sort of man who worries a great deal about keeping his place, Mr. Gallagher," she said. And then she did leave him, standing there, holding her horse and watching her.
"So it's working in the stables you are now," said Daniel O'Leary, "and not just toiling away at the building of it." Shifting a wad of tobacco from one freckled cheek to the other, the big Irishman tipped the laddered back of his chair against the stone outer wall of the barracks and tossed the small leather tobacco pouch to Lucas. "You're a wonder to me, lad."
His left shoulder braced against a rough-hewn veranda post, Lucas snagged the bag out of the air and smiled as he tucked the tobacco into the pocket of the rough jacket he wore against the chill of early evening. He didn't chew himself, but Warrick Corbett provided all of his men—even the assigned convicts—with a ration of tobacco. Most settlers considered the practice generous, maybe even a tad indulgent, but Lucas knew Corbett was only being prudent. Men had been known to kill for tobacco in places like Port Arthur and Macquerie Harbor, and on the chain gangs.
It'd been on a chain gang that Lucas and Daniel had met, just over a year ago now. Without Daniel, Lucas knew he never would have made it through the grinding hopelessness and despair of those first weeks on the gang. Once, when they were building a road through a gorge south of Hobart Town, Daniel fell into the river and would have drowned, weighed down as he was with chains, if Lucas hadn't ignored the overseer's threats and jumped in to pull the big Irishman out. Daniel always said he owed Lucas his life, but Lucas knew that if they were keeping score, he was still deeply in Daniel's debt. For while Daniel's death would have had the grace of fate, if it weren't for Daniel, Lucas would have killed himself.
The front legs of Daniel's old wooden chair hit the flagstones with a thump as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, his lips pursed, and let loose a stream of yellowish-brown juice that shot off the edge of the veranda to plop in the hard dirt of the yard. He cast a quick glance around, and even though the rest of the men were too far away to overhear, he kept his voice low. "All you've got to do now is take one of them horses out for a wee bit of exercise one day, and never come back. If you choose that red stallion, they'll never catch you."
Lucas shifted so that his spine pressed against the post. "No, they wouldn't catch me on the first day. And maybe not the second. But they would catch me in the end; make no mistake about that. And then they'd hang me for a horse thief." Lifting his head, he looked out across the fields, lit now with the golden light of a setting sun that threw long, bluish shadows across the rich green of the valley floor. From here, he couldn't see the sea. But he knew it was there, swelling restless and eternal beyond that low rise of hills. If a man breathed deeply, he could smell the hint of distant brine on the breeze. The hint of brine and the promise of freedom it brought.
"I'll be riding out of here one day, sure enough," he said softly, his attention still caught by the purpling hills. "But not before I know I've a way off this island already waiting for me." He brought his gaze back to the big, red-haired Irishman. "And I'll be taking you with me, boyo." He smiled, and jerked his head toward the man approaching them from the yard. "You and yon Fox."
"Huh," grunted the Fox, walking up to them. The Fox's real name was Todd Doyle, from Tipperary. He was built small and skinny, with a sharp-boned face and big, pointed ears, so that with a name like Todd, everyone had called him the Fox for so long now he sometimes forgot to answer to Todd. Once, before he'd managed to get himself transported for embezzlement, he had been head gardener to the Earl of Swath- more. But the Fox had a taste for the finer things in life, things a gardener's salary didn't stretch to cover.
He had been at Castle Corbett for a
"So it's working in the stables you are now," said Daniel O'Leary, "and not just toiling away at the building of it." Shifting a wad of tobacco from one freckled cheek to the other, the big Irishman tipped the laddered back of his chair against the stone outer wall of the barracks and tossed the small leather tobacco pouch to Lucas. "You're a wonder to me, lad."
His left shoulder braced against a rough-hewn veranda post, Lucas snagged the bag out of the air and smiled as he tucked the tobacco into the pocket of the rough jacket he wore against the chill of early evening. He didn't chew himself, but Warrick Corbett provided all of his men—even the assigned convicts—with a ration of tobacco. Most settlers considered the practice generous, maybe even a tad indulgent, but Lucas knew Corbett was only being prudent. Men had been known to kill for tobacco in places like Port Arthur and Macquerie Harbor, and on the chain gangs.
It'd been on a chain gang that Lucas and Daniel had met, just over a year ago now. Without Daniel, Lucas knew he never would have made it through the grinding hopelessness and despair of those first weeks on the gang. Once, when they were building a road through a gorge south of Hobart Town, Daniel fell into the river and would have drowned, weighed down as he was with chains, if Lucas hadn't ignored the overseer's threats and jumped in to pull the big Irishman out. Daniel always said he owed Lucas his life, but Lucas knew that if they were keeping score, he was still deeply in Daniel's debt. For while Daniel's death would have had the grace of fate, if it weren't for Daniel, Lucas would have killed himself.
The front legs of Daniel's old wooden chair hit the flagstones with a thump as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, his lips pursed, and let loose a stream of yellowish-brown juice that shot off the edge of the veranda to plop in the hard dirt of the yard. He cast a quick glance around, and even though the rest of the men were too far away to overhear, he kept his voice low. "All you've got to do now is take one of them horses out for a wee bit of exercise one day, and never come back. If you choose that red stallion, they'll never catch you."
Lucas shifted so that his spine pressed against the post. "No, they wouldn't catch me on the first day. And maybe not the second. But they would catch me in the end; make no mistake about that. And then they'd hang me for a horse thief." Lifting his head, he looked out across the fields, lit now with the golden light of a setting sun that threw long, bluish shadows across the rich green of the valley floor. From here, he couldn't see the sea. But he knew it was there, swelling restless and eternal beyond that low rise of hills. If a man breathed deeply, he could smell the hint of distant brine on the breeze. The hint of brine and the promise of freedom it brought.
"I'll be riding out of here one day, sure enough," he said softly, his attention still caught by the purpling hills. "But not before I know I've a way off this island already waiting for me." He brought his gaze back to the big, red-haired Irishman. "And I'll be taking you with me, boyo." He smiled, and jerked his head toward the man approaching them from the yard. "You and yon Fox."
"Huh," grunted the Fox, walking up to them. The Fox's real name was Todd Doyle, from Tipperary. He was built small and skinny, with a sharp-boned face and big, pointed ears, so that with a name like Todd, everyone had called him the Fox for so long now he sometimes forgot to answer to Todd. Once, before he'd managed to get himself transported for embezzlement, he had been head gardener to the Earl of Swath- more. But the Fox had a taste for the finer things in life, things a gardener's salary didn't stretch to cover.
He had been at Castle Corbett for a
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