Chapter 2

      “WILL YOU EXCUSE US for a moment?”

      Payton nodded, sitting primly on the edge of her chair as Brody and his brother Callum stepped out of the cluttered office. They didn’t go far and their whispered discussion in the hallway soon became loud enough for her to hear.

      “And who was whinging about all the work to be done just a few hours ago?” Brody accused. “She claims she knows horses and isn’t above mucking out the stables. If she takes care of that, then you’ve got more help mustering.”

      “You met her in the jail,” Callum shot back. “That might give you a clue to her character.”

      “She’s just down on her luck,” Brody said. “She needs a job. I’ll vouch for her. If you catch her stealing, I’ll haul her back to Bilbarra without a word.”

      “And what about you?” Callum asked. “If I give her a job, what are you going to do? Just lay about the house all day feeling sorry for yourself?”

      “I reckon I’ll give you a hand,” Brody said. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

      There was a long silence and she heard a curse, though she wasn’t sure who it came from. A moment later, the two brothers reappeared in the door. “Brody tells me you’re good with horses. You’ll be expected to put in a full day.”

      “I really need this job. I’ll work hard, I promise,” Payton said. It was the truth, though she didn’t want to sound too desperate. This station was the perfect place for her, a good spot to stay until she figured out her next step. She’d have a place to sleep and three decent meals a day. She’d have a job to occupy her time. And then there was Brody. “You won’t regret this.”

      “All right. You can stay in the south bunkhouse,” Callum said. “It’s got a proper dunny and shower. But you’ll have to share it with Gemma.”

      “Who’s Gemma?” Brody asked, frowning.

      “The genealogist,” Callum explained. “Gemma Moynihan. She’s from Ireland, doing some sort of research on the Quinn family. I told her she could stay until she finished her work here.”

      “No worries,” Payton said, adopting the local language. “The bunkhouse will be great.”

      “All right,” Callum said. “You’ll start in the stables and you’ll lend a hand in the kitchen when Mary needs help. You slack off and you’ll earn yourself a ride back to Bilbarra. You work hard and I’ll pay you a fair wage.”

      Payton nodded, relieved that he’d agreed to Brody’s plan. It was the first real job she’d ever held and she was determined not to mess up. Her new life began here and now and Payton couldn’t help but be a bit excited at the prospect.

      Callum glanced at his brother. “Brody will show you around and get you settled. If you have any questions, ask him.”

      The elder Quinn brother strode out of the office and Brody followed after him. “I’ll give her a day. Two at the outside,” Payton heard Callum say.

      When Brody returned, she pasted a smile on her face. “He’s wrong. I’ll work hard.”

      Brody reached out and took her hand, turning it over so he could examine her palm. Running his thumb over the soft skin, he slowly smiled. “You’ll need a pair of gloves,” he said. “And a proper hat.”

      Payton laced her fingers through his and gave his hand a squeeze. “Thank you for this. I won’t disappoint you.”

      He hooked his finger beneath her chin, forcing her gaze up to his. At first, she hoped he might kiss her again, but then he must have thought better of it. “No worries. I can’t imagine that ever happening.”

      “No worries,” she repeated.

      Brody picked up her bag and motioned her toward the door. “Come on. I’ll show you what’s what. We’ll see the homestead first. Maybe Mary will make us a bite.”

      As they walked through the beautifully furnished room that Brody called the parlor, Payton’s attention was caught by a huge oil painting hanging over the fireplace. She walked up to examine it more closely. “This is a beautiful portrait,” she said.

      “We call him the old man,” Brody explained as he stepped up beside her. “His name is Crevan Quinn. He was the first Quinn in Australia. Came on a convict ship when he was nineteen.”

      “He was a convict?”

      Brody nodded. “A bit of a thief, a pickpocket they say. He had the portrait painted for his seventieth birthday, in the late 1800s. Went all the way to Sydney to sit for it. And then he died the day after it was finished. It’s hung in this house ever since. His only son was my great-great-grandfather.”

      “Backler. I’ve never heard of the artist,” she said. “It’s quite lovely.”

      Brody gave her a dubious look.

      “The technique,” she said. “The layering of color.” She stared at the subject, a man with wild white hair, huge muttonchops and a fierce expression.

      “Good thing his looks don’t run in the family,” Brody said.

      “His penchant for crime does,” Payton teased.

      With