Chapters (53)
- Cover
- About Alison Stuart
- Also by Alison Stuart
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgements
- Preview of The Goldminer's Sister
Something that might have been a smile caught at the corner of the man’s lips. ‘Mick’s shed would do me just fine, ma’am, as long as Mick has no objection.’
‘Mick’s over in Aberfeldy,’ Netty replied. ‘He won’t mind.’
The man, Caleb Hunt, fell back on the table and closed his eyes. ‘This is not how I imagined my arrival in Maiden’s Creek,’ he muttered.
Five
Five
12 December 1871
A single pinpoint of light flickered behind Caleb’s eyelids. He took a deep breath, expelling it with a heavy sigh as he tried to move his leg. It may not be broken but he had never experienced such agony, and that included bullets and bayonets. He had a vague memory of the doctor administering a healthy dose of laudanum and after that only darkness and a dream that he was back in Elmira Prison camp, a recurring nightmare of cold and pain and hunger.
A shadow blotted out the light and a hand rested on his forehead. He opened his eyes. A pale oval hovered above him, which resolved into a woman’s face—a dark-haired woman in dark clothes.
He remembered her now, the postmistress in her black, high-necked gown, her hair drawn away from her face and fastened in a tight bun at the back of her head. But the severity of her appearance could not hide the high cheekbones, straight nose and bow-shaped mouth. He dug around in his memory for her name. Someone had mentioned it in the kitchen. Greaves … that was it.
He swallowed. He could do with a drink, any drink, to assuage his dry mouth and throat.
‘Mrs Greaves?’ he croaked. ‘What time is it?’
‘Past midnight,’ she replied. She seemed to study him, her head cocked, her eyes lost in the shadows thrown by the single candle that burned on a table behind her.
‘Too kind—’ he began, intending to thank her for being there when he awoke.
‘Not kindness. I just didn’t want to wake to a dead body.’
‘I’m not planning to die just yet and I’m sorry to be a burden to you,’ Caleb said.
She bit her lip and her tone softened as she said, ‘I spoke harshly. I apologise.’
‘Could I trouble you for a drink of water?’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. You must be parched. Laudanum does that.’
She helped him to drink from a tin pannikin. The water tasted sweet and he hoped it did not come from the noisome creek that he had seen, and smelled, on his arrival in the town.
‘I have a water tank,’ she said as he laid down again. ‘Clean drinking water is a premium in this town. Fortunately rain is not.’
‘Where am I?’
‘There is a man who helps me with the mail runs and I let him sleep here when he is in town.’
‘Mick?’