Daniel turned his horse from the main road, riding beneath the canopy of trees onto Francis Park. His shoulders slumped and his heart felt heavy. The hearing for the Sarah Hills herders had been surprisingly short; as promised, Sarah wasn’t in attendance. Even though he hadn’t expected her, he’d still felt disappointed. Her absence made his own presence seem all the more out of place.
Word of his convict status had spread through the colonial society faster than lice in a prisonyard. People who had days earlier welcomed him into their homes with affection now regarded him with sidelong glances and disgust. Even Elizabeth Macquarie pretended not to see him when they passed on the road.
Sighing, he rubbed his cheek, realizing he didn’t remember when he’d last shaved. The loss of the Exclusives’ good favor bothered him much less than he’d thought it would. In fact, it was a relief not to worry that one day the truth would be exposed. He could have tolerated the disdain of the town easily, if only . . .
A familiar ache wrapped around his heart as he glanced in the direction of Sarah Hills, though of course he could not see the property through the trees. With Sarah beside him, he could have endured anyone’s disapproval.
Daniel had hoped the hearing would provide some reassurance, some explanation from Marcus and the others that would prove Daniel was not like them. But it hadn’t come. The men had spoken with little remorse of their actions, telling of their plans to escape, sell the sheep, and flee to freedom. No mistreatment on their overseer’s behalf had spurred them; they’d simply seen an opportunity and taken it.
And Daniel was a fool to believe he was different. He’d convinced himself that even though he had made mistakes in the past, he was on a worthy path now. He’d thought he could help those around him, make their lives better. But the truth was he was an arrogant fool. He couldn’t even help himself. Sarah’s words haunted him: Criminals don’t change.
He reined in the horse near the pond, watching the activity of the farm. Charrah’s people fished in their small boats, the smell of cooking fires reached his nose, and the sounds of construction on the new barn came from beyond the trees. In the distance, he could see workers tending the flock on the hill.
The ache grew. He loved Francis Park. Loved the work, the land, the people. Francis Park had felt like his sanctuary, his salvation. He’d felt like a better man, hoped to make a fine life here.
He rode onward toward the house.
“Mr. Burt!”
He waved as Trudy called out to him from the doorway. How could he leave this behind? He dismounted and swept the child into his arms.
She wrapped her short arms around his neck. “You’re back, Mr. Burt.”
He blinked and swallowed hard, finding it impossible to speak as he carried her toward the house.
The Hawkinses looked up to him—Trudy thought of him as a hero, Charrah admired him and treated him as a brother—but it was all a fraud. He was a fraud, and the time had come to stop pretending. But before he did, he had to do one thing right.