But only one man rode towards her. She made herself meet his eyes confidently, as a white man would have, or a black stockman who worked with white men. He was almost down the slope when he gestured to his companions. The two other men began to ride down the hill too. The cattle followed them. Many, many cattle, slow footed, questing for grass and very, very big.

Her tongue tried to hide itself down her throat in terror. Her feet in the too large boots demanded to run. But her only chance was in being thought a boy . . .

‘Hello, Boss,’ she said, trying to use Taylor’s accent, not Mistress Flora’s. She had found in Sydney that speaking like Mistress Flora led to slaps on the cheek for being uppity.

‘Hello to you too.’ The man was grey and white; white skin, or the brown that was called ‘white’; ash-coloured hair and beard, shirt and trousers with the colour bleached out by age and sunlight. Only his boots were dark, his eyes green. ‘Good-looking horse you had.’

‘Not mine. I found him, then let him go.’ Which was true.

‘Pity to lose a horse like that.’

She said nothing, faced the ground, then forced herself to lift her eyes to see what the old man was doing. Which was nothing, as the other two men rode towards them. And more and more cattle too. The cattle scared her, for she had never seen so many, so much bigger than sheep or even horses, but they did not scare her as much as the men.

I will not die chained, she thought. She did not know why that mattered but it did. It mattered even more that she would not die in a room, cut off from who she was.

‘I’m McKenzie,’ said the man. ‘Ye any good on a horse with a saddle?’

She had never ridden a horse with a saddle. She shrugged.

‘I’m asking if ye want a job,’ he added patiently.

He thought she was a youth! Hope uncoiled, like a baby goanna waking up from the cold. ‘No. Thank you, Boss.’

‘Ye sure? We’re heading up to the border. There’s been some rain up north.’

‘No, Boss. Thank you, Boss. Got a job, Boss,’ she said.

‘Ye sure, girl?’

Hope extinguished like coals covered in sand. ‘Boss, I —’ she began.

‘Maybe ye’d like to talk to the wife, afore ye makes up yer mind.’

She looked up at him then, startled, then at the men on either side.

One man. The other rider had skin as dark as hers, men’s boots like hers, men’s trousers, a loose shirt. It was only when she laughed, laughed kindly, laughed to let her know that it was safe, that Rose knew she was a woman.

‘Think ye and the wife better have a chat,’ said Mr McKenzie.

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Lemon or Lime Butter