He had led a party of men to follow her, partly because the horse was valuable, partly because the girl could not possibly know how to ride him safely and might have fallen, hurting herself. But mostly he knew that he could not possibly explain to his father, nor any person here, why he did not want to capture them.

Because they had looked magnificent, the girl and the giant horse. Because they had looked free.

‘We followed her for a few hours, then lost her up on the south ridge,’ apologised Clancy, hoping that none of the men had realised he was tracking them as slowly as possible. ‘The flint is too hard to show prints. We had to dismount time and time again, and when we found her track again, it was beginning to get dark. She could have gone in any direction.’

Ezekiel’s eyes narrowed as he glared at his son. ‘By the time you find her track again tomorrow, she’ll be too far off to catch her. Told you keeping a native girl on the place would lead to trouble.’

He’d never openly objected to Rose’s presence. Clancy did not point this out to him.

‘You been teaching her to ride,’ accused Ezekiel.

‘Of course I haven’t. As far as I know, the girl worked in the house all day.’

How had Rose managed to ride that stallion? wondered Clancy. Possibly — probably — it must have once been a well-broken, obedient animal, but had been badly treated by men on the voyage here. It feared men and savaged them, but, it seemed, had no fear of a girl. But that still did not explain the extraordinary skill she had shown, jumping the final two posts of the fence, even staying on the horse’s back without a saddle as it slid and scrambled down the ridge.

‘Ha. That wife of yours will have to get up off her backside now, and look after the house and her daughter.’

The small amount of face visible under Ezekiel’s grey whiskers was gleeful, then softened at the thought of Clementine. He still hankered for a grandson — a round dozen of them if possible: enough to settle half the surrounding countryside. But Clancy had seen him with his granddaughter on his hip as he pointed out the farm boundaries to her: ‘We own right up to that ridge there, then that one, and over the river too, which is more than old Drinkwater has. It’ll all be yours, one day.’

‘My farm, Grandzac? That mountain there too?’

‘Yes, my lambkin. Every inch of it yours. And by the time it’s yours we’ll have seventy thousand sheep again and you’ll be one of the richest girls in New South Wales.’