#11

Jewel / Re: Story #5: Feelings Found

Last post by Jewel - Aug 05, 2025, 10:18 PM

   

Chapter Nine: Over the Edge.

   

 

The arena was quiet that morning. Pale sunlight filtered through the high windows, catching in the mist rising from the horses' backs as they warmed up. Emma sat tall in the saddle, heart thudding louder than Celtic Ember's hoofbeats beneath her.

Today felt different.

Eleanor hadn't said much—just a clipped, "We're raising the stakes. You're ready." Then she'd walked out to the centre of the arena and adjusted the cavaletti to a sharp grid, a line of fences growing gradually higher, tighter, more demanding.

Ember tossed her head as Emma circled, testing the bit, then settled into a working trot.

It wasn't the fences Emma feared—it was disappointing the people who believed in her.

"Again," Eleanor called. "And don't let her fall behind your leg this time. Ride the rhythm, not the nerves."

Emma set her jaw, gave a soft cue, and gathered up the reins. They rolled into the grid like a pair of thunderclouds: focused, coiled, ready to burst.

One, two, three, lift.

Ember cleared the final oxer cleanly, landing with a sharp snort and ears pricked. Emma let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

She was still upright. Still with her. And suddenly, that familiar swirl of self-doubt loosened its grip just a little.

Eleanor raised one eyebrow. "There it is."

Emma blinked. "What?"

"The rider I knew was in there."

And that—more than the cleared fence or the rhythm or even the feeling of flight—made Emma's chest ache with something that felt suspiciously like pride.

That evening, after mucking out and tacking down, Emma climbed the hill behind the staff cottages with her phone and a borrowed blanket, curling up under the trees. The sky was soft and streaked with purple, the kind of twilight that made her want to say things she normally swallowed.

She hit the call button before she could second-guess it.

Alex picked up on the third ring.

"You survive your first UK winter yet?" he asked, voice laced with amusement.

Emma huffed a laugh. "Barely. I lost feeling in my toes two weeks ago."

"Still riding?"

"Of course. Had a breakthrough today. Proper one. Even Eleanor said so."

There was a pause on the other end. She could almost hear his smile.

"See? Told you you'd hold your own."

Emma wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "It's starting to feel like... maybe I belong here."

Another beat of silence, and then Alex's voice, quieter this time.

"Just don't forget where else you belong, alright?"

She froze. Just for a second.

Then: "I haven't."

Neither of them said what they wanted to.

The silence stretched, not awkward, but charged.

Finally, Emma shifted gears. "How's Crumble?"

"Fat. Lazy. Keeps breaking fences to flirt with the geldings."

She snorted. "Sounds like you."

"Oi."

More laughter. Softer this time.

The call ended not long after, with a promise to talk again soon. But long after her screen went dark, Emma sat under the stars, heart still tangled in the words they didn't say.

Maybe one day, she'd have the courage to say them.

But for now, the ride was enough.

#12

Jewel / Re: Story #5: Feelings Found

Last post by Jewel - Aug 05, 2025, 10:15 PM

   

Chapter Eight: Dust, Boots, and Butterflies.

   

 

The air at Tadcaster Park was buzzing long before the first rider set foot in the warm-up ring. Trucks were still rolling in. Horses leaned out of stock trailers with pricked ears and wild eyes. Riders tacked up with the brisk efficiency of veterans. Grooms darted about with armfuls of saddle pads, water buckets, and fly spray.

Emma stood just outside Wyndmere Hollow's borrowed grooming bay, sleeves rolled up and braid coming undone, trying to keep track of whose boots needed polishing and which horse was meant to be tacked next.

She wasn't riding. Not today.

Today, she was a groom—and honestly? It was exhilarating.

"Do not let Felix eat another sandwich," barked Natalie, one of the upper-level riders, as she stormed past, tossing a sweat-marked saddle pad in Emma's direction. "He's like a Labrador with hooves."

Emma grinned, catching the pad. "No promises."

They had four horses entered across Novice and Intermediate levels. Celtic Ember was here too, but only for the atmosphere. Eleanor wanted her to soak up the noise, the chaos, the buzz—just as Emma was.

And soak it up she did. By lunchtime, Emma had memorized rider numbers, watched half a dozen dressage tests, and offered water bottles to flushed, breathless competitors with a sort of giddy pride. She even helped bandage up a knock after one gelding clipped a fence.

But it was during cross-country that her breath caught.

They stood in a cluster near the galloping lane—Emma, Tilly, two other working pupils, and Eleanor, arms crossed, face unreadable. The Intermediate riders were going now, and watching them surge over log piles and splash through the water complex made Emma's chest ache.

She wanted that.

Not the ribbon. Not even the speed. Just the connection. The grit. The fire behind a rider's eyes when they trusted their horse completely and asked them to fly.

"You'll get there," Tilly murmured beside her, nudging her elbow. "I saw you watching."

Emma blinked. "That obvious?"

"Only to someone who's done the same."

Later, in the quiet between phases, Emma found herself perched on the trailer step, brushing Ember's forelock out of her eyes. The mare leaned into her hands with a soft sigh.

From her jacket pocket, Emma pulled out her phone.

There was a message waiting from Alex.

Alex:
How's it going, hotshot? Don't tell me you've joined a cross-country cult.

PS. Saw a kid ride backwards on a sheep today. Thought of you.

Emma let out a laugh that startled Ember, then typed back quickly.

Emma:
You would've loved today. Absolute madness.

Also: sheep kid > everyone else.

I miss Southern Lights. And you. Just a bit. But don't get smug about it.

She hovered a moment, then deleted the last line.

Too much.

She hit send.

As dusk fell and the last competitors packed up, Eleanor handed Emma a paper cup of tea and nodded toward the still-busy rings.

"Take a mental picture," she said. "This is where it starts. Not under the spotlight. Out here, in the dust and noise and endless wait times."

Emma sipped the tea, the warmth chasing away the fatigue in her fingers.

"I think I get it," she said.

Eleanor's gaze settled on her. "Good. Because one day, I'll expect to see you in the ring. Not just beside it."

Emma didn't answer aloud. But something in her chest flared—equal parts excitement and fear.

Maybe this was what growing meant. Being seen. Being believed in.

And maybe, just maybe, realizing there were two homes tugging at her heart now.

#13

Jewel / Re: Story #5: Feelings Found

Last post by Jewel - Aug 05, 2025, 10:10 PM

   

Chapter Seven: Riding the Rhythm.

   

 

The indoor arena buzzed with motion—horses moving in wide circles, riders calling out apologies as they narrowly avoided each other, and the occasional squeal from a young gelding testing boundaries. It was controlled chaos, and Emma was trying her hardest not to panic.

Celtic Ember moved beneath her with the same calm rhythm as always, ears flicking back occasionally as if to check Emma hadn't fallen off from sheer embarrassment.

"This isn't riding," Emma muttered under her breath as they trotted by the open end of the arena. "This is horse traffic."

"Inside leg, outside rein," Eleanor called sharply across the din. "Emma, you're drifting out. Keep your line."

Emma gave a tight nod, adjusting her contact and trying not to grimace. She wasn't used to this many riders in one space. At Southern Lights, it had always been just her and Alex—or Emma and the open paddocks.

A grey mare passed too close, her rider barely managing a half-halted apology. Ember flicked an ear but kept going like the wise old soul she was. The mare was proving to be a godsend.

Tilly cantered past with a whoop, seat light and forward, shouting over her shoulder, "Pretend we're jousting! Makes it more fun!"

"Fun," Emma echoed, steering Ember toward the long side and trying to find her rhythm again.

By the end of the lesson, Emma was exhausted. Her shirt clung to her back, and her thighs burned from two-point position and too many transitions. But as they cooled out at a walk, weaving through the others like a tide ebbing after a storm, something inside her had shifted.

She wasn't the best. Not by a long shot. But she hadn't drowned in the crowd either.

That counted for something.

She was loosening Ember's girth when Eleanor approached, quiet boots on gravel giving her away.

"You rode well," she said, matter-of-fact.

Emma blinked. "Really? I felt like a train wreck."

"You were focused. You listened to your horse. That's more than half the battle."

Eleanor rested a hand on Ember's shoulder, the lines around her eyes softer than usual. "She likes you, by the way."

"I like her too."

There was a pause—brief but weighted. Then Eleanor said, in that quiet, steel-edged tone of hers, "Homesickness hits hard in the quiet moments. But horses don't lie, Emma. They tell us when we're steadying up. Don't forget that."

Emma felt the lump rise in her throat before she could stop it. She nodded instead of speaking, blinking hard.

Eleanor gave Ember a pat, then walked away without another word, leaving behind the faint scent of liniment and leather and something unspoken that Emma would carry with her for days.

That night, Emma scribbled a note in her journal.

Group ride = exhausting chaos. I think I'm learning to listen in the noise.
Eleanor noticed. Noticed me.

I miss the silence of home.

But maybe here, I'm learning a new kind of quiet.

She didn't text Alex. Not tonight.

Some feelings needed to sit a while, undisturbed.
Just like a steady mare at the end of a long, jostling ride.

#14

Jewel / Re: Story #5: Feelings Found

Last post by Jewel - Aug 05, 2025, 10:08 PM

   

Chapter Six: Celtic Fire and Coffee Breaks.

   

 

"Don't let her fool you," said one of the riders, leaning on the fence. "She's a total marshmallow once you're on board. Just hates being caught. Bit of a diva."

Emma eyed the large chestnut mare grazing just out of reach in the paddock, her coat dappled from the morning dew. She had a wide white blaze that split her face and one floppy ear that made her look permanently unimpressed.

"She doesn't look impressed," Emma said, wrinkling her nose.

"Celtic Ember never is," said the girl with a grin. She extended a hand. "I'm Tilly, by the way. Been here two years."

"Emma."

"New Zealand?" Tilly guessed.

"Australia."

"Close enough."

They shared a laugh. It was the first time Emma had felt like someone wasn't assessing her.

With a practiced move, Tilly stepped to the side and caught the mare gently under the halter. "Go on. She's yours for hacks and light schooling. Eleanor's orders."

Emma blinked. "Wait—mine?"

Tilly shrugged. "Temporary yours. She's Eleanor's go-to for riders who need grounding."

Grounding, Emma thought later as she walked Ember toward the barn, might be exactly what I need.

Celtic Ember didn't care much for fussing. She stood like a statue in the crossties, ears flicking lazily, tail swishing in slow rhythm. When Emma mounted, the mare didn't dance or test boundaries — she simply walked forward, sure-footed and solid.

Their ride was quiet. No pressure, no expectations. Just a few circles in the arena, some transitions, a trot around the bridle path near the back hedgerow.

Emma breathed easier with every stride.

Later that day, Emma sat outside the tack room with a chipped mug of instant coffee, her boots muddy and her braid falling out.

Tilly flopped beside her, sipping something that smelled like actual espresso. "You survived Ember."

"I think I'm in love," Emma said without thinking.

"With the horse or the job?"

Emma grinned. "Both."

A boy a few years older than them walked by, balancing a saddle on one shoulder. "Oi, tell the Aussie to clean her tack or Eleanor will throw it in the pond."

Emma blushed, but Tilly just rolled her eyes. "That's Liam. Don't let him near your biscuits. He'll flirt, then steal them."

"Noted."

It was a strange relief, the way things started to settle. Not in a grand, sweeping way — just small things. A laugh over muck boots. The unspoken rhythm of early mornings and shared chores. The understanding that everyone had something to prove, and no one had it all figured out.

That night, Emma sat down with her phone and typed out a short message to Alex.
Not a letter this time. Just a quick photo of Ember's fuzzy winter coat, captioned:

"Met my match today. Built like a tank. Definitely judges me."

The reply came ten minutes later:

"Are you talking about the horse or the trainer?"

She snorted and typed back:

"Yes."

His typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then came back.

"Glad you found your rhythm, Roo."

She didn't respond right away. Just held the phone for a second, smiling softly.

Unsaid feelings still lingered, tucked into little things — a shared joke, a name only he used, the quiet in-between.

But she'd wait.
He would too.
And in the meantime, there was Celtic Ember, early frost, and the slow, surprising feeling of belonging.

#15

Jewel / Re: Story #5: Feelings Found

Last post by Jewel - Aug 05, 2025, 10:04 PM

   

Chapter Five: Lines and Landings.

   

 

"Straight line. Keep your rhythm. Don't touch her mouth over the fence or I'll know it."

Eleanor's voice was sharp but measured, like a conductor guiding a symphony rather than a drill sergeant barking orders.

Emma swallowed hard and closed her leg around the lean bay mare beneath her — a tall, blood-marked warmblood named Freya, with spring-loaded hocks and a don't-mess-with-me expression.

She focused on the poles ahead. Ground line. Two strides. Cross. Three strides. Oxer. Measured.

She counted out loud under her breath.
"One... two..."

Freya surged. Emma leaned into the motion, heart catching in her throat as they lifted and landed again, the wind snatching at her breath. The mare was sharp, electric — nothing like the hardy stock horses back home.

She circled back. Eleanor was watching, arms folded across her waxed coat, her face unreadable.

"Better," she said. "But you're still chasing your canter after the line. Sit quieter. Don't ride like you're trying to outpace your own shadow."

Emma gave a half-laugh, half-groan. "It's Freya I'm trying to keep up with."

Eleanor arched an eyebrow. "Then anticipate her instead of reacting to her."

It wasn't said cruelly. But it wasn't soft, either.

That was Eleanor Ashford — every word a test and a challenge, but never wasted. Emma respected it, even as it twisted her insides.

By the end of the lesson, she was sweaty, sore, and brimming with the kind of adrenaline that made her hands shake when she dismounted.

And still, Eleanor offered no praise. Just a nod. "Tomorrow. Same time. Bring a better half seat."

The parcel arrived after dinner.

A soft knock at the door of the staff dorm. One of the stable hands held it out. "Got your name on it. Australia postage. Smells like eucalyptus."

Emma's heart jumped.

She sat on her bunk and turned the box over. Her name was scrawled in Jewel's distinctive hand — loopy and slightly crooked, like the woman herself. The return address was Southern Lights.

Inside, there was a small jar of Old Ted's infamous wattleseed biscuits, a battered paperback Alex had claimed was "mandatory reading" (Man from Snowy River, of course), and a folded-up photograph.

It was of her, Alex, and Jewel standing by the ute — dusty, sunburnt, and laughing at something she couldn't even remember now. Ringo's tail blurred in the corner where he was running past.

On the back, written in thick pen:

"Don't let them forget who you are. You've got this. – J."

And underneath that, in different handwriting, messier, more compact:

"Nia's got nothing on you. But don't tell her I said that. – A."

Emma smiled. It started as a twitch, then spread slowly, softening the edges of her eyes.

She held the photo to her chest and lay back against her pillow. Something deep in her chest loosened — not all the way, but enough.

They were still there. Waiting.
She wasn't forgotten.

And maybe she wouldn't have said it to anyone, not even herself — but the note, the biscuits, the stupid paperback — it meant everything.

#16

Jewel / Re: Story #5: Feelings Found

Last post by Jewel - Aug 05, 2025, 09:58 PM

   

Chapter Four: The Space Between.

   

 

It wasn't a special moment, not like she thought it would be.

No one said "You're up, Cavanagh," or "Time to show us what you've got." There was no dramatic pause, no golden sunlight filtering through the rafters like a spotlight on the saddle.

Just:
"Take Bramble out. Hill loop. Thirty minutes."
Said flatly by Nia, with a jerk of her thumb toward the tack room.

Bramble was a flea-bitten grey mare with a chunky frame and suspicious eyes. The sort of horse that looked like she'd either babysit or buck, depending on her mood.

Emma tacked up carefully, double-checked the girth, and led the mare out to the mounting block. Her fingers were steady, but her chest thrummed with something restless.

She swung up, settled in the saddle, and exhaled. It felt good. Solid. Familiar.

Even if everything else didn't.

The hill loop was gentle at first—wide grassy tracks framed by hedge and woodland. A few jumps stood scattered in the fields, half-hidden in the late summer green. Birds flicked through the trees. The quiet hum of England surrounded her.

But it was a different kind of quiet.
Still. Cool. Muffled.

Not like home.

Not like the wind-dried crackle of gum leaves or the crunch of red dirt. Not like the wind whistling through windmill blades, or Jewel's whistle from across the paddock, or Alex yelling, "I said open the gate, not run it over, ya pelican!"

She laughed at the memory—then blinked fast. That ache again.

She turned Bramble toward a slight rise and gave the mare her head. They trotted up the hill, the rhythm easy, almost lazy. She wasn't testing boundaries today. Just proving she could ride.

The summit opened up to a view of the whole estate—fields and paddocks and tree lines layered like a painting.

Emma halted Bramble and just sat there, breathing it in.

It was beautiful.

But it wasn't hers.

That night, when everyone else had drifted off to sleep or scrolled themselves into stillness, Emma lay on her bunk with her phone in hand.

She'd drafted three different messages to Alex. All of them sounded wrong.

The silence between them was heavy—not angry, just... tentative. Waiting. Like neither of them knew how to speak now that she wasn't there to nudge him at breakfast or laugh at his dumb movie quotes. Now that their days weren't braided together by dust and coffee and shared chores.

She missed him.

Missed home.

And it wasn't just the land or the work or even the horses. It was Jewel's dry wit and Old Ted's thermos tea and the way Rex would lean against the rails like he had all the time in the world.

It was knowing who she was—what she was worth—in a place that already loved her.

Here? She was the new girl. The Aussie. The unknown quantity.

A slow tear slipped sideways into her pillow, and she didn't bother wiping it away.

Tomorrow, she'd ride again. Maybe something hotter. Maybe something fancy.

She'd earn her place.

But tonight, she let herself feel it: the distance. The longing. The ache of everything unsaid.

#17

Jewel / Re: Story #5: Feelings Found

Last post by Jewel - Aug 05, 2025, 09:56 PM

   

Chapter Three: Boots on the Ground.

   

 

Emma was up before the sun.

She didn't need an alarm; the cold did the job for her. Even under two duvets, the English chill had crept into her bones. At Southern Lights, she woke to heat and birdsong. Here, it was fog and the distant clatter of buckets.

She dressed fast, pulling on breeches and a fleece-lined vest. Nia was already gone—her bunk neat, her boots missing.

Outside, the sky was a dull wash of grey-blue, and the stables breathed out quiet steam. Horses shifted and snorted, their coats thick and damp from the cool. Emma took a deep breath and got to work.

Feed buckets. Rug checks. Water top-ups. No one told her what to do, but everything had its rhythm, and she slipped into it like she'd done it a hundred times. She didn't mind the work—manual labor was the one constant between continents.

But there was no music here. No one singing off-key or talking to their horse like a best mate. The silence felt too clean.

At seven sharp, the main barn door creaked open.

She looked up—and there she was.

Eleanor Ashford.

Emma had only seen photos: a woman with silver-shot hair and the kind of posture that made you want to straighten your own spine. But in person, Eleanor was sharper. Not unkind, but focused—like someone who noticed everything and didn't speak unless it mattered.

"Miss Cavanagh?" she asked, glancing over the stall Emma was mucking out.

Emma wiped her hands on her breeches and stood straighter. "Yes, ma'am."

"You can call me Eleanor. We're not royalty." Her voice was dry as toast. "Finish that, then tack up Alder for me. He'll be the first ride."

"Yes, El—right. Got it."

Eleanor didn't smile, but her gaze lingered a moment. Not cold. Just assessing.

Then she moved on, her boots clicking with each step.

Alder was a bay gelding with kind eyes and a wary look that reminded Emma of a horse back home—a retired stockhorse who always expected you to move just a bit too fast. She kept her movements slow and quiet, murmuring nonsense while brushing his shoulder.

"Not so different, are you?" she whispered, patting his neck. "Just missing your eucalyptus trees and a few hundred flies."

He snorted and tossed his head.

By the time Eleanor returned, Emma had him ready and standing square. She stepped back instinctively as Eleanor swung into the saddle in one smooth motion.

The lesson wasn't for her—Eleanor schooled alone—but Emma stayed to observe, leaning against the fence.

It was... elegant. Controlled. Every aid subtle, every cue quiet. Alder moved like he knew exactly what was being asked and would rather die than get it wrong. It wasn't flashy riding, but it was good. Really good.

And Emma felt it like a tug in her chest. That itch to ride something brilliant, to feel in sync with something trained to precision.

After half an hour, Eleanor dismounted, handed off the reins without a word, and walked away, already pulling off her gloves.

Emma blinked. "Alright then."

The rest of the day blurred: two more horses to groom, a feed run, a saddle-cleaning session that lasted too long. She made a few mistakes—putting a saddle on the wrong rack, mistaking haylage for hay—but Nia corrected her with minimal mockery.

By sundown, she was exhausted in that good way—arms sore, feet aching, hair damp with mist.

In the quiet of the groom's quarters, Emma peeled off her boots and flopped onto her bunk. Her fingers hesitated over her phone again.

Hi.
Rode nothing today, but watched everything.
Eleanor Ashford is kind of terrifying.
The good kind.

Starting to miss the gumtrees already.

And you.

– Em.

She stared at the last line a little too long. Then deleted it.

Instead, she scrolled through her gallery until she found a blurry photo: her and Alex sitting on the ute tray, half-covered in red dust, both laughing at something Rex had said.

She set it as her wallpaper.

#18

Jewel / Story #6: A Constant Light (T...

Last post by Jewel - Aug 03, 2025, 09:03 AM

A Constant Light

Theodore, or Ted as the station hands had called him for decades, had seen Southern Lights Station pass through many hands over the years. He'd watched owners come and go, fortunes rise and fall, but he himself had remained a constant fixture. He was just a raw lad of 20 when he first arrived, full of nervous energy and green as the gum leaves after a rain. He and Jonathan, Jewels's future father, were the same age, two young men finding their way in a world far bigger than they had ever imagined.

Ted had come with little experience, his hands still soft from town life, but his eagerness to learn was a palpable thing. He'd heard the whispers about Southern Lights, tales of a place where the work was as hard as the sun-baked earth but the rewards were just as great. It was the legends of the Criollo horses, however, that had truly called to him—a bloodline known for its endurance and unflinching spirit.

The owner at the time, Jonathan's dad, was a force of nature. He was a hands-on boss who lived and breathed the land, his presence felt in every corner of the station. He was as fair a man as you'd ever meet, but he had zero tolerance for laziness or disrespect. He taught Ted everything, not with soft words, but with stern instruction and an expectation of excellence. It was a baptism by fire, and Ted learned to not only work the land but to respect it.

In their off-time, after the sun had dipped below the horizon and the day's back-breaking work was done, Ted and Jonathan were inseparable. They were thick as thieves, two partners in crime sharing a bunkhouse and a sense of endless possibility. They would sneak out to break in a particularly stubborn Criollo mare, swap tall tales over a tin mug of coffee, or scheme up practical jokes to play on the older hands. Their friendship was forged in the fire of shared labor and the quiet, unending expanse of the outback night. That bond, a youthful alliance of mischief and camaraderie, would become the foundation of Ted's life at Southern Lights.

---

A few years went by when was a women rode into there lives. The sun was a punishing hammer in the sky when John and Ted found her. She was a splash of vivid, incongruous color against the red dust: a delicate, borrowed mare with a saddle that looked too fine for the outback, and a woman who was clearly lost. Sarah. Her riding gear was pristine, her eyes wide with a mix of defiance and exhaustion. John was ready to give her the brush-off, but Ted saw something else—a stubborn grit beneath the city-bred exterior. He insisted they take her back to the station.

What started as an act of hospitality quickly turned into a lesson for them all. John's father had a wild Criollo filly he'd been trying to break for weeks, a horse that bucked every man who tried to sit her. Sarah, watching from the yard, asked for a turn. With patience and a quiet authority that came from years of schooling show jumpers, she worked with the filly for hours, not to break its spirit, but to earn its trust. By the end of the week, she was riding the Criollo bareback, a picture of grace in the rugged stockyards. John was completely captivated, Ted was impressed, and even the old man had to admit her skills were something special.

Their romance blossomed in the quiet hours after the work was done. Ted watched it all, a silent partner in their happiness. He saw the way John looked at Sarah, a softness in his eyes he'd never seen before, and how Sarah, in turn, found a home in the chaos of the station.

The first true changing of hands came not with a formal ceremony, but with a quiet conversation on the porch one evening. John's father, seeing the man his son had become and the woman he had chosen, simply handed over the keys to the station ute and a stack of ledgers. "It's yours now, son," he said. Ted stood on the sidelines, watching the end of one era and the beginning of another, a feeling of deep loyalty settling in his chest.

When the time came, there was no question who would stand beside John as his best man. The wedding was a small affair at the homestead, the celebration a lively, dusty party under a canopy of outback stars. Ted's speech was short and to the point, filled with stories of their youthful mischief, ending with a toast to John and his new partner. "To the boss," he'd said, "and his boss."

Now, Ted still works the station, but things have changed. He still works the land, still respects the old ways, but he sees how Sarah's influence has made things better. She's introduced new training methods that have strengthened the herd and brought a more refined order to the organized chaos of the ranch. He no longer works just for John, but for John and Sarah, a partnership built on a shared love of the land, the horses, and a promise he was there to witness from the very beginning.

---

The year 1986 arrived with a joy that rippled through Southern Lights Station. Sarah gave birth to a beautiful baby girl they named Jewel, and Ted, his heart swelling with pride, was there to welcome them home from the hospital. The station, a place of hard work and endless sky, suddenly felt a little softer, a little brighter.

In that same season, Ted's own world had expanded. He had finally found a love to call his own. Her name was Kathy, a gorgeous woman with a fiery crown of red hair, a constellation of freckles, and a pair of stunning green eyes that saw right through him. They had met at the local country fair, where Ted, usually reserved, had worked up the courage to talk to her at the livestock pens. She wasn't a stranger to the land or hard work, and her quick wit and easy laugh had sealed his fate.

Almost instantly, Kathy and Sarah formed a bond as strong as any sisterhood. They worked as a team, managing the chaos of the homestead and the relentless demands of a station. While John and Sarah were out on horseback, mending fences or moving cattle, Kathy would be there, a steady and loving presence, watching over Jewel. They would spend their days in the shade of the homestead veranda, sharing stories and laughter while the baby slept.

When it came time to choose, there was no other choice. Ted and Kathy were named Jewel's godparents, a role they both cherished with a profound sense of purpose. They never had children themselves, but having each other and now Jewel was more than enough. Watching her grow from a helpless bundle to a curious toddler and then into a strong-willed child was a privilege they held dear. She was the heart of the station, a child of the outback with the spirit of a wild horse, inheriting John's determined nature and Sarah's quiet grace. She could be found chasing after the dogs, her red dust-covered knees a permanent fixture, or sitting patiently in the stables, whispering secrets to the Criollos as if they understood every word.

---

The year a dark cloud rolled in over Southern Lights Station, a cloud from which the sun never fully emerged. It began with a phone call, a brief, sterile voice delivering news that was impossible to comprehend. John and Sarah, on their way to a horse auction, were gone. A car accident on a lonely stretch of highway. They died instantly.
The tragedy was a tidal wave that washed away everything. Ted's heart was shattered; the grief was a physical weight in his chest. For Kathy, the loss of her best friend felt like losing a piece of her own soul. And for little Jewel, the sudden absence of her parents was a silent, incomprehensible pain.

In the wake of the unimaginable, the second changing of hands began. Jewel's grandparents, John's parents, moved in and took over the station. Ted and Kathy, heartbroken and desperate, wanted to step up, to be the family Jewel needed. But the grandparents, a couple as unyielding as the arid land itself, would have none of it. They didn't see Ted and Kathy as family; they saw them as staff.

Under the new management, the heart of the station began to wither. The easygoing camaraderie was replaced by cold efficiency. Staff started coming and going with alarming frequency, the old loyalty burned away by the grandparents' rigid rule. Ted was one of the few who was able to stay, not just because his position was indispensable, but because of Jewel. His presence was his last tie to the family he had lost, a silent promise he would not break. With Sarah gone, the reason for Kathy's frequent visits vanished, too. She couldn't bear to be on the station under the new regime, but she would always be there for Jewel's birthdays and other important milestones, a brief beacon of light in the darkness.

Jewel was molded into something she was not. Her grandmother insisted on turning her into a "proper young lady," forcing her into frilly dresses that caught on the scrub and collecting dust on the veranda. Her time with the horses, once a source of freedom, was now strictly supervised. The dusty, well-worn stock saddle, a symbol of her heritage, was replaced with a sleek English GP saddle. The final straw came when her grandmother decided to sell her beloved, shaggy pony and replace it with a show-ring German Riding Pony. Ted, for the first time, pushed back. He put his foot down, pulling the last strings of his authority to prevent the sale. His quiet defiance was a small act of rebellion, a testament to his unbreakable love for the little girl who was all he had left of his best friends.

---

The years bled into one another, marked not by seasons but by the girl who grew taller with each one. Ted carried on at the station, his role shifting from a worker to something far more vital. He was a shoulder for Jewel to lean on, the quiet keeper of her parents' memory, and the last true link to the life she barely remembered. He watched her blossom from a grieving child into a fierce, independent young woman, her spirit refusing to be broken by the cold hand of her grandparents' rule.

Jewel's rebellion was a quiet but constant presence. She pushed back against her grandparents' ways with a stubborn will that reminded Ted so much of her father. She would slip away from her lessons on "proper behavior" and sneak off with Ted and the other crew when they went out for musters. Ted didn't always approve, knowing the risk, but Jewel, being Jewel, would go anyway. The station was her home, the land in her blood. Having that simple happiness taken away by her grandparents was like a shot to the foot, a deliberate wound to the part of her that was most alive.

It was in those stolen moments with the animals that Ted saw the most of John and Sarah in her. She had her father's patient hand with a skittish horse and her mother's quiet, trusting nature. The true turning point came when Jewel confessed to Ted she wanted to start a young colt. It was something she'd watched her parents do countless times in old photos and her own hazy memories, and she yearned to experience it for herself.

Ted, knowing the grandparents would never allow it, agreed to help her. In the quiet evenings after the grandparents had retired, they would work in the far paddock, a secret shared between them. Jewel would move with the colt, her movements a mirror of the horsemanship she had absorbed through osmosis. She was patient, she was loving, and most of all, she was at peace. In those moments, Ted didn't just see a young girl; he saw a legacy living on.

---

Time, relentless and unfeeling, continued to march on. Jewel was no longer a child; she was now at an age where the emotional weight of the station's decline was matched by a fierce, practical need to save it. She wanted to learn every facet of running the property, not just the riding and the land, but the ledgers and the livestock tallies. The station's current management, what Ted and Jewel secretly called the "haughty-taughty Adelaide account," was actively dismantling everything John and Sarah had built, and Jewel was determined to fight back.

Her first step was to find an ally. She sought out Glen, the former stock manager who'd been forced into early retirement by the new owners. He was hesitant, seeing the danger in teaching her to undermine her own grandparents. But one look from Ted, his eyes holding a lifetime of memories, sealed the deal. "She wants to learn, so let her," Ted said, his voice firm. "She'll only do it behind your back if you don't."

And so began Jewel's education. Her office was the tackroom, a space filled with the scent of leather and saddle soap. Cross-legged on the dusty floor, she pored over old invoices, feed charts, and stock ledgers, all salvaged by Ted. She absorbed every number, every detail, understanding for the first time the intricate balance that had kept Southern Lights alive.

The day of the next quarterly meeting, when the accountant arrived with a stiff, professional air, Jewel was ready. She sat beside her grandfather, her hands clasped on a folder filled with handwritten notes. She didn't raise her voice or throw a tantrum. Instead, with a quiet confidence that was all John and Sarah, she presented a well-thought-out proposal. It was a detailed, logical argument for what should actually be happening with the property, using her parents' old methods as the bedrock of her plan. She wasn't just a child with a complaint; she was the rightful heir, armed with a legacy.

---

A year after Jewel began her quiet rebellion, the world shifted again for Ted, but this time in a far more painful way. Kathy began to fall ill. The outback, with its vast distances and limited services, was no place for a woman in need of constant care. In a heartbreaking decision, Kathy chose to move closer to the city, where she could be properly looked after by doctors and nurses.

This left Ted pulled in two impossible directions. His heart was in the city, but his purpose was at Southern Lights. He was the only one who truly understood Jewel, and he was the only one fighting for her. Torn and heartbroken, he went to Kathy, desperate for a solution.
She simply smiled, a sad, knowing expression on her face. "Stay with Jewel. Be there for her. You're her strength. Come to me when you can."
And so that's what Ted did. He stayed for Jewel, a promise made to both his love and his best friends. He worked the station, mentoring the girl who was the spitting image of her parents, and when the opportunity struck—between musters or on a quiet Sunday—he would get in the ute and drive the endless miles to be with Kathy. But those moments were bittersweet and fleeting. He watched helplessly as her health declined, each visit a painful goodbye.

Just a couple of months later, a second tragedy struck the station. Ted got the phone call he had been dreading. Kathy was laid to rest at a small, quiet funeral attended by her family, a few old friends, and her one true love. But this time, Ted was not alone in his grief. Jewel was there, no longer a child to be comforted, but a fierce, compassionate young woman. She was the one who placed a firm hand on his back, offering him the shoulder he had always offered her.

---

Life moved forward, a current carrying Jewel inexorably toward her destiny. With Ted's unwavering guidance, she was no longer just learning; she was blooming. Every choice she made, every hard-won battle with her grandparents, was driven by a single, powerful desire: to make her parents proud, to be the young woman they would have wanted her to be. Her days were a blur of musters, ledgers, and quiet conversations with Ted, a constant, steadfast presence who had helped shape her into the independent and capable woman she was becoming.

When Jewel turned 17, Ted was there to witness the last changing of hands. The unfortunate truth of life caught up with her grandparents. Their health and age were catching up to them, and retirement was inevitable. They retreated to the city, leaving Southern Lights under the pretense of "remote management." Though they still held a tight rein on the station's finances and had the final say, their physical absence was the catalyst Jewel needed. With Ted's quiet support, she began to turn things around, getting the property back on the course her parents had charted so long ago.

The next autumn, on her 18th birthday, the grandparents were gone for good. There was a brief, official goodbye, followed by the news of their passing a short time later. The funeral was over quick, a small, sterile affair with no tears from Jewel. She felt a complicated mix of emotions—a pang of grief for the family that was, and an overwhelming, undeniable sense of relief for the freedom that was now hers. Ted, while not voicing it, felt even less sorrow.

The grandparents were laid to rest in a cemetery far from the homestead, their final resting place as separate from the land as their rule had been. Life at the ranch began anew. The land was now Jewel's, and under her complete control, Southern Lights Station began to breathe again. Ted, watching her ride out on the first morning of her new reign, couldn't have been more happy. The legacy had come home.

---

Ted's love and support have been a steady guiding light for Jewel, a beacon she needed (and still does on occasion) over the years. He has seen the station pass through many hands, but now, finally, it is where it is meant to be—thriving under her command.

Today, Southern Lights Station is a hive of activity, pulsating with a warmth that had been missing for so long. There's a tangible sense of family and belonging that permeates every corner of the property. Laughter echoes across the paddocks, barbecues sizzle on hot afternoons, and the homestead is often filled with the chatter of friends. But in the midst of the lively chaos, there are also quiet, serious moments—the respectful silence in the stables, the focused concentration in the yards, the understanding that with all the joy comes a deep responsibility to the land and the animals.

Jewel's leadership is the heart of this change. She's not a pushover by any standard, and she maintains the structure and discipline necessary to run a successful station. But like her parents, she sees the good in people and animals, and she believes in second chances. This philosophy has drawn a loyal and committed crew to her, people who see the station not just as a workplace, but as a home.

Her compassion extends to all creatures, and over the years, the station has acquired a menagerie of its own. There's Battie the wombat, a permanent fixture who waddles around the homestead, and Joey the kangaroo, who was a curious young roo who now hops freely across the paddocks. Snowy the cockatoo squawks greetings from the veranda, and, of course, the station would be incomplete without her three loyal Australian Cattle Dogs—Jazzy, Ringo, and Boomer, a trio of tireless workers and faithful companions.

Under Jewel's control, the station has flourished. The property has grown, and every change, every improvement, has been for the better. The spirit of John and Sarah lives on not only in their daughter's fierce dedication but in the welcoming, vibrant community that she has created from their legacy.

Ted's time will eventually come, and he will have to say goodbye. But for now, being here is enough.

 

 

 

 

 

#19

Jewel / Re: Story #5: Feelings Found

Last post by Jewel - Aug 02, 2025, 05:42 PM

   

Chapter 2: New Skies, Old Nerves.

   

 

The wind smelled different here.

Emma stepped out of the cab, her boots crunching on gravel that wasn't quite red enough, wasn't quite dusty enough. Everything about Wyndmere Hollow looked like it had stepped out of a postcard: stone walls aged by weather and time, a slate roof glistening from a recent rain, and a heavy wooden door that looked like it had secrets behind it.

No kookaburras laughing. No flies trying to steal a sip of your tea. Just mist, hedgerows, and a quiet that felt old and watching.

A wiry girl about her age appeared from the stables, jacket zipped to her chin and mud already up her thighs. "You must be Emma," she called out, accent clipped and fast.

Emma smiled and nodded, shouldering her bag. "That obvious?"

"Your boots gave it away. And the accent. I'm Nia."

Nia didn't offer a handshake—just turned on her heel and motioned for Emma to follow. "You'll be in the grooms' quarters above the tack room. Hope you're not afraid of mice."

"I'm from the outback," Emma said, grinning. "You'll have to do better than mice."

Nia smirked. "That confidence won't last through your first thunderstorm here."


---

Later, after the whirlwind of meeting the head trainer, seeing the riding arena (indoor and outdoor), being introduced to half a dozen horses, and shoving her stuff into a bunk room that smelled like leather and damp hay, Emma finally collapsed on her narrow bed.

The jet lag was creeping in. Her eyes burned. But she didn't sleep. She opened her phone, scrolling through unread messages from the station—mostly pictures from Rex, a video of Old Ted swearing at a stubborn calf, and one blurry snap of the sunrise over the paddocks she knew by heart.

No message from Alex.

She stared at the screen a moment longer, then opened her Notes app.

> Hey.
Got here in one piece. It's green. Very green. Nia (the other working pupil) seems alright.
I haven't fallen off anything yet, so that's a win.

Hope the dogs haven't taken over my room.

Say hi to Jewel. And the horses. And... you know.

– Em.

She didn't send it. Just saved it.

There was something safe about writing to him in silence, like putting her thoughts in a bottle and pushing them out to sea. No pressure to be clever. No pressure to admit that the homesickness hit harder than she'd expected, that she missed the dust and the noise and even his awful morning hair.

Outside, a barn owl screeched.

Emma rolled over, blanket pulled up to her chin. She wasn't sure if it was the unfamiliar ceiling or the unspoken things she'd left behind that kept her awake.

Probably both.

#20

Jewel / Re: Story #5: Feelings Found

Last post by Jewel - Aug 02, 2025, 03:16 AM

   

Chapter 1: Just say it.

   

 

"Good morning, Alex," Emma said in a sing-song voice, brushing past him with a mug already in hand and toast in the other.

Alex grunted and slumped into the breakfast bar stool. "Why are you so chipper?"

She just hummed a vague reply, and he didn't push it. He reached for the kettle. "Oh, coffee, glorious coffee," he added like a mantra.

Rex strolled through the kitchen, half-dressed for morning chores and munching a muesli bar. "What is this—Ice Age 2?"

Alex blinked, groaned. "It's early. Don't quiz me on movie trivia before caffeine."

Emma laughed quietly to herself, turning back to butter her toast. It was always like this—easy. Familiar. A rhythm they'd fallen into without even noticing.

She sat beside him, biting into toast that was still too hot. It crackled, crumbs scattering down her sleeve.

"I got an email last night," she said casually, though her fingers tightened slightly around the handle of her mug. "From Wyndmere Hollow."

Alex stirred his coffee, blinked slowly. "That the one in England?"

"New Forest, yeah."

He looked up. "And?"

"They've accepted me. Five months as a working pupil. Riding, grooming, some teaching, maybe even eventing if I'm lucky." She took another bite and tried to sound casual. Unbothered.

Alex was quiet for a beat too long.

"That's... awesome, Em."

She turned to look at him properly. His smile was there, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I thought you'd be more surprised."

"I am," he said. "Just... I guess I thought you were happy here."

"I am." It came out too fast. "I really am."

A silence settled between them, the kind that said more than either of them knew how to put into words. Somewhere down the hallway, Rex shouted something about lost socks. The fridge hummed steadily.

Emma stared into her mug. "It's just something I need to do."

Alex gave a small nod. "Yeah. You'll smash it. You always do."

She smiled, quiet and soft. "I leave in three weeks."

He didn't flinch, didn't react—just took another long sip of coffee like it was the only thing anchoring him.

"Guess we'd better start rationing the decent instant," he said, not quite looking at her.

Emma let out a small breath, almost a laugh. She reached for another piece of toast, but her hand paused midair.

There were a dozen things she could've said. Should've said.

Instead, she just sat there, close but not quite close enough, and let the silence stretch.