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waited for Matt Schipp, Wangallon’s head stockman, to knock at the back door. The kitchen wall clock struck 7.15 a.m. exactly as Matt’s thick knuckles struck the doorframe. By the time Matt was seated, coffee in hand and his signature laconic grin in place, Anthony was already halfway through a crunchy red apple.
    â€˜I was about to ask Matt –’ Sarah began, after they’d all commented on the fine morning.
    â€˜Can we just discuss a couple of staff issues first, Sarah?’ Anthony interrupted, biting the core of the apple in half and devouring it in two bites.
    Sarah leant back in the wooden chair. Clearly it hadn’t been a question.
    â€˜I was hoping young Jack was ready for a step up the ladder.’
    â€˜He is,’ Matt answered, swallowing a good mouthful of his coffee. ‘Good kid. Listens well, takes advice.’
    â€˜I’m pleased to hear it,’ Sarah agreed. Only last week she had complimented the young jackeroo on the fine job he’d done with the garden. She would be sorry to see him go, even if he was only asked to spend one workday a week giving her a helping hand. ‘Perhaps he could come and help once a fortnight –’
    â€˜Take him out with you next time, Matt.’ Anthony spoke over Sarah. ‘Maybe put him in charge of moving that next mob of ewes.’ He reached across the table for another apple. ‘I can’t promote the kid and then send him back into the garden, Sarah.’
    Matt looked from Anthony to Sarah, before reaching for a mandarin. His blunt, perpetually saddle-oil-stained fingernails mangled both the skin of the mandarin and the soft flesh of the fruit.
    â€˜I had a look at that fence over at West Wangallon,’ Anthony continued. ‘It must be nearly fifty years old. I thought we could make it one of our winter projects.’
    â€˜Matt doesn’t do fencing.’ Sarah winked conspiratorially at their head stockman. Her grandfather hired Matt just before his death and his continued employment on Wangallon hinged on the verbal promise that he would only ever work with stock. Anthony frowned. ‘Matt knows you don’t get to pick and choose your jobs in the bush, Sarah.’
    â€˜I’ll send one of the boys over to check the fence,’ Matt offered peaceably, while effectively extricating himself from the job. ‘I’m thinking we’ll need to open the silage pit in a fortnight, start feeding the cows. The early oats we planted will last the steers out until sale time, but we can’t risk shortening their fattening time by adding to their numbers. Probably be worthwhile selling a couple of hundred of those late weaners. And now would be the time to do a pregnancy test, then cull any cows not in calf. As for the sheep –’
    â€˜Sounds good to me, Matt,’ Sarah interrupted. It was exactly what she had been thinking over the last few days. ‘I’ve found some corn, we can get it delivered next week and –’
    Anthony scraped his chair back. ‘I’ll think about it. I’m not convinced that we can’t put fifty or so more steers on the oats and I’m not in favour of opening the silage up too soon.’
    A slight frown crossed Matt’s weathered face. ‘Any cow in calf needs to begin receiving supplementary silage in a fortnight – in fact the sooner the better. Unfortunately, mate, there’s not much we can do about it.’
    â€˜Leave it a week or so longer.’ Anthony drained his coffee. ‘The old girls can scrimmage around for an extra ten days or so. Feeding the silage out should be a last resort.’
    Matt shook his head, pursed his lips together. ‘We don’t know when it’s going to rain and nothing’s going to grow during winter. If you’re hoping that the silage will see us through, it may not; besides, you just can’t feed them that, there are not enough nutrients in it. And if it