Sydney, New South Wales. November 1826

Caitlin stared at the chaotic, curving lines that crowded the dirty paper. Her jaw clenched so hard it seemed her teeth might crack. Of course, she could make neither heads nor tails of any of it, but the trader didn’t know that. And it was a good thing, too. That look she’d glimpsed on his face just now, like a sly cat licking cream off his whiskers . . .

It wouldn’t do to show any weakness.

She set her face into what she hoped was an intimidating look—pursed lips, arched brow—then raised her gaze from the contract and met Mr. Staples’s beady black eyes. “Thirteen shillings a bushel? John told me you’d promised ‘im fourteen.”

The man shrugged. “That was six months ago. Crop’s better than expected.” He reached his finger deep into his ear and scratched.

Caitlin swallowed back the wave of revulsion. She narrowed her gaze. “And how’ll I be paid?”

“Well, that’s right here, innit?” He used the finger that had just been in his ear to point at a spot near the bottom of the page. “Payment will be made in ready money,” he read aloud slowly, as if to a child, “when the wheat’s sold.”

“And when’ll that be?”

He shrugged again, and that oily smirk spread back over his face. “Hard to say. Four months? Five? It’ll need to be milled first, o’ course. That could take anywhere from a few weeks to a—”

An idea struck. “May I have this?” She grasped the paper between her thumb and index finger and slowly lifted it from the desk, not taking her eyes off the man’s face.

“Have. It?” Mr. Staples’s smile wavered.

“I’d like to show it to a friend before I sign. Make sure all’s fair.”

The trader’s eyes narrowed. He breathed out heavily through his teeth, and Caitlin winced at the smell—stale grog and rancid meat.

She’d dragged herself out of bed before dawn this morning so she’d have time to bathe in preparation for this meeting. What a waste.

And yet, here she was. Perhaps the deal could still be salvaged.

She kept hold of the paper, her eyes locked on the man behind the desk. Would he chase her if she turned tail and ran out with his contract? The Flemmings’ store was just down the street. If she could get it there, Emily could read it, and at least Caitlin would know what it said.

“Nah.” The trader closed his mouth and loudly sucked the snot into his throat, then swallowed. “I need this business finished by the end o’ the week. I’ve limited space in my store, you see, and other sellers wantin’ to—”

“I’ll have it back within the hour.” She retreated a step.

Mr. Staples leaned forward in his chair. “I’m afraid I can not allow it, madam.” His voice rose. “I can’t risk any fraud.”

Fraud? Caitlin’s cheeks heated, and she bit down hard to keep the angry words from flying out. There was only one person attempting fraud here, and it wasn’t her.

She shot him a tight smile. “What are you afraid of, Mr. Staples?” She backed up another step toward the door, her jaw almost too tight to get the words out. “I simply want some time to look it over.”

“I said no.” Mr. Staples stood abruptly. His chair scraped loudly against the floor.

He really didn’t want her taking it. The bloody cheat.

She wheeled around and darted for the open door, but he was too quick. He dashed around the desk, put his back to the threshold, and spread his arms wide to prevent her escape. His face had darkened, and his chest heaved.

Caitlin steadied her breath, but her heart was beating like a rabbit trying to break loose, and she knew her cheeks were flaming red. The insults were itching at her tongue.

She wanted nothing more than to tell him off. Or force her way past him and make her escape, but—Mr. Staples had been John’s chief trading partner. He was the only wheat buyer she knew in Sydney, and on top of that, he still owed her for the hogs they’d sold him last fall. She needed that debt paid if she were to settle the bill with the man she’d bought the hogs from.

If she knew what was good for her, she’d just sign his filthy contract, whatever it said.

But before she could force herself to admit defeat, the corners of Mr. Staples’s lips curled upward. His eyes took on an ominous gleam. “Yer a sassy one, ain’t ye?” He spoke quietly, as if to himself. His eyes slid to her breasts, her hips, then back to her face.

Caitlin’s skin crawled. Contract be damned, she had to get out of here.

She darted forward, ducked under his arm, and practically ran through the passage to the outer door.

“Wait!” Mr. Staples’s heavy footfalls thudded after her. Just before she reached the door, he reappeared, blocking her way once more. “Mrs. Blackwell.” He flashed a lewd grin, showing his tobacco-stained teeth. “I hadn’t thought o’ it before, but now that yer husband’s gone . . .” He wrung one grubby hand with the other, a red flush spreading up his neck. “I—I wondered if perhaps you’d consider an . . . arrangement?” His brows rose. “I’ve been thinkin’ o’ taking on a woman, ye see, and you . . . well . . .” He flinched. “Yer Irish, but . . .” Tentatively, as if trying to tame a wild dog, he reached a hand toward her.

“But what, Mr. Staples?” The heat in Caitlin’s cheeks flared. She backed away, clutching the paper to her chest like a shield. “I’m fuckable, am I?” Then another thought. Of course. “Or is it me farm you want?”

“I—well—The thing is, if you agree . . .” He took a step forward, his arm still reaching for her. She retreated further until she hit the wall beside the office door. “You wouldn’t have to worry about the price o’ wheat, now, would you? Or what’s written in any contract.”

The grinder. She should have guessed this would happen. A wave of revulsion swept over her, and she pressed her back against the wall. She was trapped, the man’s hand mere inches from her face. A slow smile spread over his pudgy lips as his dirty palm made contact with her cheek. Then, slowly, his eyes lost focus, and he leaned in. “I’m a well-off man, Mrs. Blackwell.” His head tilted, his fleshy lips pursed in anticipation. “I’d be honored to—”

She slapped him.

She didn’t intend to. It happened with the speed of lightning, quicker than thought could form.

Staples’s eyes widened as her palm met his skin.

Then time seemed to slow . . . Caitlin's hand fell way. Four white stripes marred his cheek where her fingers had landed. The streaks turned pink as, finally, he backed away.

His mouth hung open with shock, but that lecherous gleam still lurked in his eyes.

At the sight of it, the bile rose, and Caitlin’s rage finally broke free. “Honored? To steal me farm? To shag an Irish strap like me?” She advanced on him. “You’ll not set foot on any part of Swindale. And if you touch me again—”

“But you could move off the farm,” he pleaded. “I’d find an overseer. You could come into town. Have a servant or two. I’d—”

“Never.” It took every bit of her willpower to resist spitting on the man, but that’s what an Irish street wench might do, or a convict fresh off the ship. Caitlin was neither one of those. Not any longer.

She pushed past him and pried the door open, then stepped out into the blinding sun.

It was only after the door had slammed behind her that she realized she was still holding the man’s contract. The foul thing.

Scorching anger still burned through her as she stomped through the dust and the heat to the waiting dray, but as she untied the mare from the post and met the animal’s gentle, trusting eyes, her sense returned. She sagged against the wagon’s bed, staring up at the bulging bags of wheat.

She’d come all this way—a full day’s drive—for nothing. Less than nothing. She had a dray full of wheat and no buyer. Not to mention the rest of the crop, for this was only the beginning. This year’s wheat was only half in, and already it looked to be the best harvest she'd had since the flood years. Then there was the money she’d been counting on from the hogs. John’s name was on that contract, not hers. There was no way Staples would pay her now.

Melia murder. What had got into her? Even if he was cheating her a shilling or two, what did it matter? It would be better than turning around home with a load of unsold wheat.

If she’d only kept her temper in check and signed the cursed thing . . .

John had always taken care of this kind of business. Caitlin had thought—hoped—she’d be able to muddle her way through, but that had been foolish.

She couldn’t even read the man’s contract.

Shakily, she climbed up to the wagon box and gripped the reins, then sat, watching the traffic pass by. It hadn’t rained in weeks, and the dust rose in great clouds. It mixed with the steam in the air and the smells of people and animals and their waste, all of it baking under the hot sun.

The mare looked back at her questioningly.

All Caitlin wanted was to turn north toward home, to the sweet green fields and fresh air of Swindale. To get away from the stink and the crowd. But—

Her jaw tightened. She couldn’t. Couldn’t go home with a full dray. She must find a way.

But how? It wasn’t as if she could sell her wheat on the street like a bagman.

Her eyes settled on a shopfront just down the way. Flemming’s.

She no longer needed someone to read the contract. That was a lost cause. And of course, the Flemmings would have no interest in buying the thirty-five bushels of unmilled wheat Caitlin had in her dray, but they did purchase flour to sell in their store. Perhaps they knew of a trustworthy buyer she could call on.

Caitlin had known Mr. and Mrs. Flemming for less than a year. The last time she’d been in Sydney with John, only a few weeks before he’d died, the grocer she regularly sold candles to had been boarded up. There was a new shop next door though, the dry goods displayed in the window and the wheel of cheese on the sign clearly marking it as a grocer’s. Not knowing what else to do, she’d poked her head in and been met by Mr. Flemming at the counter. He’d been happy to pay a good price for the gallon of honey and two dozen tapers she’d brought. He and his wife had just opened up shop, he’d explained, and they had no suppliers for such fine things.

The next time she’d come to town, just after she’d learned of John’s death, Mr. Flemming had been away. But his wife had been there and purchased more candles. After doing business, Mrs. Flemming—Emily, she’d told Caitlin to call her—had offered her a cup of tea. They’d talked of John’s death and Emily’s children, and of how the family had come to be in the colony. They were Scots from near Glasgow. The husband had been convicted of some political offense, and Emily had followed with the children.

They were kind, fair people. It was worth a try.

Caitlin squared her shoulders and gently slapped the reins. “Giddyap.” Then she maneuvered the heavy wagon onto the street and toward the Flemmings’ store.