Daniel’s saddle creaked beneath him when he shifted his position. He rubbed his neck, rolling his shoulders as he waited at the fork in the road for Sarah Whitaker’s wagon. She’d said they would be leaving for Parramatta early but hadn’t specified a time. Had he missed her? He didn’t think so. She wouldn’t have left before dawn, he was nearly certain. He leaned forward, stretching his back and idly wondering if he should dismount, perhaps give the horse a rest before their journey.
His visit to Sarah Hills had been two days earlier, and he’d thought of little since. What was it about the woman that occupied such a disproportionate amount of his thoughts? He supposed most of the work on his farm was rather mundane and left his mind plenty of time to wander. But it seemed when he allowed it the liberty, it meandered across the creek and always settled on his dark-eyelashed neighbor.
She managed to surprise him with each meeting. Typically, he got the measure of a person within merely a few minutes, but this particular woman seemed to be comprised of contradiction. A young lady who walked gracefully into a ball, wearing an elegant gown, seemed, by all reasoning, to be the reverse of the woman who plunged her arm nearly to the shoulder into a sheep to pull out a slippery lamb. The same woman who commanded her workers without hesitation and spoke confidently of matters such as shearing and farm management had fled sobbing from a ballroom.
He dismounted, tied his horse to a low branch, and stretched his legs as he paced, knowing he’d spend the next few hours in the saddle.
Maybe he was so fascinated with Sarah Whitaker because she was a puzzle. Maybe because he’d always fancied himself able to understand people, to compartmentalize them, and for some reason, this lady didn’t fit into any mold. She was a paradox, and he wanted to know why. What had happened to change her from the carefree, trusting girl Captain Thackeray had described into a woman who kept a hand near her pistol as she instructed her employees? Why did she mistrust felons so deeply, and more importantly, would her view ever change?
That must be it, he thought. I’m hoping to prove her wrong on that. This was no doubt why he felt compelled toward Miss Whitaker. But the more he considered it, the idea didn’t seem to explain fully his motivation.
The sun continued to rise, and finally Daniel saw a cloud of dust on the road. He waved as a wagon approached. The rough conveyance rode on large wooden-spoked wheels with metal rims. A pair of muscular, cream-colored bullocks yoked at the neck plodded along, kicking up dust in their wake. The wagon and its occupants drew near, accompanied by a man walking alongside, a long stick-handled whip resting on his shoulder.
Daniel lifted his hat and bent forward. “Lovely morning, is it not, Miss Whitaker?”
Sarah smiled and inclined her head. “We had a bit of a slow start today. I hope you did not wait long, Mr. Burton.” She wore a gauzy white dress trimmed with blue ribbons and upon her head was a chipboard bonnet. A few strands of hair escaped, brushing over her cheeks and neck. If he didn’t look at the rustic wagon or the wild country surrounding them, he could imagine her sitting prettily on the bench of a fine carriage in Hyde Park. Sarah shifted, and he immediately amended his assessment when he saw the pistol she held on her lap. She is a paradox indeed.
“Not at all,” he said. Now that the wagon had stopped, he allowed his eyes to travel over the occupants. Sarah sat beside a man on the wooden bench. A younger woman with freckled cheeks sat on a sort of stool fastened behind the bench facing the empty wagon bed.
“These are my workers, Tom Gilbert and Martin Boyd.” Sarah gestured toward the men and then twisted in the seat. “And Molly Green, my lady’s maid.”
“A pleasure, gentlemen, and Miss Green.”
“And I should like to introduce Mr. Daniel Burton of—” Sarah cut off her words, raising her brows slightly and pinching them together. “Oh dear, Mr. Burton, I do not know the name of your farm.”
“Not to worry, I have still not hit upon the perfect nomenclature for the property. Perhaps you could help me with the task on today’s outing.”
She gave a small smile, the very one he’d hoped to elicit. Her lips did not stretch thin as did most people’s when forming the expression, but they curled just at the ends, pushing against the apples of her cheeks, and making her eyes brighten. He wondered if she practiced the effect in the looking glass, but he immediately decided against it. The expression seemed too genuine to be contrived. And Miss Whitaker did not strike him as the sort of woman to give too much effort to that kind of thing.
The man with the whip raised his hat, which Daniel noticed was made from some sort of leaves. “Uh, good day, Mr. Burton.” The man looked between Daniel and Sarah, apparently unsure if his response was appropriate since their introduction had been interrupted. Tom and Molly followed his cue and greeted Daniel as well.
“Shall we be off then?” Sarah asked, situating herself back into the seat.
“Mr. Gilbert?” Daniel asked.
“Tom, sir.”
“Tom.” Daniel nodded. “If you don’t mind, I would appreciate it very much if you’d ride my horse.” Daniel retrieved the reins from where he’d tied them on a branch. “Miss Whitaker and I have a matter to discuss, you see, and it would be much more convenient if we were to ride together.”
He heard Martin make a snorting sound and tried not to smile.
Tom chewed on his lip as he studied the horse. The man could not be pleased with the idea of riding on the hard wooden bench for hours, and making the journey on Daniel’s fine stallion was surely tempting. He turned to Sarah. “My lady?”
Daniel didn’t wait for a reply. He handed the reins to Tom and then climbed onto the wagon.
Tom scooted off the bench, hopping to the ground to make room.
“I appreciate it, Tom.” Daniel sat beside Sarah, giving her a grin. He searched the bench and then looked toward the oxen. “And, ah, the leads . . . ?”
“Leads?” Sarah tipped her head.
“The reins. So I might pilot this contraption.”
Sarah’s brows shot up, then a smile grew on her face, culminating in a laugh. “Mr. Burton, one does not drive a dray from within it. Usually, the wagon is only used to transport goods, but it seemed silly to bring both the wagon and the carriage. That is why we are late. The men fastened this bench and stool onto the wagon so Molly and I did not have to sit in the bed.” She pointed to the man with the whip standing to the side of the large beasts. “Martin is a Bullocky. He’ll drive the animals.”
“Oh.” Daniel sat back, feeling rather foolish. He’d assumed bullocks behaved much like a team of horses, but over the next few moments, he saw how mistaken he’d been. Martin spoke, and the oxen responded immediately. With a jolt, the cart began to move. The bullocky didn’t use his whip but called out in a firm voice what Daniel realized were the animal’s names, Lou and Wally, when adjustments were needed.
“He’s very skilled, isn’t he?” Daniel watched, amazed by the man’s calm as he controlled the huge oxen.
“Extremely,” Sarah said. She nodded toward Martin. “One of the best you’ll see. He’s trained these two since they were calves, tying them together until they got used to constantly being side by side. Now they work as a team.”
Daniel wondered if he’d ever get used to the strange world of New South Wales. He glanced to the side, watching Tom manage his spirited horse. The man was very capable as well.
Tom glanced up and met his eye. He smiled, showing dark holes where his teeth were missing. “A fine mount, sir.”
“You ride very well.”
Tom’s smile widened. “Thank you, sir.”
Daniel turned and saw Sarah watching him. Her eyes squinted slightly as if she were unable to make a determination.
“You seem to be confused, Miss Whitaker. I hope it is not the result of my company.” He grabbed onto the brim of his hat as the cart rode over a rock. The wagon could use some springs, he thought.
Sarah held tightly with one gloved hand to the bench beside her. “Not yourself, sir, but your actions. I am afraid I do not understand you at all.”
He thought her perplexed expression to be quite endearing. “Could I clarify in some way?”
“Why would you sit in this horribly uncomfortable dray instead of riding your horse? Heaven knows I only endure the jarring miles on this hard bench and bumpy road because I need to appear a respectable lady when I arrive in town.” Her distasteful expression showed exactly how she felt about the situation.
“And do you think your actions are any less confusing?” Daniel asked.
“I explained the reasoning behind mine, Mr. Burton. They are not of my choosing, but yours on the other hand . . .”
“And I told you my reasoning as well.” He shifted his weight onto one hip, thinking it might ease the impact on his backside. “I need your assistance to choose a name for my farm.” Another bounce convinced him to shift back, resigning himself to sitting flat on the hard board. “As Sarah Hills is already taken, I’m afraid I’ll need to come up with another.” He smiled at the roll of her eyes and twisted around. “And I’d appreciate your input too, Miss Green.”
Molly turned from watching the landscape.
“Very well,” Sarah said. She looked back at Molly and nodded her permission for the maid to participate in the conversation. “Let me see. Obviously, you will want a name that is easy to pronounce and one that you like quite a lot since you will say it and write it often.” She squinted and looked up at the trees passing slowly beside them. “Personally, I think it should be a name important to you. It should mean something. My father named his property after me, since I was his only family. Perhaps there is someone dear to you.” She turned back to him. “Your mother? What is her name?”
“Harriet, but she is usually called Hattie.”
“Hattie Hills?” Molly suggested.
Daniel smiled but shook his head. The name sounded silly, and it didn’t feel right to him. He thought of what Sarah had said. He wanted the name to mean something, to be important, and while he loved his mother, he didn’t want to name his farm Hattie Hills.
“A sister?” Sarah asked.
“My sisters are called Meg and Rosalind.”
“Ooh, I like Rosalind Acres.” Molly clapped her hands.
Daniel shook his head again. This was going to be more difficult than he’d anticipated.
“Some people name their farm after a feature of the land,” Sarah continued. “The pond, perhaps? Or you have a fine forest along the west side.”
“Burton Pond?” Molly offered.
Daniel shook his head, feeling like the motion was so far his only contribution to the conversation. “I don’t wish to name the land after myself.”
“Hmmm.” Molly pursed her face into a look of concentration.
Sarah just watched him, and he winced, hoping she didn’t think his statement was meant as a barb. Her expression remained thoughtful, and he decided that she’d not taken offense.
He pondered the options. Should he name the land after the Duke of Southampton? He was, after all, the reason Daniel was master of the property, the person who’d provided him with the opportunity for a new life. Would it honor the man or seem presumptuous to give his humble acreage such a lofty title? Or he could name it for Charleston, the city where he’d been raised. He didn’t feel as though that was the correct answer either. Daniel scratched behind his ear.
The trio rode in silence, and the creak of the wheels, the bouncing of the wagon, and the plodding of the oxen became louder to his ears. He looked up at the trees above, hoping to spot a koala bear among their bark-less branches. In the month since his arrival, he’d only seen one of the shy animals with its flat oval-shaped nose. Somewhere above, he heard a Kookaburra’s laughing call, and from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a speckled monitor lizard’s tail flick as it scuttled away from the road.
“Maybe a name that’s important to you from literature or the Bible.” Sarah’s voice pulled him back from his mind’s wanderings. “A person whose story inspires you or one that you relate to?”
Her words brought a name to mind. “St. Francis,” he said slowly.
“St. Francis of Assisi?” Sarah continued to watch him.
He considered what he knew of the man. Francis had been known in his youth for drinking and revelry. He was imprisoned, and once he was free, he changed his ways, becoming an honorable person. As Daniel thought through Francis’s life, he felt a connection to the saint. He grinned. This was the one. He’d hit upon the perfect name for his property. “Yes, Francis.”
“Francis Park,” Molly said.
“Francis Park.” Daniel dipped his head in a firm nod.
Sarah smiled. “I like it.”
Daniel said the words again in his mind and felt even stronger surety about the name. He hadn’t realized how closely his life paralleled St. Francis’s—well, up to this point anyway. He thought it was a fine reminder of his own transformation not to mention the workers on his property. St. Francis’s story seemed to him the essence of this land. A place where men and women who had made mistakes were given a second chance to live an admirable life.
He glanced back into the trees, scanning the branches further for the elusive koala. The women probably assumed he had chosen the name because he appreciated the wild and domesticated animals on his farm. He smiled to himself, liking the idea of a name that was significant to only himself unless he chose to share its true meaning.
“You ladies have been extremely helpful,” Daniel said, gripping the bench and leaning as the wagon thumped down into another dip on one side. “The exercise didn’t take nearly as long as I’d expected; we still have quite a journey ahead. What shall we talk about?”
Sarah kept her eyes on the oxen ahead of them. “I think you should choose the topic, sir. You are, after all, the guest on this bullock dray.”
He studied her profile and could see nervousness in her expression. The pinch of her brows gave her away. Despite her light-toned response, he could see she was uncertain. Daniel wondered again why she spoke so confidently about some topics but turned shy when the conversation threatened toward a more personal course. He considered making an observation about the weather or inquiring about a mutual acquaintance but felt inexplicably bold. “Then I choose to talk about . . . you.”
Sarah’s eyes widened and her lips parted, but she did not look at him.
“Will you tell me about your family? How did you come to live on a farm in the Australian countryside? And why are you such an expert on sheep farming?”
Sarah turned toward him. She was quiet for a moment, and he wondered if she would answer. When she raised her eyes, he saw something in them. Her expression seemed to firm up, resolved. “My mother died three days after I was born, and from what I’ve been told, her death was difficult for my father. So much so, that he left me in the care of an aunt in Crawley and journeyed here to New South Wales, perhaps thinking to be as far away from his memories as possible.”
“So you grew up in Sussex?”
“Yes.” Her gaze moved from his.
Though she seemed shy, Daniel amended his earlier thought. She was not nervous but wary. Sarah did not like to reveal too much of herself.
“Papá visited England, and he would tell me tales of the magical land where he raised sheep. Where the seasons were reversed, and Christmas is in summer. Of animals that stood straight like a man and bounded on their hind legs; dark-skinned people with clay-painted bodies, who hunted with bent sticks; and exotic birds that burst from trees in an eruption of color. He did love the birds.” She smiled softly, her eyes far away as she spoke. “I begged him each time to take me back with him.” Her voice trailed off but only for an instant, then her gaze focused once again.
“Finally he did send for me. Aunt Hortensia and I made the journey aboard the Coeur d’Alene. When we arrived, we learned Papá was dead.”
“You and your aunt took on the management of the farm then?”
She nodded.
Daniel tried to imagine a lady and her young charge, accustomed to life in an English town, undertaking the responsibilities of a farm in a foreign land. He could not begin to guess how difficult it must have been.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Sarah looked to the side and breathed out heavily. “You’re wondering why we didn’t just return home to England.”
“I admit, the thought did occur to me.”
She nodded. “My aunt was determined to do just that, but when I saw the farm, walked through the halls of the house, and sat at my papá’s desk . . . I could not do it. Selling the farm, leaving, it made it feel like Papá never existed.” She lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Those notions might simply be the product of a young girl’s understanding, but staying and continuing Papá’s dream seemed the most important thing to me. So I convinced my aunt to remain.”
“Ah, yes, your aunt. You mentioned that she had passed away. How long ago was that?” Daniel asked.
Sarah’s brows pulled together. “She died two years ago. A fire.”
“I am sorry.”
Her shoulders sagged as if telling the story had wearied her. “And now you know.” She tipped her head as if trying to read his reaction to what she’d said.
He didn’t allow anything but approval to show in his expression. He felt strongly that was what she sought when she looked at him so closely. The story she told was vastly incomplete, but he got the notion that he’d learned more than she felt comfortable sharing. He felt as though he’d scored a victory, that perhaps she was testing him, deciding, based on his reaction, whether or not to trust.
After a moment, she looked down, brushing her thumb over the design on the metal barrel of the pistol. “And now you should tell me about yourself, Mr. Burton.” Her lips quirked. “Who is my new neighbor? What brought you from the distant states of America to the wild outback of New South Wales?”
He smiled. “My story is rather dull compared with your own.” He grabbed onto the edge of the bench again to keep from sliding off when the dray bounced over an uneven stretch of road. His gloves caught on the rough wood; if he were not wearing them, he would likely have splinters all over his hands. “My younger sister, Meg, and I journeyed to London a few years ago as guests of a relative—the Duke of Southampton. I quite fell in love with the society in England, and she quite fell in love with a Spanish man named Rodrigo. And once they married, I felt rather lost.”
He thought of how to tell the remainder of the story without divulging the whole truth of his past. He shifted on the bench, wishing there were a more comfortable way to sit—an armrest, or a chair back or something to lean against—but knew he was simply stalling, and so he took a breath and continued. “While my cousin treated me very well, I spent too much time on frivolities. I was happy for the chance to set out on my own, become my own man, you know.”
Sarah nodded. “Why didn’t you return to America?”
“The war between Britain and the States prevented me from going back across the Atlantic, so my future had to lie elsewhere. And, here I am.”
His story was every bit as incomplete as hers had been—more so, since he left out the most important parts—but he wasn’t ready to tell her yet. He thought if he could win her trust, then he could let out the less savory details a bit at a time. And perhaps she’d tell him more of herself than the extremely brief summary she’d given.
They rode for a time in a companionable silence. Daniel thinking over the small snippets he’d learned about the woman beside him, and Sarah watching the landscape at the side of the road. The creaking wheels and the monotonous plodding of the oxen lulled him into a sort of trance. He closed his eyes briefly and breathed in. The air was not as humid as it was in Charleston, although that might change as they moved into summer. And it smelled clean and crisp, so unlike the streets of London. He wondered how he’d lived so long in that enormous crowded city with buildings all around. The thought now seemed suffocating as he stared at the vast open space and the lush foliage. The trees had silvery feathering leaves that shimmered in the breeze, and their trunks were sometimes reddish or pink, and other times, he could have sworn they had a bluish hue. The land was strange and wonderful and, in an untamed way, beautiful. He was feeling more and more attached to Australia with each passing day.
Eventually, Sarah shifted, and he glanced at her. She turned and looked ahead, pointing. He followed her gaze, seeing in the distance, the few buildings that marked the outskirts of the small town of Parramatta.
“I am glad you did,” Sarah said.
He turned toward her, thinking back to where their conversation had left off. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am glad you came to the colony, Mr. Burton.” She didn’t meet his eyes, and her cheeks reddened.
The words settled on him pleasantly, making his chest warm. He was disappointed their ride was nearly at an end, but he could not wait to get off this horrible bench. He would be feeling its effects for weeks.
But he’d feel the much more pleasant effects of Sarah Whitaker’s shy declaration for some time as well.