Blackpeak Station by Holly Ford Page B

few hours yet before the river rose, but if the gates were open the ewes would make their own way up if there was any trouble.
    ‘I’ll go,’ Jen volunteered. ‘It’s not like I’ve done anything useful today.’
    ‘It’s okay. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at things myself.’
    ‘I’ll come for a ride.’
    The ewes and lambs in danger were west of the river — the homestead side — opposite the main road and the cattleyards, near the entrance to the station. Chucking on their wet-weather gear, Charlotte and Jen set off down Blackpeak’s five kilometre drive, windscreen wipers struggling on full, peering into the rain.
    As they swung into the top gateway of the river block, they saw some of the mature ewes already waiting there, their lambs dozing on the ground below the relative shelter of their mothers’ bellies. Charlotte smiled to herself. If you wanted to know what mountain weather was really going to do, ask an old merino.
    Jen leapt out and fastened the gate back, water streaming off the brim of her hood. Charlotte changed into low ratio and chugged into the paddock. Behind her, in the red glow of the tail lights, she could just make out the ewes filing out through the gate to higher ground. Jen got back in, and slowly, mindful of sleeping stock, they headed across the block to the opposite gate. Less river-savvy sheep stumbled up and out of the Hilux’s path, their eyes glinting green in the headlights.
    ‘Let’s check the river,’ Charlotte yelled over the rain, nosing the truck down the line of the fence towards the willows. She pulled up at the top of the stopbank. But in the light of their torches, the river was still running placidly down its usual course, low and clear. Charlotte listened. She could barely make out the sound of its flow at all above the downpour. They climbed back into the truck, water cascading off their coats and onto the floor of the cab.
    After circling the block, they drove down to close the main station gates, just in case any escaping sheep should turn the wrong way and make their way onto the road. Charlotte stopped again to inspect the ford before going in. It was safe, but the level was definitely up — six inches, maybe, Jen reckoned, leaning out of the window to peer at the wheels as they reached midstream, above where it had been when she came through on her way home.
    The rain wasn’t letting up. Charlotte dropped Jen back at the cottage and made her way home. It wasn’t until she was getting ready for bed that her thoughts strayed briefly from rivers and rain and stock and feed, and she began to replay the evening’s conversation in her mind. She paused, toothbrush in hand. Had she done the right thing? Was it selfish to ask Jen to stay? Yes, her reflection told her.
    Climbing into bed, she thought of Jen doing the same,lying there in an empty house. Alone and lonely. Just the thought of feeling like that made her want to call Rob. She glanced at the clock — it was nearly midnight. Six hours until dawn, at which point they’d have to get back out and muster the river block in earnest. Charlotte pulled the duvet up and drifted off to the roar of the rain.
    When her alarm went off the next morning, the rain was still teeming onto the roof, but the roar had a deeper note. She listened. The river was up.
    By the time she and Jen got back down to the flat, last night’s placid stream was gouging hungrily at the top of the stopbank, a surging mass of brown water in which huge trunks of fallen willow tumbled and bobbed like matchsticks. As they watched, it breached the lower bank to the east and spilled out over the narrow flat to lap at the main road.
    On their side of the river, the remaining sheep were still in little danger of getting more than their feet wet. The dogs worked them along the top fenceline, where they’d assembled miserably, and through the open gate onto the spurs that rose above the river to the north. It was tussock country and recently