She had gone shopping twice with Mistress Flora for pretty things. Things a man like Clancy liked. Lace and flowered shawls and ribbons. Things a girl who could not go to towns would never have.

‘You get separated from the men, you get taken away, boy or girl,’ said Mrs McKenzie bluntly.

Rose nodded. She sat quietly that night while the men discussed what they’d do in town.

‘Might catch up with a few mates,’ said McKenzie. ‘Have a beer or three.’

Tiger grinned. ‘I plan to drink half me cheque, then win it back again. Two up, that’s me game.’

Rose doubted he’d win. She suspected Tiger didn’t want to. Even if he didn’t realise it, Tiger needed a boss to tell him what to do. Even before his convict days he’d been under the command of a ‘head cully’ who ran a den of child thieves. Being broke was an excuse to not admit Tiger would never set up a small holding, or be boss of his own team.

‘What about you?’ Tiger asked Clancy.

‘Won’t know till I get there,’ said Clancy.

Rose thought of Sydney, the dances that men and women went to, the concerts. She only knew they both contained music, and men and women meeting. Would Clancy meet a woman here, one with white skin like Flora, one who could not just cope with the bush but make it a home, like Miss Maria had?

There were many women like that, she’d discovered in their years droving: women who had grown up on properties, who could ride as well as she could, cook, sew, raise their children. Women who Clancy could take to Overflow.

Perhaps he wouldn’t even come back once they’d sold the cattle. He might choose to stay, or ride to Townsville and get a steamer down to Sydney. She missed her own country as if a fire burned a hole in her heart. She had seen the way he’d looked at the buzzards flying above them, watched him listen for familiar bird calls. She watched Clancy often. She thought maybe he felt like that too.

She wanted to say, ‘Please come back. If you are going to sail south, at least say goodbye.’

She did not.

McKenzie had taken out a scrap of brown paper and a stub of pencil.

‘Four bags of flour,’ said Mrs McKenzie. Smaller bags were easier to carry than big sacks. McKenzie dutifully scribbled.

‘Tea, salt, twelve tins of golden syrup, treacle only if there’s no syrup. Packet of small needles, packet of big needles, oh, and a new pair of scissors too. Ten reels of thread and don’t you forget the salt this time, or you’ll be complaining about the food till we get near a store again.’

‘Don’t forget the salt,’ muttered McKenzie, carefully writing.