Excerpt
I was married in a pub, with a stockman and a whore as witnesses.

Lying in bed the morning after her wedding, Abigail Forester mused on how rapidly her life had changed. Her wedding had not been anything nearly resembling her childhood dreams of romance and white gowns. She smirked at the thought. Not that she could have worn white honestly anyway.

A merry tinkle of laughter escaped her at that, and her new husband growled and rolled over.

“Oh aye, ye can growl.” Abbie turned her head to smirk at his sleeping form. “Lor’, but I bet yer fool head's goin' t'burst when ye wake. Did ye really need that much courage to face me in yer bed, Mister Forester?” Abigail brushed her lips against his, and chuckled when he grunted and turned his head away.

“Still an' all, I won't gripe about th'money.” She sat up on the side of the bed, turning her back to Robert. “And then, there's this new life ye've provided. I'm beholden to ye for that.”

Abbie sighed and turned her head to look at the sleeping man beside her. During their short engagement she had rarely seen him, and she knew almost nothing about him. She frowned, letting her eyes wander over his face, which even in sleep wore the same arrogant mien that he bore when he was awake.

“I dunno how I'm meant t'go on. How am I supposed to behave?”

He stirred, rolled onto his back, and flung one arm across his eyes as though to shield them from a blow. Abbie smiled at what amounted to a childlike gesture.

“You're just a lad, aren't ye? A lad who's somehow got himself cast away here in this godforsaken place. Ye don't belong here, Mister Forester.” Gently, so as not to rouse him, Abbie pulled his arm away from his face. “Ye should be back in Sydney town, dancing with all the little debutantes and makin' a far better choice o' bride than the likes o’ me.”

Abbie rose with a sigh and made her way across the room to her battered trunk. Her wedding gown, pale green sprigged muslin trimmed at the throat and cuffs with delicate white lace, was draped over the back of a chair. Smiling, Abbie shook her head. Her wedding day had to have been one of the oddest of her life. She took a plain, light gray skirt and a white blouse from the trunk and proceeded with her morning toilette.

Having brushed out her hair, Abbie pulled it into a bun at the nape of her neck, and then washed her face with water from a pitcher before she dressed and fetched her boots. She carried them into the main room of the cottage before putting them on.

Abbie stood in the middle of the room for a few moments and looked around at her new home. It was a step up from the room she had shared with her friend Matilda Baker in town.

The station manager's cottage had two rooms, the bedroom and another, which served as kitchen, sitting room and laundry. A table, which doubled as a workbench, stood squarely in the centre of the main area. A sideboard with a few tin dishes on it was set at one side of the room. There was a small sink next to the sideboard, and a laundry tub and mangle stood at the end of the room next to the hearth, which had an iron frame over it to hang cooking pots or a kettle on. Three tall-backed wooden chairs provided the only seating.

A rough-hewn dresser stood by the window. On a mantle above the fire, there was a geriatric clock which emitted an apologetic silvery chime at the hour and half hour. The only lighting was provided by the window in the daylight hours and kerosene lanterns at night.

Abbie felt a stirring of pride as she moved through the kitchen and opened the door to let in light and air. The cool morning air brushed against her cheeks and stirred stray wisps of hair around her face as she drank in the view. The back of the cottage looked out across paddocks where cattle browsed the sparse pasture. Further out, a blue-gray line of trees marked the beginning of scrubland on Kolorah’s boundary line. The sky was brilliant blue above the eucalyptus trees, sharp contrast to the red bull dust and the faded grass the cattle grazed.

Abbie sighed, her gaze sweeping back to the immediate surroundings of the cottage. A few feet from her door, a water pump stood in the yard. The stables were to the left of the cottage. She started when a flock of cockatoos rose shrieking from the paddock, and fluttered away towards the eucalyptus trees. Abbie stirred, turning to survey her kitchen, and clicked her tongue as a shaft of sunlight falling through the doorway drew her attention to the dusty floor.

A brief search turned up a battered straw broom, and for lack of anything else to do, Abbie began to sweep the floor. She hummed softly as she worked, and soon became absorbed in the task.

“What are you doing?”

Startled, Abbie turned to find Robert leaning against the door frame between the kitchen and bedroom. He looked surly, and she bit her lip before she met his eyes.

“I don't s'pose ye ever saw a lass sweep a floor?”