Gippsland, Victoria, 1882
Prologue
The Cobb and Co coach jostled its passengers, every bump in the road resonating through its timeworn frame. The wheels’ creaks and groans echoed the pulsating ache in seventeen-year-old Eliza Reynolds’s temples. For three days, she and her twelve-year-old brother, Thomas, had been travelling, first by carriage, then by train, and now by coach, after their father sent word that their home in Gippsland was ready.
In Melbourne these past four months, she and Thomas had felt far from welcome with distant relatives in an already crowded house. Then the promise of a better life in Australia had seemed but a distant dream.
The unimaginable marred their voyage on the SS Sovereign Star. Fever cruelly claimed their mother. The memory of her body, veiled by the dark cloak of the sea, was still raw. Their father had been a broken man, and their collective grief felt insurmountable. But their parents’ shared dream—a dream whispered in the corners of their tiny London flat—had propelled Father to venture into Australia’s wild terrain, seeking out the land they dreamed of.
Now, Gippsland’s savage beauty unfurled outside the coach window, its sprawling pastures dotted with livestock and shadowed by towering eucalyptus trees. The sun-drenched terrain, while beautiful, also stood as a stark reminder of how far they were from their London home.
Thomas leaned against her. “How much longer, Eliza?”
Her lips curved as she ruffled his wavy brown hair. “I believe Baker’s Run is close.”
He tipped his head upwards. “Do you think Father will be there to meet us?”
“He knows our journey’s schedule. He should be.” She couldn’t share her doubts. Her brother already suffered too much. But those doubts clenched her jaw. Had living in this new country changed Father, or was he still the moody and unpredictable man he’d always been? God, please, let him have changed.
Thomas, his voice tinged with the innocence of youth and shadows of past sorrows, whispered, “What’s our new life going to be like?”
Heart softening, she replied, “It’s going to be wonderful.”
“I do hope so.” He jiggled in his seat, displaying his first eagerness in months. “Maybe Father got the ponies Mother promised us.”
She hesitated, thinking of their father’s inconsistent nature. “Time will reveal all, dear brother.” Straightening, she pointed to a distant collection of buildings. “I do believe that’s Baker’s Run.”
Chapter One
In dawn’s golden light, peace filled the valley. A crisp chill hung in the air, carrying with it the earthy scent of dew-laden grass. Nineteen-year-old Jamie Goddard leaned against the porch of his family’s homestead, the worn wooden beams cool against his back while awakening magpies warbled in the gum trees. He slipped on his boots as Dart, his faithful hound, wagged his tail.
Boots on, Jamie donned his wide-brimmed hat, shoved his hands in his pockets, and tilting his face to the sun, breathed in deeply. As far as he could see was Goddard land. His family, amongst the region’s first settlers, had braved the harsh bush and isolation to forge a life from the untamed wilderness, and he couldn’t think of any place he’d rather be.
This was God’s own country.
His father joined him on the veranda and clapped him on the back. “Cracker of a morning, son, but we best get to work.”
Jamie grinned and rolled up his sleeves, the fabric tight against his muscles. Farmwork never ceased, but he didn’t mind. Since boyhood, he’d risen at dawn to help work the land.
“Come on, Dart.” He whistled to the dog, a brown mutt who rarely left his side. They headed to the barn where he and his father mounded hay while the dog ran between them. The pitchfork handle, worn smooth from years of use, fit in his calloused hands, the hay pricking his exposed skin. The scent of the dry hay, sun-warmed and sweet, filled his nostrils.
Soon, his mother and younger siblings, Sarah and Pete, emerged from the homestead to attend to their chores. Theirs was a joint endeavour. Together, they’d weathered hardship and joy, bound by faith and kinship in this place, their whole life and world.
Jamie paused to wipe his brow. Two figures on horseback watched from a distant ridge.
Following Jamie’s gaze, his father’s eyes narrowed. “The Chatworth brothers.”
Jamie’s chest tightened. The brothers, known to covet fertile lands, often employed nefarious means to gain what wasn’t theirs.
“There’ll be no peace till they get what they want.” His father took off his hat and rubbed his hand across his wavy brown hair.
Jamie clenched his jaw. “They’ll never get this land, Father. This farm is our life. We’ll defend it to the last.”
Father clapped a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “And so we shall. But we’ll not go looking for trouble that isn’t ours.”
Jamie nodded, even as heat simmered in his veins. His father was right—violence shouldn’t be taken lightly or instigated without cause. That was the way of hotheaded fools, not God-fearing men.
Still, as he gazed out at the golden fields and rolling hills, he knew this peace couldn’t last forever. Trouble was brewing, whether they willed it or not.
Squaring his broad shoulders, he let out a breath and followed his father. They’d stand together when the time came, but for today at least, there was work to be done and a life to live in this place they called home. The future could wait, but when trouble came, as no doubt it would, the Goddards would be ready.
Midafternoon, under a blazing sun, he saddled his horse Baxter, a sturdy chestnut stallion, for the five-mile ride to Baker’s Run on errands for his mother. With the leather saddle hot beneath him and the reins firm in his grip, he tipped his hat to her and headed off. At the halfway brook, he paused, allowing Baxter to drink the cool, clean water bubbling down from the mountains. Heavily wooded, this was bushranger country, and he kept his eyes and ears peeled, although it’d been some time since a robbery had occurred in this locale. Bushrangers or not, the Chatworth brothers instilled fear in the locals, but they didn’t scare Jamie. They’d meet their match if they tried to take him on.
The sounds of village life—a blacksmith’s hammer striking metal, children’s laughter, the market’s buzz—and myriad smells from fresh bread to roasting meat wafting on the breeze greeted him as he rode along the main street.
Established for some years now, Baker’s Run was the area’s central hub, a hard five-day ride from Melbourne. Many a carriage had come to grief in the boggy swamplands east of the city. Good thing the railroad had reached Sale recently, making the journey less arduous.
Outside the general store, Jamie tethered his horse to the hitching post before taking the steps two at a time. A young woman with emerald eyes and hair cascading in waves of burnished copper breezed past him in the doorway, her skirts brushing his boots, lavender fragrance wafting.
Where had she come from? His gaze followed her down the steps. It was rare that such a beauty made her way to their small town. Even rarer that they stayed. This rugged country was less than amenable for genteel womenfolk, but something about her—perhaps the way she held her head—suggested she might be more robust than most.
Benjamin Jones, the shopkeeper, a portly man with a white tufted beard and twinkling blue eyes, glanced up from his ledger. “Ah, Jamie lad, put your eyes back in yer head!” His voice, full of warmth and joviality, boomed in the cluttered shop.
Jamie swept off his hat, ran his hand over his wavy hair, damp from the ride, and leaned on the counter. “Who is she?”
“Your new neighbour, Miss Eliza Reynolds. Just arrived on the afternoon coach from Sale with her young brother in tow.”
Jamie’s brow lifted. “She’s Arthur Reynolds’s daughter?”
“Aye.”
“Well, I be. Heard he had a daughter, but figured she’d be like him.”
“Ah, Jamie. Don’t be too hard on the man. He lost his wife, bless her soul.”
And that meant the young woman had lost her mother. Word was she died from fever on the ship from Southampton, somewhere near Cape Town. The man had continued his journey to Gippsland, leaving the children in Melbourne. But he was a surly character. Kept to himself. Perhaps the daughter took after her mother.
Jamie straightened and removed his hat. “Maybe he’ll become more amenable now his family has arrived.”
“Time will tell. Now, lad, what are you after today?”
Jamie handed over his mother’s list.
Benjamin glanced down at the parchment, adjusting his round spectacles. “Ah, the usual for Mrs. Goddard. And how is she, by the way?”
“As good as ever.” Jamie flattened his hands on the wooden countertop. “Keeping us all on our toes, especially Pete.”
The shopkeeper began to gather the items from the shelves, their familiarity evident in the way he moved. Flour, salt, a spool of thread, and other sundries were soon bundled into a brown paper parcel.
“You got any of that apple jam? Mother’s been asking after it since last week.”
“Got a new batch in just yesterday.” Benjamin bent down and rummaged under the counter before producing a jar with a golden-red hue. “It’s Mrs. Mitchell’s preserve. Best in Gippsland.”
Jamie grinned. “Mother will be pleased.”
With his purchases complete, he delved into his pockets, produced the required coins, and placed them on the counter. The clinking of money was soon followed by Benjamin’s good-natured banter. “And do try to keep your eyes and mind on the road when you head back,” he teased, nodding towards the direction Miss Reynolds had taken.
Jamie ducked his head, a slight heat rising in his cheeks. “I’ll do my best.”
After securing his purchases in a satchel, he stepped outside, untethered Baxter, and swung into the saddle, his gaze seeking out Miss Reynolds, but not finding her.
The sun, now lower in the sky, cast a golden hue over Baker’s Run. Taking a deep breath and giving a farewell nod to the bustling townsfolk, he spurred Baxter into a trot, keen to return home before darkness fell, though the image of emerald eyes and burnished copper hair remained in his mind.
As he rode past the Reynolds homestead, a small herd of dairy cows grazed in the paddock by the timber construction, and a thin ribbon of smoke drifted from the chimney. His mother had learned to love this harsh land. Would Miss Eliza Reynolds learn to love it, too? Or would the hardships send her scampering back to wherever she came from?
A warm January wind gusted in from the distant Strzelecki Ranges where clouds, dark and heavy, threatened to split open and drop their watery load, and he spurred his horse towards home.
