“Your hair’s still short,” he sneered. “And them breeches. Ye look like a boy.”

Steady, Hazel thought; don’t react. “It’s been a while.”

“It has. I been biding my time.”

“I heard ye escaped. Are they after ye?”

He made an odd stuttering sound, a kind of snigger. “Maybe so. But I know how to disappear.”

“It’s rough out there in the bush.”

“Ye got no idea.” He vibrated with a kind of maniacal energy. “Ever eat kangaroo?”

She shook her head. She’d heard stories about the ex-cons and fugitives who lived like savages among the snakes and wild dogs and wallabies in the bush. Bushrangers, they were called. Pirates who roamed the land instead of the sea. They raided farms and small businesses, stealing horses and rum and weapons.

“Ye smoke ’em over the fire. Bind ’em to sticks.” He held his arms wide, demonstrating. “After they’re dead, usually.” When he laughed, she saw his small gray teeth. “Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get ahold of a lamb.”

Buck ran the tip of his knife down the side of Ruby’s small head. She didn’t notice, didn’t even see the blade as she crouched over her stick houses. He sliced off a curl and held it out toward Hazel. “See how easy that was? Ye can always use a sharp knife. As ye know yourself.”

He dropped the curl in the grass.

Hazel breathed through her nose, feeling the air fill her lungs. She smelled the lavender in the garden, and even from here, blocks from the harbor, the briny scent of the sea. Glancing toward the house she smelled the currant cake fresh from the oven.

“Ye must be hungry,” she said. “Maeve made a cake. We have fresh butter. She said ye wanted tea.”

Buck gazed at her. “It’s true I haven’t eaten in a while. And I confess I’m thirsty. Ye got any sugar?”

“We do,” she said.

She thought about the twice-a-day tirades in the chapel at the Cascades, enough sermons to last a lifetime. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts: and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him. Buck had been an infant once. A child. Maybe he was cast out, or betrayed, or beaten. Maybe he never had a chance. She didn’t know, would never know. All she knew was her own hard story. How easy it would’ve been to sow bitterness, the way he did. To nurture it until it bloomed like a noxious flower. “We believe in forgiveness here, Mr. Buck,” she said.

“Vengeance tastes better to me,” he said.

Ruby looked up, sensing a change in tone. “Mama?”

“That’s what she told ye?” Buck reached out and grabbed Ruby’s arm, yanking her to her feet. “She’s not your mama, little girl.”

Hazel couldn’t help it; she gasped.

Ruby made a small sound, a whimper.

Hazel had to fight the urge to lunge at him. She knew it would be foolhardy; there was too much at stake. “It’s all right, Ruby,” she said, her voice wobbling only slightly.