Daughter of Australia

by Harmony Verna

Genres: Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

An orphan girl's epic journey to womanhood takes her across the world—and back to the man she loves—in this sweeping novel of early twentieth-century Australia.



Western Australia, 1898. In the vast and unforgiving desert, a miner discovers a baby girl in the sand, miraculously still alive. Sent to an orphanage, Leonora is still mute with grief and fear as she slowly bonds with another orphan, James. He fights to protect her until both are sent away—Leonora to a wealthy American family, James to relatives who have emigrated from Ireland to claim him.



Years later, Leonora is given a chance to return to her beloved Australia. There, in Wanjarri Downs, she will again come face to face with James, who's grown from a reticent boy into a strong, resourceful man. Only James knows the truth about Leonora—that her roots and her heart are here, among the gum trees and red earth. And they will fight to find a way back to each other, even as war, turmoil, and jealousy test their courage again and again.

Release date: April 1, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 482

Sample

Western Australia, 1898

They walked into the sun.

Her small legs moved without thought; fingers rubbed eyes full of sleep. No need to dress; the clothes she wore day and night. Hunger as normal as breathing.

The fiery ball inched up the horizon leaving waves of heat in its wake, rippling across the landscape as a black shallow lake. Nocturnal beings scurried and slithered and hid with the light, sought shade for slumber. The animals of day woke fresh and loud from nests and mounds and burrows. Flocks of birds settled heavily on the few branches sturdy enough to bear their weight. Brightly colored feathers and noisy chatter quickly brought life to an otherwise dead plain.

The earth was cooked, the red ground baked and brittle. Morning air rested still and hot. The black flies flocked, landed on faces, inched into clothing—a normal nuisance. Only the most intrusive, the ones seeking a nostril or an eardrum, were worth the swat.

Her shoes bulged with stuffed rags, each step kicking a miniature sandstorm. Rust-colored earth stained her stockings to the knees. Over and over she tripped upon the floppy shoes, the soft impact of heel to dirt echoing singularly through the swelter.

She clutched his hand, though his fingers remained limp within her palm. She looked up. He was so tall that his hair seemed to scrape the sky. The sun moved higher and his head appeared as one blinding orb. As he stretched out his neck muscles, his features sharpened— thin cheeks, dark skin tanned as leather, gray and black stubbly chin. He stared at his feet, his eyes vacant, glazed, almost wild, like a sick dingo. Her stomach sank. In the next moment, the sun eclipsed his face and she turned away from the painful glare.

Step. Step. Step. The hole in her shoe chased the shadow of her hat brim, a shadow shortening under the ascending sun. They walked for minutes or hours or days. Hunger and thirst gnawed. Burning heat. Each breath a poker to the lungs. Her feet broiled inside the ragged shoes; her hat melted on her head. Dripping sweat blurred vision.

A lone gum tree rose in the emptiness, its sparse leaves faded gray with a powdered finish. He pulled her weakly to the trunk and made her sit, slipped his fingers from her hand. His arms quivered and his eyes watered as he took the dented billy can from his belt and laid it next to her feet. He turned and began walking. She watched him rub his hands through his thinning hair and rest them on the back of his neck. She watched as his shoulders shook and his legs wobbled, as if he might fall to his knees. She watched as his figure got smaller and smaller in the distance until he was a tiny black dot on the horizon. In another moment, the dot evaporated into the wavy air.

Sinking. Sinking. Sinking. Her stomach lurched, her mouth too dry to vomit. She picked up the can. The water sloshed inside with dull, constrained waves. She tried to turn the top just as she had seen him do, but her tiny fingers slipped from sweat. She tried again and again, her throat tightening. Finally, she cradled it upon her stomach. He would open it. She leaned her head against the smooth bark. He would open it. Patience and sun mingled with throbs of thirst and lulled her to sleep.

Flies flitted across her eyes, tickled her lashes and buzzed in satisfaction upon moist skin. She woke startled, smacking her face and clothes. She looked for him. Panic swelled her throat and she tried to swallow, the reflex painful and chafing. Pushing against the panic, she focused on her feet, clicked them several times and watched the dust fall in puffy clouds. Tree limbs, emaciated lines of shade, pointed inertly—no wind, no breeze, would offer relief.

The sky changed from blue to pink, clouds trimmed lilac. The hues darkened. She wanted it to stop. Dread crept across her flesh and tingled sharply. Her eyes strained to see his emerging figure across the plain. Her pupils searched for a spot moving, one that would grow and lengthen. Blood throbbed as drums. Water pooled in her eyes, dropped down her cheeks and landed salty on her lips, precious water draining. Blackness inched and played tricks, distorting mulga scrub into dogs, tree limbs into extended arms. Shadows magnified, took over the landscape and drowned out the light.

She grabbed her knees and buried her head between them, held her ears against the pulse of terror. “Papa?” she whispered, the fear in her voice breaking any ties of control. She scrambled to her feet, searched the darkness. “Papa? Papa!” She choked in raspy spats, morphed the word into a howl. “Papa!”

The moon climbed.

She bent into her screams and tears, shook with the chilled air. The animals began their night shift, replacing the singers with the chirpers. Her cries echoed over the plain, carried away and diffused by the sounds of insects—a child’s pleading call lost amid the vacuum of night.

The sun beat through Ghan’s shirt, not a patch of fabric dry of sweat. He took a swig of water from the duck skin bag and pulled the hat farther down his forehead. Eternal landscape—red dirt; blue, cloudless sky; low, scraggly saltbush; a spotting of salmon gum and gimlet wood. The rattling caravan, the doughy camel steps, the only noise, the only indication of movement, a small animation in a sea of stillness.

Neely stretched his legs until his feet pressed against the front boards. “Hellova lot hotter than yesterday.”

“Gonna be a scorcher.”

“Should’ve left earlier,” Neely decided.

“No shit.” Ghan glared at him.

A fly chewed Ghan’s arm. His hand holding the reins smacked it absently, then brushed off the flattened blob. White scars dotted his arm, all the more obvious against his coppered skin. They were the markings of his mining history, his own collage of abuse underground—along with a missing ear from a carbide lamp explosion, a crippled, twisted leg crushed at the knee. His cheek poached from burns, the nose bulbous and hopelessly slanted from fists—an ugly face to match an ugly life.

Neely ground his cigarette stub into the old wagon wood. Suddenly, his shoulders rolled and convulsed. He gripped his shirt at the neck, his body shaking in choking spasms.

“Not again,” Ghan mumbled, but his eyes flitted with worry. “Breathe into it, mate.”

Neely’s head reared, his mouth silent and begging for air, his eyes wide and desperate before the violent hacking erupted again. Ghan turned his face away. The wagon rocked under the man’s barking body for minutes on end. Then the relief, the wheezing inhale. Neely raised his bottom off the bench, leaned over the wagon and spit out a bloody mouthful. He pulled out a new cigarette, lit it with trembling hand and sucked in slowly, evenly, with sallow cheeks.

“Need water?” Ghan asked softly. Neely closed his eyes and shook his head. The man would be dead within six months. Ghan had seen it before. That cough, the one carried by so many of the men underground with dust on their lungs—the “miner’s complaint.”

Neely reached under the seat and dug through a brown sack.

“Yeh just ate!” Ghan snapped.

“I’m hungry.” Neely rummaged through a second bag. “Whot’s it to yeh?”

“Don’t complain when yeh got nothin’ t’eat later on.”

Neely found the wrapped sandwiches, opened one and threw the waxed paper into the dirt. “Like t’eat when the meat’s still cool.” He chewed slowly, sideways like the camels. “Don’t like mine crawlin’ wiv maggots like yeh do.”

A crowd of emus skipped off in the distance on silent prehistoric legs. The dust quickly sprayed around the creatures’ haunches before settling back as if never stirred. Ghan abruptly pulled the camels to a stop, sending Neely’s body halfway off the bench.

“Jesus, give a man a little warnin’!” Neely barked. “Why yeh stoppin’?”

Ghan pointed into the sun’s glare. “See that?” His eyes narrowed on the object—a rock, maybe an old pack, a dead dingo. His vision blurred, then spotted black.

Neely squinted. “Naw, it’s nothin’.”

“Gonna check it out.” Ghan climbed from the wagon, his boots landing with a puff. The dead leg instantly cramped and for a moment he struggled to keep upright, the sensation of wagon movement still throbbing under his rear.

“Don’t waste yer time.” Neely clicked his teeth, settled back into the seat. “If it was anything good, someone would ’ave picked it up by now.”

Ghan walked slowly, both legs stiff from sitting. He left footprints of one boot heel and one swerving rut trailing like a snake. The sun poked his eyes. Sweat fell from his nose one lazy drip at a time.

He inched closer to the lone gum tree in the distance, its branches at one moment shielding the sun and the next conceding, blinding him again. It was not a dead dingo, no stink. Somewhere between the blotches, the object began to take shape—clothing, old rags maybe, left in a small heap, innocuous enough that he could have turned back. Instead, he quickened his pace and galloped, felt like ants were crawling atop his flesh.

A few more dragged steps and the tree eclipsed the stabbing glare. Despite the heat, each bead of sweat chilled and his thick breathing grew loud and unsettling in the stillness. Details no longer blurred as he made out the lines of a dress, of tiny shoes. He froze. Sharp light reflected off a metal canteen. Ghan’s stomach pitched at the tiny fingers clutching it.

His knees dropped and crunched the earth beside the small, lifeless child. A child. The innocence cuttingly detailed in the oversized socks that hung at her ankles and the tiny brimmed hat crushed under her matted hair. His fingernails bit into his palms.

Ghan rubbed his hand over his dry mouth, his chest hollow—he couldn’t breathe. He reached out slowly, but his hands quivered so severely that he pulled them back, afraid his clumsy touch would break the child’s bones into a million pieces. He set his jaw and reached out again, putting one arm under her knees and the other under her neck. Her body moved with the motion, had not hardened.

A light moan escaped her lips. Ghan’s nerves iced from feet to hair. She’s alive. Fear, whole and total, pushed the horror away. She was barely alive, closer to death than life, a delicate, ebbing balance that he now held in his incapable hands. With one swift swing, he lifted the child and held her tight against his chest. Air labored through his nose. Sweat dripped onto the girl. He ran toward the distant wagon, cursing his slow dead leg, trying to propel it with panicked pulls. “Neely!”

With one hand, Neely shaded an eye; then his body stiffened tight as a rod. He jumped off the wagon, raced to Ghan, stopping short in a flurry of raised dust. Ghan did not stop, did not hand her over. She was alive now—alive in his arms.

Ghan sputtered through panting breath, “Get my water.”

Neely dug for the water bag. Small cries squeaked from his throat as he fumbled through the supplies.

“Put it to ’er lips. See if she’ll drink,” Ghan commanded, holding the girl’s arched body under the opening.

Neely’s hand shook as he put the spout to her dried, cracked lips. The water splashed and ran down her chin. She made no movement. Her head, deadly still, hung as if her neck held no bones. Ghan shuffled her to the back of the wagon. “Move the crates so I can put ’er down.”

Neely pulled out the padding and Ghan laid the child down in the shade of the canvas. He dribbled the water onto her lips, only to have it roll down the sides of her cheeks. He tried again, this time holding her mouth open with his fingers. “Come on, girl; drink it.”

His nerves cringed at the sunburned face and hands, the half of her that had faced the sun completely covered in blisters and scabs. The weight of helplessness hit with suffocating force. He tried to read Neely’s face for an answer that wouldn’t come. He rubbed his hand hard across his lips and looked at the wide expanse of desert, a pit in his gut. “She needs a doctor.”

“Christ, Ghan.” Neely clawed his scalp, pulled his face back tight. “Whot we gonna do?”

“Think there’s a hospital in Leonora.” Ghan pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to remember the route. “We could veer west toward Gwalia. Not too far off, I think.”

Neely wasn’t paying attention, his mouth drawn. “How yeh think she got ’ere?”

“Don’t know. Can’t think of that now.”

“We’ll miss the delivery to the train,” said Neely, his tone neutral, resigned to the new course of action.

“Fuck the train,” Ghan said with equal tone. He stared at the little girl and his voice croaked, “I need yeh t’drive, Neely. Think yeh know the way?”

Neely nodded, his eyes alert. “I know it.”

Ghan, Neely and the burnt child inched across miles, ticked through hours too drowsy to quicken. Ghan chewed a hard sliver of cuticle along his thumbnail. Through the canvas flaps, the dust pillowed around the back wheels, every turn impossibly slow. Each minute that passed in the desert brought her closer to death. He chewed the cuticle farther until a drop of blood squeezed in response.

Tucked between boxes of explosives, the child’s body swayed with the wagon’s rocking. Desperation tightened Ghan’s muscles to sinew. Emotions—weak, stingy pulls that choked his throat and sat on his chest—threatened to take over. He slapped them away like blowflies and only glanced at the girl long enough to trickle water into her chapped mouth.

With a sudden fury, Ghan hated this place, this country. Madmen lived here. Men who left jobs and cities to live in the bush, sick and dry with drought. Not a handful of men, but men by the trainload. Spurred by rumors of alluvial treasures, the men flocked, dragging their families in tow or leaving them behind to fend for themselves. But wealth wouldn’t fall for these men, just as the rain wouldn’t fall for the burnt shoots of wheat. Only the churning beasts, the large mining companies, found the gold.

Ghan turned to the child, lightly pushed a strand of hair away from her face. His large fingers, stubby and filthy, were monstrous near her tiny features. She was covered in rags and the fury shot hot again. Madmen. The hardships of life under the sun, without money or hope, a brutal existence that could turn sane men to madmen. Ghan scanned the scars along his arm. This was a place where a madman leaves a girl to die and a crippled madman is left to save her.

As the wagon rolled, intermittent signs of civilization appeared. The road widened, dirt settled solid and compact. The ruts deepened. The occasional broken bottle signaled the familiarity of human litter. Ghan leaned out of the wagon. “How much longer?”

“Comin’ on Gwalia now. Mount Leonora’s up ahead.” Neely whacked the camels and the wheels lurched.

The white canvas overhead dimmed to beige as the sun descended, each inch toward the horizon a small reprieve from the day’s swelter. Ghan put the water bag back to the girl’s lips. This time they parted slightly. For a moment her eyes opened, and he stopped dead, the canteen suspended half-tipped in the air. Her listless pupils locked with Ghan’s, a fleeting moment of communion before rolling into unconsciousness. His throat constricted. If she died, that look would haunt him until his last days.

Outside, signs of life burst forth. Prospector tents of the transients dotted the landscape. Through an open tent flap, a bent man cooked over a blue flame. At another, a sleeping man’s feet stuck out from under the canvas. Then came the more permanent homes, the humpies, constructed by the prospectors who decided to stay. Humpies, exaggerated tents reinforced with flattened cyanide drums and corrugated metal, miserable structures that held in the heat during the summer and the cold in the winter. If a fire caught, the canvas would burn on the inside while the iron held in the inferno like a covered pot. Life in the diggings. Here a man builds his palace from scraps of steel and canvas, holds it together with green hide and stringy bark.

People. Ghan exhaled for the first time in hours. People. Help. The road was smoother now. The humpies transitioned to shacks surrounded with rudimentary wire fences or old rusty bed frames, only strong enough to keep the chooks from wandering off. Feral goats roamed the streets, the animals looking more at home than the human inhabitants. At first glance, it was hard to tell if the town was up and coming or one that was on the brink of desertion.

The wagon pulled into Leonora under a blinding ball of orange setting over the plain, silhouetting the few trees in the distance. Neely stopped the camels and came around, glanced at the girl. “She still alive?” The question came out too easy, too quick, and Neely lowered his eyes. “There’s a pub up ahead,” he offered. “Want me t’go?”

“I’ll go.” Ghan got out, his legs so tight he gasped. He stretched his neck, fully aware that Neely watched him. He took a crippled step and bit his lip. Damn it, he hated this leg.

A few steps more and he found his stride, made his way to the pub. Two metal doors, pulled back and tied with wire hangers, flanked the opening. Lamps flickered across the bar, but the recesses of the room were black as night. Two dusty men sat on stools. The barkeeper greeted him with a bored nod. “Look like yeh need a good drink, mate. Whot can I get yeh?”

Ghan worked to control his sizzling nerves. “Lookin’ for the hospital.”

“No hospital, mate.” The man wiped out a glass with an old cloth. “Sorry.”

Ghan’s mouth went dry and he fumbled on his words. “I heard . . . thought there was a hospital . . . drove all this way.”

The barman chewed a wad of tobacco in his cheek but slowed his jaw at the rising pitch. “Yeh sick?”

“S’not me.” The day raced through his head, but talking took time. “There a doctor somewhere?”

The man tucked the rag into his belt and addressed a slumped figure at the bar: “Andrew, ain’t that young Swede a doc?”

“Believe so. Stayin’ at Mirabelle’s.”

The barman slid around the counter. “Come on; I’ll walk yeh over to the boardinghouse. Drew, watch the bar for me, eh?” Andrew gave a listless nod and went back to his pint.

The man noticed the wagon parked out front. “Up from Menzies?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Work in the Bailen Mine then?”

“Used to,” Ghan answered numbly. “Run transport up t’Laver-ton now.”

The man brightened and spit out a rust-colored wad of phlegm. “Carryin’ any cases of whiskey wiv yeh? Give yeh a good price.”

Ghan shook his head, balled his hands into fists. Yabber. Everybody always talking. His heart throbbed in his ears.

“Figured as much.” The man shrugged, then pointed at a yellow brick house on the corner. “Orright, that’s Mirabelle’s.” He turned away with sudden urgency. “Gotta get back ’fore Drew finishes all the grog in the pub.”

Ghan climbed the short stair to the verandah, his dead leg thumping. A woman appeared behind the screen. “All filled for the night,” she said with hands at her hips. The hard woman scanned his features, didn’t try to hide her distrust.

“Not lookin’ for a room.” He skipped the manners. “Need a doctor.”

“Yeh don’t look sick,” she said gruffly.

“S’not for me. It’s a child.” His voice cracked helplessly. “A little girl.”

The face softened behind the gray screen and the woman opened the door, her features now clear without the shadow of wire mesh. “Doc’s in the back havin’ dinner wiv his wife.”

Ghan followed the woman down the hall, her heavy footsteps echoing on the smooth floor planks. She brought him through the sitting room to the rear verandah, where a well-dressed blond couple watched the sunset. “Dr. Carlton,” she said with the same short tone. “Man’s ’ere t’see yeh. His girl’s sick.”

“She ain’t mine!” Ghan snapped. The words rattled him. “Found ’er on my route, lyin’ in the dirt, fryin’ under the sun.” Just saying the words, remembering her out there, flamed panic up and down his chest. Don’t lose it. Not here.

The blond man dabbed at his lips with a napkin before dropping it on his plate. “Where is she now?”

“In my wagon. Got ’er under the canopy.”

“I’ll help bring her in,” the doctor said calmly. “Mirabelle, do you have an extra bed?”

“Top of the stairs. Just need a minute t’put the sheets on.” Mirabelle lumbered up the carpeted stairs, holding her skirt above her toes.

Ghan retraced the steps down the hall and left the house, the Swede following silently behind his heels. “Where did you find her?” asked the doctor, his voice as soft as a woman’s.

“Middle of the bush. Maybe fifteen miles east.” Ghan pointed to the wagon. “She’s in there. Tried t’make her drink but can’t get in more than a few drops.”

Neely heard the voices and came out from the wagon, dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his boot. The doctor pulled back the canvas flap, his eyes drooping at the first glimpse of the child. “Let’s move her quickly.”

Ghan cradled the limp body, as light as a jute sack, against his chest and carried her back to the boardinghouse. Mirabelle peered over the upstairs banister at the floppy form, her throat muscles tightening and her chin set hard as she rang like a general, “Bring ’er up. Bed’s ready!” It was the first voice that gave him any comfort.

Ghan placed the child on the bed with the fluffed pillow and starched white sheets. The room was plain but clean, cleaner than any hospital. Within minutes Mirabelle had the dirty stockings and dress removed and gently wiped the grime off the girl’s face and neck. She placed a cold cloth on the child’s forehead, all the while making tsk-tsk sounds and shaking her head.

The doctor felt the girl’s pulse. He pried apart her eyelids, checked the pupils and then let go, the lids snapping shut. Ghan slid his hat off the pressed, sweated hairs of his head and squeezed it in his hands. The tiny girl, hopelessly burnt, appeared lifeless.

Dr. Carlton soaked a sheet in water, then wrapped the girl loosely in its folds. “We have to get her temperature down,” he said to no one in particular. He opened a small vial of smelling salts and put it under her nose. The little girl moved her head uncomfortably. Her eyes opened, then flitted across the faces before landing on Ghan. His back flattened against the wall. A wave of gratitude fluttered his chest. Then her eyes closed and she winced from pain, her moan raspy and sore.

Mirabelle gently pushed her head back. “Try not t’cry, love.”

“I’m going to apply a salve to the burns,” stated the doctor blandly. “It would be better if you all wait downstairs.”

“Whot’s yer name?” Mirabelle asked as they entered the kitchen.

“Claudio Petroni. But everyone calls me Ghan.”

She scrunched her forehead and looked at him oddly. He shrugged his shoulders. “I got a way wiv camels, like the Afghans.”

Camels. Neely. Transport. The world hovered distantly. Ghan sat at the small, round table, conscious of his dirt-covered clothes and boots in the spotless house. The panic that had held his shoulders tight under his ears for hours dissipated, leaving every cell exhausted. He sank into the hardwood chair. The girl would live. He could breathe again.

Mirabelle heated the teapot and crossed her arms. She was a strong woman, not a pretty one. Ghan stretched his elbow onto the oilcloth. “Thank Gawd the doc was ’ere. Don’t know whot I would’ve done,” he said. “Heard Leonora had a hospital. Reason I came all this way.”

“Hospital? Oh no!” she huffed. “Good two years away. Been all tied up in Perth. Men just sittin’ around talkin’ ’bout it. Like t’see some doin’ for a change.” A strand of hair dropped down her face and she blew it upward with a gust more powerful than necessary.

A whistle hollered from the teapot. Mirabelle pulled out a mug and the sugar and turned off the flame. “Doc works for the Plymouth Mine. Another year an’ they’re movin’ out near the camp. Feel for his wife. Gets lonely out there all day, especially for a woman. That pale skin of hers is gonna cook faster than a slab of bacon.” She pushed the mug at him and poured the tea, the steam rising between their faces. “Yeh want cake wiv that?”

His stomach rumbled. “If it’s no trouble.”

Mirabelle slid a piece of flat yellow cake onto a chipped plate. The Carltons returned and took seats at the table. Mirabelle brought more mugs and plates and cake.

The doctor’s face was tired, sallow. “Her temperature is level. She’s sleeping now.”

“She’s gonna be orright, then?” Ghan asked, his eyes wrinkling in relief.

“Her burns are severe. She’ll be in a lot of pain as she heals.”

Mirabelle snorted. “Where she came from is whot I want t’know. Like to ’ave a go at whoever did this to her, I would!” She turned to Ghan. “Where’d yeh find her?”

“In the bush. ’Bout four hours east.”

“Just lyin’ there?” The disgust in her voice echoed the sharp pounding in his chest.

“Maybe she wandered away from home, got lost?” asked the doctor.

“Dead land. Ain’t no homes out that way,” said Ghan. “Just saltbush an’ dust.”

“Girl comes from a bad lot. No denyin’ that! Her clothes ain’t more than rags.” Mirabelle wrung a towel in her thick hands like it was a neck. “Those damn prospectors don’t care a lick ’bout nothin’.”

“Well, in any case, we’ll need to alert the authorities,” said the doctor. “How long will you be staying in Leonora?”

“I’m not.” Ghan finished his tea with a gulp, suddenly aware of the time. “I’m late as is.”

Dr. Carlton’s eyes widened. “You can’t move her; she’s too weak.”

Ghan looked at Mirabelle, then at the doctor, his nerves frayed. “Course she’s too weak! I’m not takin’ her wiv me, for Gawd’s sake.”

Silence hung in the room, surrounded the four people set around the table. Mrs. Carlton squeezed her husband’s arm, her whole expression begging. Dr. Carlton sighed in defeat and addressed Mirabelle: “May we keep the girl here?”

The muscles in Mirabelle’s neck stretched and tightened like a celery stalk. “I feel for the girl, but I got an inn t’run. I can’t take care of a child.”

“My wife would care for her. Temporarily.” He stressed the last word, looked at his wife’s hopeful face, and his eyes grew weaker. “We would pay for the room. Would that be all right? Just for a while.”

“Of course.” Mirabelle’s neck softened. “Long as yer payin’ for it.”

Mrs. Carlton smiled, clapped her fingertips.

“I’ll wire the constable in the morning.” The doctor fished for a piece of paper and handed it to Ghan. “We’ll need your information in case the police want to speak with you.”

Ghan stared at the pen and paper, as useless to his illiterate mind as it would be to a goat. He handed it back. “It’s the Bailen Mine in Menzies. John Matthews is the manager. He can track me down.” The room fell silent again.

Ghan didn’t want to stay, the ticking clock of the transport already nagging. He’d be fired if the supplies were late. Wouldn’t be able to find another job—no one hires a cripple. Yet he couldn’t stir his body to rise, didn’t know how to leave this place, how to leave the girl. He rubbed the stubble at his jaw. All eyes rested on him. The girl would live; shouldn’t that be enough? After all, he did all a man could be expected to do. These people would care for her. His part was done.

Ghan swallowed the unfamiliar lump lodged in his throat. “Be goin’ then.”

“Whot about yer cake?” Mirabelle asked.

“Not as hungry as I thought.”

The doctor rose. “We’ll contact you if the police have questions.”

From the kitchen, Ghan stared at the dark hallway leading to the stairs, his stomach hollowing. “Orright if I say g’bye to her?”

“Of course,” allowed the doctor. “Just don’t wake her.”

Ghan climbed the stairs to the bedroom and opened the door, the hinges creaking. The child was sleeping, her light brown hair strewn about the pillow, her tiny fist curled under her chin. Her skin glowed hot with the terrible burns, all the redder from the salve. Sadness lumped his throat while gratitude that she was alive swelled it. His prayer for her, if there was even a God to hear it, was razor sharp. He hoped that the rest of her days would not be as harsh—that she would not have a life steeped in the unthinkable—that the burns would not leave scars.

Ghan left the room as silently as he had entered and stepped heavily down the worn and bowed stairs. He gave a short nod to the doctor on the way out, feeling more a stranger now than when he had arrived.

Ghan entered the cool dark of Leonora’s main street. He was halfway across the road when Mirabelle called out, “Hold up a minute!” She shuffled after him, her big hips swaying like the haunches of a packhorse. “Brought yeh some meat pies an’ the rest of the cake.” Mirabelle handed him a basket covered with cheesecloth. “Thought yeh might get hungry.”

“Kind of yeh, Mirabelle. Real kind.”

She touched his arm then and looked hard into his eyes. “That girl would ’ave died if yeh hadn’t found her.” She squeezed his fingers. “Yeh saved that little girl’s life.”

Ghan nodded briefly, stared down at the food. The strange lump rose in his throat again. “Th