Furborn Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  By Isabelle Rowan

  Visit Harmony Ink Press

  Copyright

  Furborn

  By Isabelle Rowan

  Foxes are vermin.

  Australian sheep farmers regard them as an enemy to be shot on sight and hung from the branches of an old gum tree.

  But not all foxes are just foxes.

  Connor Coutts could be the last surviving male Furborn in Victoria, maybe in the whole country, a heavy burden for a teenager. His life’s path is clear—protect what’s left of the Furborn line. That is until someone new arrives at the MacKenzie sheep farm. Spencer MacKenzie, with his long black hair and gothic style, is a strange sight in Connor’s forest, but Fate throws the two teenagers together to save their families.

  Can Connor trust Spencer to keep his life-or-death secret, or will he hang on the tree?

  For magical beings past, present, and future. Dream big, love bigger, and dance joyfully in the moonlight.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WITHOUT THE constant encouragement of my mum to “go and write,” I’d never get anything finished.

  My great friends Syl (beastie), Jacqui, Jen, and Matt who know me well enough to put up with my insecurities and migraines. The gorgeous people at my writing café where I take up space nursing one long black coffee for an hour or two.

  Not forgetting the beautiful Vana who helped me be brave!

  PROLOGUE

  SPENCER

  USELESS LIMBS dangled from the low branch of an ancient gum tree. They swayed in a macabre trot when caught by a warm spring breeze. The once vibrant red fur was ripped open and picked over by carrion birds so only remnants of the animal remained.

  Spencer grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”

  Neil MacKenzie halted his horse and looked up at the tree. “They’re a pest here, Spence.”

  “Yeah I know,” he said and fiddled with the fine gray hair of his horse’s mane. “But do they have to hang them up there?”

  “Most don’t, but Fox’s Hangout has been here for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, I found what was left of one of our lambs after a fox attack, so my dad brought me to this tree.”

  “So Granddad thought that showing you these dead animals would make you feel better about the other one. Someone should chop this tree down.” Spencer knew it was a stupid thing to say, but his mood nosedived with each and every day he spent on the farm.

  His father shot him a look. and he’d seen it enough times to know what it meant. “Yeah I get it, Dad, but it still seems wrong to treat an animal that way—even a dead one.”

  “I’ll remind you of that the next time you’re chewing on a Sunday roast.”

  He refused to give his dad the satisfaction of an answer and urged Smokey to walk on. The horse sidestepped his way past the tree, and for once Spencer didn’t correct him. “It’s okay, Smoke, I don’t like it either.”

  “He’s a city horse,” his dad said. “He’ll get used to all the strange new sights and smells.”

  “I’m not sure I will.” Spencer paused. “Just how long are we going to stay?”

  “That depends. Your granddad is a stubborn man, Spencer. He isn’t able to run the farm as well as he used to, but won’t ask for help or give it up.”

  “Mum told me you want him to sell it and move closer to us.”

  “Like I said, he’s stubborn. He believes his cheviots will die out if he doesn’t keep the breed going.”

  “They’re just sheep.”

  “A really old breed, and there aren’t that many in Australia.”

  Spencer sighed, there was no point in arguing with his dad when it came to the family sheep. Smokey snorted and without warning swung his rump around to back into the other horse. Luckily, Rocky was a bombproof farm horse and stood his ground.

  “Cut it out,” Spencer scolded but glanced in the direction of whatever startled Smokey. Someone was watching them. He was perched on the top rail of a fence staring with a look that definitely wasn’t a country welcome. Spencer smiled. The boy didn’t smile back. He slid down from the fence, turned his back on them, and walked into the gloom of the eucalypt forest. The last thing Spencer noticed was the swing of his long red plait.

  “Hmm, it seems that not all the neighbors are friendly,” Neil said and turned Rocky toward home. “Come on, let’s get back. Your mum and Nan will have breakfast on the table, and heaven forbid you miss out on your strips of crispy, dead pig.”

  CONNOR

  USELESS LIMBS dangled from the low branch of an ancient gum tree. They swayed in a macabre trot when caught by a warm spring breeze. The once vibrant red body had provided nourishment for the carrion birds so only remnants of the animal remained. The tail hung lifeless except for the small finch gathering hairs to line her nest. Connor watched her progress until her beak sprouted a bushy beard of fox fur. He smiled sadly because despite the death of a fox, he acknowledged her need to prepare for her babies. The little bird reached for one more hair, but fluttered away from the tail and flew quickly toward the safety of the forest.

  Warm earthy smells of horses reached Connor. He lifted his face to take in the scent of hide and hair blended with grass and dirt from nearby paddocks. It was a good smell, but there were others—worn leather of saddles and the humans who rode them. Connor sat very still under the shadow of a gum tree.

  “That’s disgusting,” the boy on the gray horse said. Connor silently agreed with him. It was disgusting to hang such a noble animal in the air rather than letting him feed the earth with his decay. But Connor understood that wasn’t what sparked the boy’s disgust—he knew all about human hatred of foxes and their constant battle against the natural order of life.

  He scowled at their conversation about sheep and the abomination of the fox tree until the boy said something that surprised him.

  “Yeah I get it, but it still seems wrong to treat an animal that way—even a dead one.”

  Connor looked at him a little more carefully. Spencer that’s what his father called him. He was around his age, maybe younger. His hair was short and dark and his skin pale—too pale to be a local. He didn’t smell of the land. Connor wrinkled his nose. No, it wasn’t that he didn’t smell of the land, but that there were too many other chemical smells masking it.

  He leaned forward on the fence and his movement caught the attention of the gray horse. You don’t know my kind do you, horse? Connor thought when it snorted.

  Spencer corrected the horse and looked directly at him.

  He smiled.

  Connor didn’t smile back.

/>   You don’t know my kind either, Spencer.

  Connor slid off the rail and turned his back on them. Leaf litter curled around his toes, but there was barely a crunch or crackle to herald his return to the forest.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SPENCER SLOUCHED in the back of the car as Marilyn Manson blared through his headphones blocking out the family chatter. He knew it was old-school music, but he didn’t care, his parents hated it, so that was a good start. It also added fuel to the standard parent question to teenagers in black—are you on drugs? Spencer wasn’t. He’d managed to avoid that scene at school—not through any moral judgment, but he chose to spend his money on other things. He briefly flirted with the idea when the Soundwave Metal Music festival was killed off and he had his ticket money ready and waiting, but a new pair of Doc Martens swallowed his savings.

  “Almost there,” his little sister shouted in his face. Emily wasn’t even born the last time Spencer visited the family farm. That was five years ago, almost six, and this time it wasn’t a visit. Pa Mac had had another stroke, and Spencer’s nan couldn’t run the place on her own. So boxes were packed, trucks loaded, and the whole MacKenzie family headed north.

  Spencer pulled off his headphones and asked, “How do you know we’re almost there?”

  “Dad said, but you were listening to your scream music.”

  “Hey, Dad, how close are we?”

  “We’re on their road, so we should see the gate soon.”

  Emily squirmed in her seat and gave an excited squeal. “Sheep! I can see sheep! Are they our sheep?”

  Spencer looked out at the vast paddock of gray woolly lumps and shrugged. “Dunno. Don’t all sheep look alike?”

  “Don’t you dare say that to your grandfather!” his mother exclaimed with mock horror.

  Spencer actually smiled.

  Two black-and-white border collies bounded down the long drive to greet them as soon as they turned in.

  “Gate,” his father said, and Spencer knew what that meant.

  The metal gate swung easily despite the grinding of the hinges. The dogs were already around his legs vying for attention when Spencer slid the latch back into place. He took off at a run with the dogs racing gleefully beside him.

  “Most exercise I’ve seen you do this year,” his dad teased through the open window of the car before planting his foot to leave Spencer in a cloud of dust.

  He’d almost reached the house when Bridie bounced down to meet them with Emily in tow. The collies took turns checking out both the Scottish terrier pup and Emily, threatening to bowl her over in their enthusiasm. Spencer took the leash to free up Emily’s hands, but he didn’t need to. A piercing whistle broke through the air, and both dogs dropped low to the ground. Bridie, suddenly very brave, barked and jumped toward them, earning a corrective tug on her leash. Another whistle and the farm dogs bolted for the house.

  “Wow,” Emily said. “Do you think I can teach Bridie that?”

  “Can you whistle?”

  “You know I can!”

  “Okay, then,” Spencer said and began walking to the house. “You’ll have to practice a lot and maybe get Pa Mac to teach you what the different whistles mean.”

  Joyce MacKenzie was already standing at the bottom step waiting for her grandchildren. It had been a couple of years since she’d left the farm to visit them, and Spencer noted that her hair was grayer and her frame a little frailer. But she still looked every inch a farmer—even with her floral apron.

  “Look at the size of you both,” she said and enveloped them in a rib-crushing hug. Nothing frail about that, Spencer thought and gently hugged her back. He looked around and saw his father already on the veranda talking to Pa. They walked up the steps and stood dutifully waiting for inspection—well Spencer did because Emily took her mum’s hand and warily watched the old man. He didn’t really look very fierce, but there was a gruffness to his demeanor and the big black walking stick that leaned against the arm of his chair.

  He nodded at the children then looked at Bridie. “Good vermin hunters,” he said. There was a slur to his speech, but he was still commanding.

  “Her name is Bridie,” Emily said from the safety of her mother’s side.

  “Stoic little dogs. Let her off the leash.”

  “I’m not sure that a good idea,” Neil MacKenzie interjected.

  “Nonsense. She’s a farm dog now, and you have to trust that she’ll learn her place here.”

  That surprised Spencer. He leaned down and unclipped Bridie’s tartan leather puppy collar. Then something else surprised Spencer. The pup walked over to the old man and sat at his feet.

  “She knows,” Pa MacKenzie said.

  Bridie’s obedience lasted all of ten seconds before she took off along the veranda to check out the row of work boots and wellies. Pa’s attention turned to Spencer, and his frown didn’t bode well. “Does that thing go all the way through your lip?” he asked.

  “Don’t get onto him the minute he arrives,” Joyce said. “Come in, and we’ll get you settled in your rooms.”

  Rooms. There were plenty of rooms in the old homestead. It had been in the family for generations, and although the old weatherboards needed painting, it was still an impressive building. Three chimneys lined up along the corrugated iron roof that swept down to curve over the top floor balcony that shaded the broad veranda that encircled the house. Spencer’s room was upstairs next to Emily’s. It was smaller than home—really small—but he decided the view made up for it because his window faced away from the road and looked out over the horse and sheep paddocks all the way to the bushland beyond. He’d explored the fringes of the eucalypt forest when he was a kid but hadn’t ventured too far in. That’s gonna change, he decided. He scanned the paddocks for their horses and easily spotted his big gray and Emily’s buckskin pony grazing along a fence line. They’d transported the horses a week earlier to get them settled and give the family a little less to do while packing their life into boxes.

  “How’s the room?”

  “Small.” Spencer shrugged but didn’t turn around. He could feel his mum behind him and didn’t want to give her a hard time—it wasn’t her fault he’d do his final year in a new school with no friends. “But I guess I could always go outside and chase the sheep.”

  “Why don’t you go for a walk and check on Smokey? The unpacking can wait.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Mum.” He gave her a genuine smile and wandered past the packing boxes already stacked up at his door to escape outside.

  It was one of those days where the sky goes on forever—bright blue and no clouds to break it up. The air had lost its morning crispness, and the gentle warmth of waning summer bathed his skin. Freshly cut clover hay infused the breeze and lifted his mood—despite all attempts to remain sullen. There were worse places to be, Spencer reasoned and climbed through the wire fence, careful to avoid getting snagged on the sharp barbs.

  “Hey, Smokey!” he shouted.

  The big gray’s head shot up, and he cantered the length of the paddock.

  “Not dinnertime, Smoke,” Spencer explained. “I just came to make sure you’re okay and like your new home.”

  He knew the horse didn’t understand him, but Smokey was always someone to talk to when he couldn’t face another human. Spencer stroked the soft dappled hair and rested his face against the muscular neck. He didn’t ride much anymore, but this was a regular scenario.

  A dark muzzle blew grassy breath against his cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Peanuts, do you feel left out?”

  Peanuts was Emily’s pony, but Spencer did most of the work with him. She enjoyed the riding lessons, the occasional grooming sessions, and the soft snuffle on her palm when she gave him a treat, but the actual upkeep was Spencer’s job. It was the one chore he never complained about.

  He scratched the pony under the jaw and said, “This place has to be better than the agistment at home.” The agistment consisted of a half-acre paddock with a
loose box and water trough. Riding was either on the back roads or the indoor arena for lessons. Boring for both horse and rider. Spencer used to ride Smokey to the beach where they crashed through the waves and churned up the shallows, but the new council bylaws and six-lane freeway stopped that fun.

  A shrill bark broke into the memory. Spencer squinted at the tree line, but couldn’t find the animal that made it. He knew it was a fox; he’d heard them last time he was here and sometimes at home during early-morning rides before the industrial estate swallowed up the greenbelt.

  “Time to explore a little,” he told Smokey and walked down the paddock with the horses ambling behind him.

  There was a broad firebreak of regularly mown grass between the fence and the forest. Spencer stopped halfway across the sun-bleached grass and looked back toward the farmhouse. The white weatherboard cladding gleamed in the bright sunshine, and from this distance you couldn’t see the cracked paint or the occasional spots where it was chipped off altogether. With its cluster of sheds and neat yards, it could have been one of those sepia postcards. There was no heavy machinery, and only the cars gave away the time period. Spencer could just make out movement around the veranda, but there was no one watching him.

  The National Forest was definitely off-limits when he was a kid and a local had teased him about dead bodies in shallow graves among the trees. “The police found the ones in the Belangelo State Forest, but not here. Dig in any soft ground and you’ll find a skeleton or, if you’re unlucky, a fresher kill.” Even then Spencer knew it wasn’t true and the local was full of shit, but he couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.

  “It’s just the horses,” he muttered and continued walking.

  Each step took him closer, and each step prickled the fine hair on the back of his neck. The sun on the tip of his boot darkened with the instant shade of the forest. Spencer stood in the dappled light while he considered his next move—he’d never actually thought about what he’d do once he was in the forest other than the nebulous plan to “explore.” Finally he decided the best way forward was straight ahead. The leaf litter crunched loudly underfoot and, although it was initially unnerving amid the tall trees, he reasoned it would alert him to any approaching serial killers. Luckily there were no footsteps other than his own.