Between house and stable were the remains of a couple of holding yards. Old palings scattered in the scrub, rusting curls of barbed wire here and there. Not far away was an old hand-cranked pump on a bore. Blade worked it up and down, a bucket under the spout, while Sheila ambled around him, begging for pats, which he offered up happily. His body glistened under a sheen of sweat, catching the dying rays of the sunset, turning him golden. A fallen angel sans wings.
