Anchor Point by Alice Robinson

above by the sharp jab of heel in rib. She looked around in a panic, scrabbled with the door handle. Bruce shimmied on the carpet, trying to work his way out.
    â€˜Hang on, love,’ he called. ‘Just a tick.’ Tools clattered to the floor. Laura slipped down from the cab. Against the glare, she made out the sight of her old horse approaching, slowing to a trot. She knew the shape and sway of Posey’s rump, the stutter in her stride – the ghost of an old knee injury. ‘Make her pick her feet up,’ Bruce always said. ‘She’s walking like a donkey. She’s takin’ you for a ride.’ But Laura didn’t like to dig her heels in, the way Bruce said she should.
    â€˜Posey! Posey girl!’
    The horse didn’t flinch, walked past, ears rotating against flies. Was she deaf? Laura drew a fist across her face, smearing snot. Her world had broken down to strobes of colour, and lurching blurts of sound: the glossy caramel of the rider’s legs, hot snort of horse breath, a whinny. A brilliant wedge of sun came streaming down between clouds. It fell, a spotlight, squarely across the drive. The rider and the horse rode through it.
    â€˜Stop!’ Laura yelled.
    The rider turned on the horse’s bare back. Laura locked eyes with Joseph. He raised an uncertain hand in greeting, even as the horse walked him away. He struggled to smile, disfigured by emotion. Laura felt cold. Arrested by the look on his face, she skidded and stood, watching her friend ride her horse as though it hurt him. Joseph’s blanched knuckles, like bones against the sweat-darkened leather of the reins. His other hand was knotted in Posey’s mane. Laura recalled the envelope Bruce had handed Skinner for the ute. The word he’d used: ‘arrangement’.
    â€˜She’s mine!’ Laura cried out. ‘Joseph!’
    She threw herself along the drive then, stumbling. Rain had worn rivulets in the dirt to trip her up. She’d seen Skinner’s stock. Didn’t give a toss. A horse like Posey, no good for shows or racing, not even good to ride, wouldn’t get special treatment in a place like that. What good was she to him? Laura felt a rush of air on the back of her coat – Bruce swiping for her shoulder and missing. Gravel crunched. He caught her, held her arm above the elbow like a cuff.
    Laura cried, ‘Get off .’
    â€˜Sorry,’ Joseph’s voice cracked. ‘Dad sent me back for her.’
    â€˜She’s mine, but! Not Skinner’s!’
    â€˜S’alright, son,’ Bruce firmly called. ‘You go on. Blokes’ll be waiting.’
    He loomed down over Laura, fingers firm. The chest of his coveralls was splattered with engine oil. Laura stared after Joseph and the horse, growing smaller all the while. She tried to drag the dead weight of Bruce along the drive. He stood firm. A sound tore out of her. She strained for the horse; Posey kept walking, rhythmically bobbing her head, as if nothing was going on.
    Laura turned on Bruce, flailing. ‘You!’ Her arms windmilled his gut. ‘You sold her!’
    Bruce squatted until they were the same height. He pulled her in hand over hand, like reeling in a fish. ‘It’s oh-kay,’ he whispered in the lilting voice he used to get the bridle on the horse. He stroked her hair. She struggled, then went limp. They swayed together, rocking.
    â€˜Skinner’s not gonna look after her properly.’ Laura sobbed. ‘Posey!’ The word came out all mangled.
    Bruce smiled sadly. She watched him look out over their place, from the house to the shed, the trees to the low, cold sky. ‘Funds came up a bit short, love. Had to trade her.’ A muscle tightened in his jaw. He sighed. ‘How else we gonna get ourselves a ute?’

    The months broke across the year in alternating tasks: clearing, fencing, cutting wood. When the bully Blake Davies challenged Laura to an