“But there was me and Daunt, plus two of Campbell’s men in case of bush-rangers, and we couldn’t go any faster than the cart with all my things that Pa had brought up from the Point. It would be three days, Daunt said, and rough. Straight after Garlogie’s soft valley we went into high dark hills that the road wound up and down among. Now and then we’d come out to a high place. Ahead, nothing but ridges and valleys, a tangle of bulges, like a lamb’s brain ready for the pan. It was a poor road. Mo...re than a bridle track, but much worse than between Thornhill’s and Garlogie. Clay gone to dust, corduroy on the creeks, the horses had to be walked over the logs. A crow flying might make short work of it but a human had to follow the track in and out of every wrinkle of the country. All day I watched Daunt riding up ahead. John David Daunt. My husband. That would be it for the rest of my days, him on top of his horse, jogging on and not looking back at me. With every wild mile I was more alone.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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