She was perched on a low three-legged stool, her cheek resting against the warm, hairy flank as the milk squirted into the bucket, when she heard the unmistakable sound of the reverend’s car grinding its way down the road. No doubt he’d decided to round up his two boys before Jake became involved, and Gwyneth silently wished him luck. The boys were probably nearer to Darwin than to Morgan’s Reach, and their father was in for a long drive.

The explosive bang of the car backfiring made Gwyneth jump and the goat kick out. The sharp little hoof caught her just below her arthritic knee and, as she gasped in pain and tried to keep her balance on the stool, the car backfired again – just beyond her hedge – and the terrified goat kicked up her back legs, catching Gwyneth squarely on the jaw.

As the goats raced helter-skelter into the bush, Gwyneth toppled off the stool into the puddle of milk that had been spilled from the upturned bucket. She lay there winded and shaken, staring up at the ochre clouds that were scudding across the murky sky and wondering what the hell had happened.

As the shock began to wear off the pain took hold. Her knee throbbed, but her jaw felt as if it was on fire, and she hoped to goodness it hadn’t been broken. She warily ran her finger over her teeth, relieved to discover they were all still where they should be. But even this simple act was painful, and she could taste blood and feel loose flaps of skin as she gingerly touched her face and tried to move her jaw, which seemed to be stuck at a strange angle.

Her light movements sent the agony ripping through her, and she closed her eyes, her old heart thudding like a steam train as she tried to address her situation. There was little doubt she was in trouble, for no one could see her lying here, and the rest of the family were occupied with all those cases of food poisoning. She doubted very much if Frances Baker would call even though her husband and his damned car had left the settlement, and if she did she’d probably be worse than useless. But Gwyneth knew she couldn’t just lie there and wait to be found – she was losing too much blood.

‘Ups-a-daisy,’ shouted Coco from his perch. ‘G’day, g’day, g’day.’

Gwyneth groaned as she slowly sat up. Every movement shot a salvo of red-hot agony through her face and into her head and, as she attempted to use her good knee to winch herself up, she could feel the deep throb start in her other leg. Grabbing the stool, she used it to lean on and, bit by bit, managed to get her behind on to it.