His friend supported him and, at the same time, led him. He could barely see, but the sound of crackling underbrush met his ears and he caught the scent of burnt sugar on the wind. “Where ... ?”

“Never you mind where, Jamie McKenna,” Peony replied, and there were tears in her voice. “Just never you mind. You and I are going to do what we should have done long ago—we’re going to put this place behind us.”

Jamie hadn’t the stamina to argue that any attempt at escaping would not only be futile but perhaps fatal as well, so he leaned on Peony and allowed her to lead him away through the acacia trees and the specterlike gums.

Just when he was sure that he couldn’t take another step, they reached a lean-to of some sort and Jamie sank facedown onto a bed of sweet straw. Peony bustled about, making noise, but he didn’t bother to look and see what she was doing. His body and his spirit screamed for sleep.

“This is going to burn like the fires of Hades,” Peony announced reluctantly, “but I’ve got to clean those wounds or you’ll surely die of the infection.”

A cry of agony exploded in Jamie’s throat when she poured what felt like liquid brimstone over his lacerated back, and then, perhaps mercifully, he blacked out.

He dreamed that he was at home in Ireland, where December brought cold winds that dampened the very marrow of a man’s bones. He was in the cottage off that Dublin alley, and his mother was there, stoking up the fire that guttered in the grate.

“You’re a good lad,” she said, over one shoulder. “Aye. No matter what Father McDougal says, you’re a good lad, Jamie me boy.”

In the dream, Jamie asked where Reeve was, and that was when his mother turned. Her face was a blank expanse of skin, with no features to be seen.

“You’re a good lad, Jamie me boy,” she said again. “Aye. No matter what—”

“Reeve!” the young Jamie screamed, terrified. “Reeve!”

“Hush now,” scolded a gentle voice from somewhere above, in the waking world. “It’s no use calling out for him. There’s just you and me now, Jamie. Just you and me.”

Chapter 1

New Zealand—August 1888

THE SHINY STEEL TINES OF THE PITCHFORK PLUNGED THROUGH the mixture of hay and straw in which Bliss Stafford had spent the night, missing her face by mere inches. Her eyes widened and a startled scream escaped her before she could stop it. She sat bolt upright in the haystack, spiky bits sticking in her cinnamon-colored hair and clinging to her coat. “Just what do you think you’re doing, you bloody fool!”

A tall, solidly built man with light hair and eyes the color of a summer sea was staring at her, obviously confounded. He was wearing a heavy coat of dark navy woolen, along with gloves and a floppy leather hat, and his breath made a plume in the frigid winter air.