Mrs McKenzie kneaded dough, her jar of buttermilk standing on a rock by the fire. Rose sat beside her. She must have just washed her hair, for she was hatless, pulling her fingers through the hair she kept short. It shone in the last of the light. And then she saw him.

He simply drank in the sight. He didn’t move. He didn’t want to move. He wanted this second to last for eternity, the beat of magpie wings heading back to their nests, the strut of a pigeon behind him, not realising the motionless creature was a man.

Rose stood slowly, hesitated, and then she ran. He caught her as she clung to him, held her by the waist and swung her around, till she pushed him away and stood there, fists up like a prize fighter’s, jabbing at him, so he laughed and backed away. She followed him, fists still up. ‘Don’t you dare ride away again, Horatio Clancy. Don’t you dare.’

‘Horatio?’ echoed McKenzie, who’d finally noticed him.

Rose kicked him, hard. ‘Not even a letter!’ she yelled.

‘Rose . . .’

‘You think because I’m a black girl I don’t love? You think I don’t have the right even to a letter? You forget I can read, Horatio Clancy?’

He stepped further back as she moved to kick him again. He reached quickly into his pocket and dropped to one knee. But he spoke to McKenzie. ‘Mr McKenzie, Mrs McKenzie, do I have your permission to ask your ward to marry me?’

‘Marry?’ demanded Tiger, who’d come over at the commotion.

‘Horatio,’ muttered McKenzie, while Mrs McKenzie smiled with deep satisfaction. ‘Who’d’a guessed? Of course you should marry her, you old fool. Took you enough time to see it.’

‘Ward?’ yelled Rose, still furious as well as joy filled. ‘I am my own woman, Horatio Clancy! Don’t you forget it!’

Clancy opened the jewellery box. The first ring was a ruby, rose red, set with small diamonds, the other a plain gold band. He’d bought both from a pawnbroker in Bathurst, at probably ten times what the man had paid for them. But Rose was to have the best.

Rose stared at the rings and then at him, suddenly still. ‘Marry you?’ she whispered.

‘Dear Rose, I will love you all my life. Will you be my wife?’

‘Mr McKenzie’s right. You’re a fool. He’s a fool too,’ said Rose. And walked away.

He waited long enough to have a cup of tea and a slice of fruit damper, made that morning and spread with butter. He reckoned that was long enough for Rose to have regained her temper or got over the shock . . . or whatever reason she had for vanishing. He made his way up the hill, along the creek, the way she’d gone.