Daughter of Australia by Harmony Verna Read Free Book Online Page A

feet, already scuffed and spotted with red dirt.
    She left the lonely desert town behind in a cloud of dust—a town that would give her little more than a name: Leonora.

P ART 2

C HAPTER 7
    A blur of hands, of people and homes, of men in uniform, dotted the months. Another journey and a policeman unlocked the buggy door. “Out yeh go.” Grunting, he pushed his hat high upon his forehead, the rim cutting a pale line into his red skin. “Come on, child; we ain’t got all day.” He took her by the hands and swung her to the ground.
    A tree stretched across their path, its bark stripped, the torn roots reaching toward the sky like bony fingers. Broken glass littered the stones at her feet, gleamed white between blades of grass. Next to the church, a pile of debris—stacks of broken chairs, loose bricks caked with mortar, books fanning out with moldy centers. The policeman dropped her hand. Her mouth went dry. The sea roared in the distance, drowned out her thundering heartbeat.
    A priest exited the wide church doors. Dressed in black from shoes to chin, he seemed to float across the gravel like a dancing shadow. “Good morning, Constable,” he greeted flatly.
    â€œMornin’, Father McIntyre.” The officer scanned the tarps and broken windows of the orphanage, rubbed his round belly. “Och, the cyclone did a number on yeh, Father. How yeh going to fix it all?”
    The priest sighed, tapped his shoe. “I’ve written the Bishop. The money will come.”
    â€œHope yer right. Geraldton took a beatin’, but whew . . .” The policeman wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and set his gaze on the decimated pile of twisted trees. “Weren’t nothin’ compared to this. Yeh got the brunt of it, I’m afraid.” He scratched the inside of a nostril absently, then scraped his knuckle across his nose, snorted away the talk of weather. “Anyway,” he said, tilting his head at her. “Got another one for yeh.”
    â€œSo I see.” The priest’s face was stiff, his tone stern. “Would have appreciated a bit more notice. You said she wasn’t coming for another month.”
    The sweaty officer shrugged. “Outta my hands. Child’s been through two foster homes already. Drivin’ ’em crazy way she don’t talk. I’ve been stuck with her for a week.”
    She swallowed, dropped her eyes to the pebbles at her feet. The burn crept up her stomach and spread to her face.
    Father McIntyre cleared his throat, then knelt on one knee. Gently, he tapped her chin until her eyes leveled with his. The burn faded. His face was soft and calm. His eyebrows sloped without tension. He took her hand, held it in his warm palm. “We’re pleased to have you. It’s Leonora, right?”
    â€œNot her real name,” the policeman interjected as he picked at the nostril again. “Named after some bush town. Call her whot yeh like.”
    The priest’s gaze did not waver, but his lips pinched. He pressed her hand and his mouth relaxed again. “I think Leonora is a beautiful name. Shall we keep it?”
    With the request of speech, her mouth filled with cotton. She stood as still and quiet as stone. But unlike the cold stares and short huffs of the others, Father McIntyre’s smile widened. He leaned in and spoke solely to her ears: “This is a good place.”
    She scanned the broken church, the ravaged grounds. The priest followed her gaze and nodded. “We’ll get better, Leonora. Time heals all wounds.” An old Scottish accent curved the words, their sincere lightness loosening her throat and shoulders.
    â€œWe’ll take good care of you.” He stood then, his graceful black body reaching into the Heavens as he held out his hand. “I promise.”

C HAPTER 8
    F ather McIntyre carried his morning tea outdoors. A slight breeze blew from the sea, bringing the familiar