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business plan had been to target holidaymakers and novice riders. Sightseeing on horseback , her flyers had said, as a hint to the laidback nature of the ride. Overnight and weeklong rides were a different business venture, and Mortimer Ranges weren’t ideal for that. Open plains, beaches and alpine bushland suited long rides. Too much of Mortimer’s terrain was inaccessible and slow going. Sarah pictured a team of her beginners, a bright-eyed bunch of tourists, on Spinners Bridge when the flash flood had hit. They could have easily been there. Or maybe not – Sarah would have checked the weather before heading out. Long before the swarming ants she would have cottoned on. Looking back, Sarah knew now how dazed she’d been, perhaps even mildly concussed. The painkillers hadn’t helped either.
    Rain turned to sleet. It began to snow. Light snow that melted on contact with the wet ground, but snow in December all the same.
    Whoever had named Devil Mountain had it wrong, Sarah mused. Satan didn’t live in the ranges, Santa did. She found the strength to smile. The amusement failed to thaw her though, and the smile faded from her lips.

S arah made it to the hut before nightfall and was met with the welcoming sight of a caravan tucked in under a long four-bay shed. A Christmas miracle of sorts. The flat-roofed shed had no doors, a rear wall and closed-in ends. It was open right the way along the front. A potbelly stove sat beside the van. The flue coming up out of the shed roof couldn’t have looked any better against the bleak sky, except perhaps if it had been billowing white smoke.
    Sarah walked closer through the wet grass. There was a newly erected toilet block, a stack of wood next to the potbelly stove and a tonne of split wood by the hut. The hut itself was in disarray. A stone wall was missing, scaffolding covered the back of the heritage-listed structure. She could see they were only halfway through the restoration. It didn’t matter though, not with the workmen’s caravan parked so conveniently, and with all the other amenities around the site complete.
    Icy wind whipped through the clearing. They made a beeline for the shed. It had been built as extra cover for campers and as shelter for horses and for motorbike riders to park their bikes out of the weather. Sarah had been one of the local business people approached by the parks committee for input on what they believed was needed to improve the site. She’d been shown blueprints, informed of the works. She’d lost touch with the project these last few months though, hadn’t known they’d progressed this far.
    Sarah let go of Tansy’s reins and she sank down on the first patch of dry dirt floor she came to. Tansy continued on a few steps into the shed, then stopped also.
    Neither one of them moved or made a sound. Light dimmed to a grey haze and stayed that way. Sundown was still a way off. Rain hit the shed roof in waves.
    Sarah rebooted in degrees – moving her foot, wiping the grit from her palms, sniffing, blinking, looking around at Tansy. Her mare was facing away, not interested in looking at anything; the day had been a sensory overload. Sarah pushed herself to her feet. She unzipped her coat and walked to the potbelly stove beside the van. The stove door was open, revealing a cold bed of grey coals inside. The caravan had a high undercarriage clearance, all-terrain tyres. Bush Master 2 was written on the badge by the door. If a caravan could be classed as macho, this one would be. The tow bar was chunky, the sidebars and rear bar were galvanised steel, the step was thick checker plate.
    Foldout chairs and a camp table were set up next to the potbelly stove. On the table were two coffee cups and a dusty plate. On the floor around the table were a couple of empty beer cans and the tin foil from the bottom of a meat pie. While Sarah stood there, a swirling cold gust pushed and rolled the cans along the dirt floor.
    In Tansy’s bay there were signs