‘Hop in, Mrs McLachlan. I drive myself,’ he said, addressing Andrew. ‘You want to sit up front with me?’

Andrew gave Lorna a hand up, then climbed up in front beside the squatter.

‘And Sydney?’ Henderson asked, big hands gathering the reins. ‘What did you think of that?’

A pause. Then in a starched voice Andrew said, ‘We’re nae folk for the big city.’

Henderson laughed. ‘No more’m I, mate.’ He clucked his tongue at the horses and they drove away.

Henderson’s run bordered a river that flowed through a fertile and well-wooded valley a few miles out of town. It was almost dark when they arrived and lights were shining from the buildings as the buggy crested a shallow rise and came bumping and swaying down the rutted track to the bridge across the river.

The cluster of buildings looked more like a village than a farm. A two-storeyed house of white stone stood not far from the riverbank. A short distance from it was a long, white building. Other buildings were set further along the valley.

The men’s conversation blew back to Lorna on the breeze.

‘It’s gey big,’ Andrew said. ‘Is it all yours?’

Henderson laughed and pointed with his crop. ‘There’s the stables. Next to it is the blacksmith’s shop. On the far side, we got a store and a butchery. That big wooden building is the shearing shed but that’s over for the year, thank God.’

‘It’s a lot bigger than I imagined,’ Andrew confessed.

‘We’re out in the wilds, here. We got to look after ourselves.’

Andrew pointed. ‘That building at the far end wi’ the cross on it … would that be a church?’

‘It is. My old man built that when he first set up the run.’ Henderson looked at him quizzically. ‘Praying man, Mr McLachlan?’

‘I am.’ A hint of defiance in his voice.

‘Fine by me. We need all the help we can get.’

The horses picked up speed as they clattered down the hill. Hooves and wheels drummed on the timber of the bridge, Lorna caught a momentary glimpse of dark water slipping sinuously beneath them, then they were reining to a halt before the house. Close to, it looked huge.

Lorna climbed down to join the two men.

‘Welcome to Inverlochrie,’ Henderson said.

Andrew looked at him. ‘Inverlochrie? That’s a guid Scots name.’

‘Gavin Henderson’s a good Scots name. The old man came from Dundee.’

They took their bags and followed the squatter’s tall figure out of the courtyard and across to the long, whitewashed building they had seen from the crest of the hill. There were six doors, each with a glazed window beside it. No lights showed.

Henderson pushed open the end door. It was almost dark and they could see little. There was a smell of whitewash and straw. At least it smells clean, Lorna thought.

She heard the scrape of a tinderbox and a tiny flame blossomed in the darkness. A huge shadow reared across the wall as Henderson held up a stub of tallow candle in an iron stick.