‘Stop it, Becky,’ murmured Jane, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Thinking the worst won’t bring them home any quicker.’

  Becky blinked away the tears and forced herself to keep her hands steady as she bathed Big Mac’s burns. ‘I know, but …’

  As if on cue there was a shout from the street. ‘They’re back! They’re back!’

  Becky and Jane looked at one another, hope gleaming in their eyes. ‘You go,’ said Jane. ‘It might be Django and Danny.’

  She didn’t need telling twice, and ran out of the examination room and straight into Frances, who was hysterically trying to stop her son from going back to the fire.

  ‘Let him go, Frances,’ she said as she pushed past in the narrow corridor. ‘They need every hand they can get out there, and your boy has proved today that he’s man enough to join them.’

  Without waiting for Frances’s reaction, she ran out on to the veranda to find that it was quite dark now, and a warm wind was blowing the dust along the street.

  Her initial response to the scene was one of mixed emotions. It hadn’t been Danny and Django who’d come back, but at least one of her family had made it home safely. For Delilah was perched regally on her stock horse, her children clinging to her as she lead the Carey Downs convoy into town.

  But as she watched the townspeople welcome the long cavalcade of wagons, horses, cars, lorries and utes, she could see no sign of the white hospital utility. Dread chilled her as she ran down the steps and caught up with Delilah, who was swinging down from her horse. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  The Aboriginal girl frowned as she turned back and regarded the untidy gathering which had followed her through the bush and into town. ‘Missus Milly alonga have baby,’ she muttered. ‘Doc say along me, quick, quick. We alonga give good track ’im follow.’

  ‘That’s the last of the convoy, Delilah,’ Rebecca replied, her voice tight with fear and tension as the wind ruffled her hair. ‘He’s not there, which means he’s still back on the track somewhere – and the wind’s getting up.’

  ‘I alonga get ’im. Take kids.’ She dumped the baby in Rebecca’s arms and nudged the two toddlers towards her. ‘Go Missus Becka,’ she told them firmly. ‘Mum alonga back soon.’ With that she stuck her bare foot in the stirrup, swung up into the saddle and urged the sturdy little mount into a gallop.

  The baby started howling and the two small girls looked up at her with wide tear-filled eyes and trembling chins. Rebecca knew that if she didn’t do something quickly, she’d have three screaming children on her hands. ‘Come on,’ she said, jiggling the baby in her arms and holding out her free hand. ‘Reckon you might like a couple of bickies and some milk?’

  ‘Me drink ’im cordial,’ said the eldest child. ‘Yeah, me too,’ piped her sister.

  ‘Let’s go and see if we’ve got any.’ She felt them gripping her wrist as they slowly negotiated the steps, and the memory of how Danny used to do the same thing when he was small almost broke her resolve not to cry.

  ‘I’ll take care of this lot,’ said Sandra as she reached for the squalling baby. ‘Go and have a cup of tea and a chat with Amy out on the back veranda. You’ve done enough for a while.’

  Rebecca saw how tenderly Sandra took the baby into her arms, and how sweetly she smiled at the two bewildered little girls and held out her hand to them. She felt a tear slowly roll down her cheek as Sandra led them towards the kitchen. She must have been a wonderful mother – how cruel Fate had been to take away her own little boy.

  The tears continued to flow as she sank into a veranda chair and prayed fervently that Danny would come home.

  *

  He could just make out the boy’s face through the smoke and see the hand reaching out to him. For an instant he was back in Malaya and it was Hakim who needed rescuing. He blinked away the memory and focused on the scared little boy who looked up at him with such hope and joy.

  ‘Daddy? Is that really you?’

  His heart thudded and his mouth dried as he looked into those trusting eyes and tried not to let the boy see how deeply he’d been affected by his question. ‘I’ve just come to help you,’ he said quietly. ‘I ain’t your daddy.’

  ‘But you look like him,’ the boy stuttered, the tears glistening in his eyes.

  He stepped through the smoke that floated between them and squatted down. ‘We soldiers all look alike in these coats,’ he said, his gaze taking in the grazes and cuts and the bruising on the boy’s arms. There was also a trickle of blood oozing through his short brown hair. ‘It looks like you’ve had a bit of a fight with that big rock, mate,’ he said. ‘Mind if I take a look at the damage?’

  ‘I’ll be right,’ he replied with more than a hint of bravado.

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ he murmured as he checked the boy’s cut. He’d obviously fallen from that rock ledge and hit his head on the way down, but it was a glancing blow and the wound wasn’t deep. ‘Reckon all your brains are still in there,’ he said with a smile, ‘but you’ll have a bonzer lump to show off to your mates tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re John Miller, aren’t you? I’m Danny. Danny Jackson, and my dad was a soldier, just like you.’

  ‘Was he now?’ he replied as he kept his expression neutral and examined Danny’s limbs and ribs for any breakages.

  ‘Yeah, and my mate George’s dad was a soldier too. His name was John Blake.’

  His heart was thudding and his hand wasn’t quite steady as he dabbed at the head wound with the cleanest part of his handkerchief. ‘Is that so?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Danny with a sniff. ‘But John Blake and Dad didn’t come back.’ He looked up, his eyes wide and bright with unshed tears. ‘I thought you might be my daddy, you see,’ he added wistfully.

  ‘Now why should you think that, Danny?’

  ‘I heard Frank’s story about you,’ he said, his voice hitching, ‘and when I saw you coming out of the smoke I thought you might be Daddy coming to help me.’

  His little voice was so plaintive it struck his heart, and he wanted to take him into his arms and rock away all the anguish that was clearly coursing through him. ‘My name is John Miller,’ he said instead, his own voice rough with emotion, ‘but I’m sure your daddy is watching over you right now. Perhaps he even sent me to find you.’ He gave the boy a reassuring smile. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts and spirits and things like the black fellas do, but I’ve been having some funny dreams lately,’ he finished.

  ‘Me too,’ he sniffed.

  ‘Now, Danny, we’ve got to get out of here. The fire is under control now, but all this smoke isn’t doing either of us any good.’ He regarded the boy solemnly. He was very pale. ‘It looks like you’re a bit shook about, mate. Can you walk, d’you think?’

  ‘I climbed down that rock, didn’t I?’ he retorted, his chin lifting in defiance despite the wariness in his eyes as he glanced away towards the fire. ‘Reckon I ain’t a baby. Course I can walk.’

  He held out his hand and helped Danny to his feet. He saw the last of the colour drain from his face and his eyelids flutter and caught him as he fainted. Cradling him to his chest, he looked down at the pale, freckled face, his thoughts and emotions in turmoil – and then he picked up his kitbag and strode back into the smoke towards the dark pinnacles of Morgan’s Reach.

  *

  Django had been tracking Danny all afternoon. It hadn’t been hard once Billy Blue told him he’d been fascinated by Frank’s stories and had even mentioned going to Goff’s Siding to see where the mysterious soldier had been.

  He’d followed the trail of tyre treads in the soft earth at the side of the round, and the discarded crusts of peanut-butter sandwiches – found where he’d hidden in a storm ditch, and eventually discovered the bike in the undergrowth.

  But the overhang of rock had worried him, for it was clear that someone – or something – had dislodged a tree root and the earth clinging to it. He’d spent a while searching for other tracks, but there were none, and he had to assume Danny had hidden the bike deliberately and tried to climb down the rock face. What could have made him do such a stupid thing baffled Django, for the boy was usually very aware of the dangers out here and knew his limitations.

  Django was an old man, but he was light and nimble still, and he’d carefully begun to clamber down when he’d heard an unmistakable sibilant hiss and the dry rasp of snakeskin on rock.

  He’d frozen, wide-eyed and terrified, as the king brown slithered out of the hole in the dirt and slowly meandered away from him. One bite and he would be dead within a heartbeat.

  He’d waited until the snake was out of sight, praying to the Ancestor Spirits that the creature had brought no harm to Danny. Then he’d cautiously made his way down to a narrow ledge where, through the swirling black smoke of the dying fire, he had a reasonably good view of the valley floor beneath the rock.

  He’d heard the boy’s calls before he caught sight of him, and had been on the point of answering him when he saw the man emerge from the smoke. He’d quickly turned off the walkie-talkie and squatted down on the ledge, safe in the knowledge he wouldn’t be seen in the smoky darkness.

  He listened to them talking and smiled. This John Miller might tell Danny that he didn’t believe in ghosts, but there was little doubt in Django’s mind that this man had been sent by the Ancestor Spirits to save Danny, and free him from the things that troubled him.

  He watched Miller carry him away and, when they were lost in the smoke, he quickly climbed down from the ledge. He had no fear that the boy would come to any harm, but he was curious as to what Miller was going to do now.

  As he stood in the swirling smoke and listened to Miller’s boots brush through the dry yellow grass he smiled again and silently began to follow him.

  16

  Millicent was now terrified. She could no longer see the tracks, the headlights barely penetrated the thickening smoke and, as she turned off the engine, she could hear the deep breath of fire blowing with the wind through the trees.

  She glanced across at Hugh, who was still comatose on the seat beside her, and then through the rear window. There was a red glow in the smoke now and, with a moan of dread, she held her sleeping baby close, squeezed her eyes shut and began to pray.

  The sharp rap on the window made her jump and she screamed.

  The dark face and wild eyes regarded her through the glass. ‘Missus Milly. Alonga quick, quick. Fire come.’

  Millicent’s heart was pounding and her hands were shaking as she wound down the window. ‘Thank God,’ she shouted above the wails of her startled baby. ‘I thought we were going to be burned alive.’

  ‘You die you alonga stay,’ said Delilah sharply. ‘Come me now.’

  As Delilah disappeared into the smoke Millicent ignored the screaming baby squirming against her breasts, turned the key in the ignition and switched on the headlights. She could now see the tracker’s wife astride the horse, her arm waving impatiently for her to follow.

  Millicent was trembling and the sweat was soaking through her dress as she gripped the steering wheel and pressed her foot on the accelerator. She’d always regarded herself as a tough, strong woman who could handle anything life threw at her – but now she was on the verge of collapsing with dread.

  The fire was too close, Delilah had kicked the horse into a fast trot and kept disappearing into the swirling smoke and the petrol gauge was showing almost empty.

  She gritted her teeth and put her trust in God and Delilah to get them all out of here.

  *

  Gwyneth’s jaw was hurting and her knee was throbbing. She suspected it was her own fault she was in such discomfort, for she’d ignored everyone’s advice as usual and had carried on regardless of her injuries. But she was made of stern stuff, and a bit of pain wasn’t going to stop her getting to her injured son.

  Terence had driven north towards Killigarth Station in almost complete silence, and Gwyneth wondered if that was because he was tired and needed to concentrate or because she’d made him cross by insisting upon coming with him. Either way, the journey was quite pleasant on this empty road, with the clear bright stars overhead and the sprawling pastures gilded by the waning moon.

  But her thoughts weren’t really on the scenery; they were on Max and the awful fear that lay heavy in her heart. But as the utility tyres hummed on the tarmac, she determinedly put her dread aside and let the memories flood back.

  She and Rhys had only been married four months when it became clear she was going to have a baby. Although Gwyneth really didn’t mind what sex it might be, she knew Rhys was hoping for a son.

  The labour had been long and painful, and she could tell by Rhys’s expression that he was getting worried. He’d tried to persuade her to return home to her parents in Brisbane for the birth, but she’d insisted upon having her baby at Morgan’s Reach, just like all the other women. After all, her husband was the community doctor, and if she couldn’t trust him to deliver her safely, then no one else would.

  The baby had finally arrived with a squall of defiance, his little fists waving angrily about as if he wanted to fight the world. Rhys’s face was a picture as he cut the cord and held his son, and Gwyneth fell in love with him all over again – so glad that he’d got his wish. And then the pains had come once more, and the urgent need to push – and before Rhys could draw breath she’d given him a second son.

  Gwyneth blinked away the tears as she remembered that moment. They had both shed tears of joy as Rhys gently placed her twin boys in her arms. ‘Two precious gifts you’ve given me today,’ he’d murmured as he kissed her. ‘You are my darling, my treasured wife, and I will love you forever.’

  And he had loved her, right up to the moment he’d died – and it was at times like these that she missed him the most. Yet she’d always felt he was with her, watching over her, waiting patiently for her to join him, and that had sustained her through the darkest days.

  She sniffed back her tears and gave a watery smile as she stared, unseeing, out of the window. Hugh and Maximilian were very grand names for such small babies, but Rhys had chosen them and she hadn’t wanted to spoil that heady moment. It was a different story when her next baby had arrived, and she’d argued fiercely against the stuffy-sounding Aurelia, insisting upon calling her Bethany.

  Gwyneth felt the twist of disappointment that always accompanied her thoughts of Bethany. She should have let Rhys have his way with her name too. Bethany conjured up an image of someone sweet and soft – the exact opposite of her daughter. Aurelia would have been far more appropriate.

  ‘What’s the matter, Gran? Are you feeling unwell?’

  She blew her nose rather forcefully. ‘Not at all,’ she retorted. ‘I was just remembering the day Max and your father were born – and thinking about your Aunt Bethany.’

  ‘I’ve heard of her, of course, but I don’t remember her at all,’ Terry replied, his gaze fixed on the track.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ she said with a sniff. ‘She was a larrikin, with a terrible temper and a wilful way about her. She left home at sixteen for the bright lights of Sydney and never came back – and I confess I didn’t miss her. She was nothing but trouble from the moment she was born.’

  She saw Terry’s shocked expression and realised she’d been rather too forceful in her condemnation of her daughter. ‘I speak as I find,’ she said with a sigh, ‘and if Bethany were here she wouldn’t be offended. She and I never got on.’

  ‘That’s so sad,’ murmured Terry.

  ‘It’s a fact of life,’ she replied. ‘Just because you’re a mother doesn’t necessarily mean you have to like your children when they get past the baby stage.’ She blew her nose again. ‘But at least she did something right in the end,’ she said. ‘My granddaughter turned up here a few years ago, and she’s proved to be a strong, fearless, hard-working young woman who I’m proud to say bears absolutely no resemblance to her mother.’

  He gave a low whistle. ‘And who is this paragon of virtue I never knew existed until today?’

  ‘Millicent Cooper. She’s married to William who manages the sheep on Big Mac’s place. You’ll meet her soon enough if you stick around. Her fifth baby’s due any minute.’ She chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘It’s strange and rather wonderful how life seems to go in circles. We all come back to our roots one way or another, don’t we?’

  ‘Becky and I were talking about that the other day,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s in our nature to discover who we are and where we belong.’ He shot her a teasing glance before negotiating the dirt track that would lead them to the homestead. ‘Though I don’t ever remember you wanting to go back to Brisbane – or Wales.’

  ‘Hmph. There’s nothing for me in Brisbane – and I never fitted in there anyway. As for Wales, I hardly remember it. I was seven when my parents brought me to Australia.’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘No, this is where I belong. I don’t need anywhere else.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why Uncle Max came back?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she agreed. ‘He was always the quiet one; artistic, gentle and perfectly happy with his own company as long as he was free to roam in the bush. He went off to work in the city to try to drum up some interest in his paintings, but I don’t think he was happy there – and then the war came and he was sent to Gallipoli and Flanders. He was never the same after that.’

  ‘But Dad must have taken part too. How come he wasn’t affected?’

  ‘Oh, he was,’ she said. ‘He just never speaks of it.’ She sighed. ‘All men are changed by war – even you, Terence. But Max suffered from what we now know was shell shock. He came home for a short while and then went wandering. It was several years before we heard from him again, but he’d found his refuge at last, and was contented to live a solitary life out in Warratah Forest.’

  Terence concentrated as the utility bounced and jolted along the rutted track that was as hard as iron. The homestead and station buildings were a low huddle on the horizon now. They were almost there. ‘If he was living like a hermit in the bush, how on earth did he meet Sal Davenport?’