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
The stars had disappeared behind rolling clouds and more lightning flashes illuminated the blackened sky. Adelaide stood. ‘I’m going in before that rain comes.’
‘Goodnight, Mrs Greaves,’ Caleb said.
‘Goodnight, Mr Hunt.’
When she reached the back door, she turned and raised a hand to the shadowed figure who sat in the dark, watching her. She shut and locked the back door and returned to her bedroom. This time she undressed and washed before climbing into bed, but she still lay wakeful, the delicate lace-edged handkerchief Caleb had given her held tight in her hand.
Ten
Ten
29 December 1871
‘Too much force,’ Caleb said. ‘The knife will slip and you’ll cut yourself and I will have to answer to Mama.’
Danny took a breath and looked at the object in his hand. It was supposed to be a horse but to his critical eye it looked more like a deformed dragon. Unlike the little object taking shape beneath Caleb’s skilled hand: a cat that looked like a cat. He pouted. ‘I’ll never be as good as you.’
Caleb smiled. ‘I’ve had a lifetime of practice, Dan. You’ve only been doing it for a few days.’
Danny set the unsatisfactory horse to one side and picked up his notebook. Drawing his knees up on the bench outside Mick’s shed where the two of them sat, he turned to his latest story.
Caleb cast him a sideways glance. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I write stories.’
Caleb set his own whittling aside and dusted his hands on his trousers. ‘Can I read one?’
Danny looked into the man’s face. He had never shown his stories to anyone, not even Mama. ‘Promise you won’t laugh?’
‘I promise.’
Danny handed the battered book over and Caleb turned the pages, a frown creasing his brow.
Danny held his breath, the heat burning his cheeks.
When Caleb closed the notebook, he held it on his lap for a long moment. Danny made to grab the book but Caleb held on to it.
‘I knew you’d think they were stupid,’ Danny said, torn between wishing the earth would swallow him and wanting to run as far away as he could get.
‘They are not stupid,’ Caleb said. ‘Your father must have been an extraordinary man.’
‘I didn’t know him,’ Danny mumbled. ‘They’re all made up.’
Caleb handed him the book. ‘Then never stop writing the stories,’ he said. ‘Even if they are made up, it is important to think well of your father.’
Danny held the book to his chest. ‘I wish I had known him,’ he said. ‘He would take me out roo hunting and fishing, like the boys at school.’
When Caleb didn’t reply, Danny looked up at him. ‘Did you do things like that with your father?’