Breakaway Creek. Heather Garside

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      Emma had not expected to be forced to sleep outdoors, although she supposed that had been naive of her.

      'I haven't camped out before,' she admitted nervously.

      Lucy laughed.

      'Don't worry, you'll love it. There's nothing like sleeping under the stars.'

      Once they were all aboard, George drove them down the street, stopping at the bakery to purchase bread and at the general store where Lucy selected tinned meat and packets of dried fruits.

      'We get a wagon-load of stores brought out three or four times a year but everything is soon infested with weevils,' Lucy said. 'It's a pity we haven't room for any fresh supplies.'

      Emma shuddered inwardly, wondering how long it would take her to become accustomed to eating food flavoured with weevils. The buggy was loaded to capacity, with everything piled under the seats and beside Emma at the rear.

      Although it was only September, the sun beat down on them in the open vehicle. Emma was shocked at the state of the road, which was nothing but a dirt track through the bush, filled with potholes and wheel ruts from the last rains. She felt for her cousin, who didn't complain but must surely, in her delicate state, feel every bounce. As they left the black-soil downs behind they encountered patches of bulldust into which the buggy wheels dug deep, forcing the pair of horses to heave into their collars. The dust floated up over them in a haze as fine as talcum powder, painting their faces and clothing a dirty shade of grey.

      That night they pitched camp beside a creek. George filled their billy and waterbags from a muddy waterhole before allowing the horses to drink. Later, as Emma lay in her swag close to the dying campfire, she tried to convince herself this was an exciting adventure and refused to think of snakes, spiders and other insects. Just as she relaxed an eerie howling jolted her upright, prickling the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

      George, rolled in his own swag on the other side of Lucy, chuckled softly.

      'It's a dingo, Miss Watson. Don't fear; they rarely attack people.'

      She tried to feel reassured, taking her cue from Lucy who appeared unconcerned. But her anxiety, combined with the discomfort of lying on the hard ground, made sleep elusive. At last she slipped into a fitful doze and awoke some time later to crackling flames and the sting of smoke in her nostrils. Surely it couldn't be morning already. But apparently it was, for birds were twittering and an orange glow lit the eastern sky.

      Looking towards the fire, she could see George's dark figure hovering over it, stoking it with fresh wood. She scrambled out of her swag, yawned and stretched her stiff muscles. After a second night of little sleep her head ached, and the thought of resuming their journey in the buggy was uninviting. But she resigned herself, knowing that the sooner they got it over with, the sooner they'd be at their destination. She busied herself filling the billy from the muddy creek, saving the clean water in the waterbag for the remainder of the trip.

      Late in the afternoon they arrived at Breakaway Creek. George drove the buggy on past a large house, which was his parents' home, and drew up in front of a new weatherboard cottage a hundred yards away.

      'It's only small,' Lucy said cheerfully. 'But George has assured me we'll build more rooms as the children are born.'

      'It looks charming.' Emma eyed the flowerbeds that bordered the veranda. 'You've been busy in the garden.'

      Lucy smiled in obvious pride and pointed to the line of trees in the near distance. 'There's a permanent waterhole in the creek, so there's some water to spare for my plants.'

      She showed Emma to a small bedroom, which had been made homely with white lace curtains at the windows. The tongue-and-groove walls were painted pale yellow.

      'This will be the nursery when the baby comes,' Lucy told her. 'But for now, I hope you'll be comfortable.'

      Emma gazed at the white damask counterpane on the bed.

      'It's lovely. The bed looks tempting. I hope you'll excuse me early tonight.' She eyed Lucy's face, which was drawn with fatigue. 'You must be exhausted.'

      'I am,' Lucy admitted. 'Unfortunately I don't think I'll be travelling again before the baby's born.'

      The next morning, Emma woke to birds calling outside her window. For a moment she lay still, enjoying the familiar warbling of a butcherbird and the twittering of a willy wagtail. A decent night's sleep in a soft bed had restored her and made her eager to face the day.

      Lucy also seemed to have recovered and at breakfast described her plans for Emma's entertainment.

      'We must go for a picnic one day, Emma. What a pity I can't ride anymore. But we can take the sulky.' She smiled persuasively at her husband. 'What do you think, George?'

      George's brow furrowed.

      'I think you should be resting, Lucy. You've had a strenuous few days. If you're well enough, we can think about a picnic on Sunday.'

      'Mr Baxter's right,' Emma said firmly. 'It's important for you to rest, and there's all your shopping to unpack. A picnic sounds delightful, but only when you're ready for it.'

      'You're a pair of fusspots,' Lucy pouted. 'I'm not an invalid, you know. I'm perfectly well.'

      'And we want you to stay that way,' George said calmly.

      Emma spent a pleasant day with her cousin, unpacking and chatting. Late in the afternoon while Lucy rested, she decided to go for a walk.

      She followed a well-worn track to the creek. Tall river coolabahs lined its steep banks and were mirrored in the dark, still water that lay six feet or more below. Emma walked along a twisting path that followed the top of the bank, under the welcome shade of the trees. A flock of drab brown birds flew up in front of her, shrieking noisily. "Happy Jacks", George had called them. She kept a careful eye out for snakes, remembering Lucy's warning that the deadly brown was prevalent in this area.

      Intent on watching where she placed her feet, the snort of a horse brought her to an abrupt stop. Her gaze jerked up, flickering over the startled animal to meet its rider's amused brown eyes, shaded by a broad-brimmed hat. He steadied his mount and for a moment Emma stared at him in silence. He was the first to speak.

      'Miss Watson.' He swung out of the saddle and turned to face her, politely doffing his hat. 'How d' you do?'

      'Mr Baxter,' Emma nodded, recovering her equilibrium. She moved forward and held out her hand. 'I was in a world of my own.'

      Alex Baxter took her hand briefly in his hard, calloused one.

      'My apologies for startling you.'

      The smell of horse and saddle leather assailed her senses as she took in his tall, lean figure and deeply tanned skin. At the periphery of her vision she was aware of his mount watching her with nervous, pricked ears.

      'This is a beautiful place, Mr Baxter.' She heard herself gushing in her need to fill the awkward moment, and winced inwardly. 'The creek is so peaceful. Is the water deep?'

      Alex nodded.

      'Over ten feet in places. Me and George used to swim here a lot when we were kids.' He grinned. 'Still do sometimes, when it's hot.'

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