocko’s shoes off before he turns him out.’
    â€˜One of the ringers has already done it.’
    Shara sucked in a breath, silently hating someone else for taking charge of her horse, even if they were doing the right thing. ‘Is Goldie back at the shelter?’
    â€˜He’s at the vet hospital, waiting for ownership to be sorted out so he can be gelded.’
    Shara got up, walked back to her room and closed the door. She tidied her desk and pulled a balled-up T-shirt from under the bed. If she kept busy she might not feel so much like smashing something. She bundled up her dirty clothes from the floor and carried them to the laundry.
    As she threw her denim jacket into the machine, something clunked. She pulled it back out, checked the pockets and found her camera. She leaned against the washing machine as she scrolled through the photos.
    Shara and Jess in the front of the car with cheek-splitting toothy grins > Jess and Luke on the street corner in Brisbane > The mare, head high, eyes rolling.
    Shara stared a little closer, then panned in to a black smudge on the horse’s shoulder. Was that a scar – or a brand ? She squinted long and hard at it.
    B . . . 2 . . . B . . . She gasped. ‘Bred to Buck!’
    She hurried back to her room and drummed her fingers on her desk as her computer gurgled to life. She poked the memory card into it and the photos came up on screen. Yep – that was a brand, all right. Now, what had she done with that hair sample?
    â€˜Oh, crap!’ She ran back to the laundry, fished her jacket out of the machine and rummaged through the pockets for the lock of the taffy’s mane. ‘Gotcha!’ she said, and carried it back down the hallway in its little clip-lock bag.
    She carefully saved the photo of the mare onto a thumb drive. As she searched for the cap in her jewellery box, she was momentarily distracted by her charm bracelet lying on the cushion of blue velvet. Something about it wasn’t quite right. She pulled the bracelet out and jangled it, looking over the charms.
    A link was broken and the little silver horse, the one that represented Rocko, was missing. Shara stared at the broken bracelet. The charm must have come off when it got stuck on Corey’s shirt. She thought of him leaning close to her, against the truck . . . She closed her eyes and remembered how his breath had felt against her neck.
    Then she shook herself. She’d be lucky if Corey ever spoke to her again.
    She placed the hair sample into a small jewellery purse, together with the thumb drive, and zipped it safely into the front pouch of her backpack.
    Not only were these the key to Goldie’s identity and a chance to help him, but they would confirm that the Connemans were lying, dodgy, cruel scumbags. If she could prove that, she might have some hope of persuading her parents to return her horses.
    Hex greeted her on the front verandah. ‘Hey, fella,’ she said softly. She pulled a three-day-old ham sandwich out of her bag and held it in the air, making him stretch his neck and hold his head high. ‘Are you a good boy?’ she asked in her special training tone.
    Hex nodded his head, lifted a paw and whined. Shara ripped off a portion of the sandwich and threw it to him. ‘And are you well?’ She held another piece out and gave the signal to speak. Hex growled and woofed together. ‘You miss Rocko?’ She gave him another bit and held some more out. ‘That’s no good. What else did you say? Dad should give my horses back? Yes, I think so too. You can have two bits for that one.’ Shara tossed Hex the rest of the sandwich, and stepped off the front verandah.
    She walked purposefully along the dirt track that wove between gum trees and wattles and down the steep hill that ran along