Daughter of Australia by Harmony Verna

man would faint before the cutting started. “Doc has morphine,” Ghan lied again. “Yeh’ll hardly feel it.”
    Morphine. That’s what the doc said it was. Won’t feel a thing. Last thing the butcher said before he rammed a bullet between Ghan’s teeth. Morphine, my arse! Gave him something that made him feel drunk but didn’t numb the pain, just made him feel drunk and out of control, out of his mind with pain but too drunk or stupid to do anything about it.
    The memories and the pain came back too quickly and his stomach cramped and kicked. Ghan rose stiffly. “I’ll get the doc. Be over ’fore yeh know it.” He fled the tent in jagged steps, galloped to the nearest tree and vomited.

C HAPTER 17
    M orning dew held silver upon the grass, sparkled spiderwebs and dampened the soles of Father McIntyre’s shoes as he met the postman in the arc of the road. He smiled at the sound of the fairy-wrens, their chirps waning with the morning light, fading away and evaporating like the mist in the sun. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it, Mr. Cook,” Father McIntyre greeted.
    The postman pulled his head out of the canvas, his neck skinny, his face dark as cowhide. “Mornin’, Father. Didn’t hear yeh on the stones.” He lifted a stack of letters tied with twine and handed them to the priest. “Saw yer ad in the paper.” The postman scratched inside his large ear, then inspected his finger. “Gettin’ many bites?”
    â€œA few,” he said sullenly. “Have two families coming this week to meet the children.”
    Mr. Cook scrunched up his face. “That’s a good thing, ain’t it, Father? Gettin’ ’em children adopted is a good thing, no?”
    Sure it’s a good thing, Father McIntyre answered in his mind. Just like the cliffs and the ocean were good things. But they all made his head spin and his stomach drop. “Yes.” Father McIntyre gave a weak smile. “It’s a good thing.”
    Footsteps barreled onto the gravel. “Did it come?” James huffed between breaths.
    The postman grinned, settled his hands on his hips. “Expectin’ somepin, son?”
    Father McIntyre patted James on the shoulder and rolled his eyes. “He’s been waiting for a letter from Ireland. I told him not to get his hopes up.”
    â€œHo! T’day’s yer lucky day, m’boy!” Mr. Cook clapped his hands. “Saw one in there. From Limerick, I think.”
    Father McIntyre’s stomach dropped again. He shoved the letters into the crook of his arm, locking them with his elbow.
    â€œG’day, gorgeous.” Mr. Cook tipped his hat at the silent girl who joined them, then turned his attention back to the priest. “Be on m’way, now. See yeh in a few weeks, Father.”
    â€œPlease open it, Father!” James begged as he held Leonora’s hand, squeezing it in pulses.
    With a sigh, Father McIntyre untied the pile of letters, shuffled until he found a thin blue envelope with an Irish stamp, the paper soiled and smudged. He ripped the glue that held the back flap and pulled out the card, read the words and blanched. He read them again, his eyes bobbing left to right, his jaw clicking near his ear.
    James followed the priest’s movements. “What’d it say?”
    Father McIntyre closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, son.”
    â€œWhat?” The boy blinked fiercely and tightened his grip on Leonora. “What did it say?”
    â€œThere’s no one there, James.” He couldn’t look at the boy. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œBut the l-l-letter,” James stammered. “It . . . it was . . . they sent it.”
    â€œThe letter was from a priest I know outside Limerick.” Father McIntyre exhaled and his eyes shifted under the lowered lids. “The O’Connells are all gone. They’ve either moved away or . . .