Chapter One
Laura O’Byrne crept backwards away from the family room, focusing on missing the floorboard three steps back that always creaked. The grandchildren always got the giggles when they stood on it, delighting in making it cry out as they thundered their way into the room that now held not only new toys, but many of the beloved playthings her five daughters had grown up with at Ceann Mara.
She reached the end of the hallway and slipped through the kitchen, quietly pushing open the timber-framed screen door. The latch clicked softly behind her as she hurried across the yard, dust puffing up from her sensible work boots with each step.
The afternoon heat pressed down on her shoulders, but Laura barely noticed. She needed to talk to Tom, needed to tell him how worried she was about Bridget. Three months their youngest daughter had been home now, and while Tom thought she was healing, Laura had seen things that kept her awake at night.
The low hum of machinery as she approached the big shed from the house side confirmed her husband was there. The two stockmen had left earlier, so she knew Tom would be alone. Even though she knew he’d be in for his afternoon smoko shortly, she couldn’t talk to him while Bridget was in the kitchen with them. Not about this.
As she walked, Laura’s eyes swept across the familiar landscape of home—the peppercorn trees casting dappled shade across the green lawn that was her pride and joy, the dog pens between the house yard and the big shed where the working dogs drowsed in the heat, the glint of the Darling River beyond the airstrip. One hundred and fifty years, the O’Byrnes had been on this land. Seven generations. And now their youngest daughter sat on the floor playing with a dollhouse like she was eight years old again.
Tom was down the back of the shed, and Laura swallowed hard, looking away from the side where he’d had his heart attack when the motorbike had fallen on him four years ago. Time had passed since that terrible afternoon, but she’d appreciated every minute she’d had with him since, knowing she could so easily have been a widow.
He looked up with a smile as he heard her approaching. ‘Hi, love. What are you after? For a moment there, I thought you’d brought my smoko down. That would’ve been great.’
‘I can if you’re busy. I can go back and make a cuppa and bring it over. We could sit by the river and have it.’
‘Sounds like a plan to me.’ He set down the solar panel he was working on, a slight frown crossing his rugged features. ‘What’s up? Is everything okay? You haven’t had any bad news or anything, have you?’
‘Not exactly,’ Laura said carefully. ‘But I do want to talk to you. I’m really worried about Bridget.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Laura, you have to realise she’s an adult now. She’s been through a tough time, and she’s come home to sort herself out. We’re here for her.’
‘Yes, I know we are, but you haven’t seen what she does when you’re not there.’
‘What do you mean? I know she’s been a bit quieter than usual, but I guess after what she’s been through, that’s natural to expect.’
Laura took a deep breath. ‘After you go out during the day, and she thinks I’m busy in the kitchen, she always goes to the family room.’
Tom quirked an eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘She sits on the floor and plays with the dollhouse. The one you built for Roisin and Erin when they were little.’
‘Plays with it? What do you mean?’
Laura clenched her hands in front of her. ‘Exactly what I said. She sits on the floor and plays with the dollhouse as though she was eight years old. She takes out the furniture, and she puts it back in. She plays with the dolls. Over and over again.’
‘I guess if she’s just revisiting old memories, it might make her feel good.’
‘Tom, she does for three or four hours at a time. Yes, she always gets to the kitchen in time for you to come in for smoko morning and afternoon, and lunchtime if you come in, but the rest of the day she sits there on the floor, rearranging the furniture, moving the little dolls around.’
‘Have you said anything to her about it?’
Laura shook her head. ‘No. I’m treading a careful path here.’
‘She seems okay to me, though—she’s talking to us at night, and she’s getting out on the property sometimes. Maybe it’s just something that makes her feel good. Maybe she’s bored,’ he suggested. ‘It’s nothing like when Cat was home after she had her problems. Cat locked herself in her room, didn’t eat, and wouldn’t talk to us for weeks. You can’t have forgotten that.’
‘This is different,’ Laura insisted. ‘She’s just handling what she went through in a different way. But Tom, it’s not normal for a twenty-three-year-old to sit and play with a dollhouse for hours on end.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’ Tom asked, pulling a face.
‘I don’t want you to do anything about it. I don’t think there’s anything we can do. I’m very conscious of not saying the wrong thing to her. I don’t think it would take much for her to leave.’
‘I think it’s good that she’s home.’
‘It’s been a while now, though. We’re into the third month.’
Tom walked over and held out his arms. Laura stepped into the one haven that had always made her feel better, resting her head on his shoulder and absorbing the familiar scent he carried with him after a day in the shed—grease, metal filings, dust, and honest work.
‘What do you think we should do?’ She stepped back and looked up at him.
‘Well, the girls are coming home this weekend, remember?’
‘How could I forget? I’ve been baking non-stop all week.’
‘It’s a lot of people to feed—five daughters, their partners, and all the grandchildren.’ He grinned, and Laura tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Bridget was always closest to Erin, wasn’t she? When they were growing up.’ Tom said thoughtfully.
‘Yes, they’ve always got on well.’
‘Have you talked to any of the girls about her? About what you’re worried about.’
‘No, I’ve respected her privacy. I know she was devastated by what happened with that awful man—that Antony Saar. When the girls ask when they call, I just say she’s home, and she’s going well. I don’t want to share anything yet without Bridget’s permission.’
‘Perhaps you could give Erin a call on the quiet and have a chat with her. She could take Bridget for a walk or a ride together or something, and Erin could gently probe, make sure how she really is.’
‘Do you think we should talk to her first?’
‘That’s the hard thing about being a parent,’ Tom said. ‘We’re always seen as the oldies, and I don’t think our advice is given as much credence now as it was when they were little tackers.’
‘Yes, I agree. That’s a good idea to talk to Erin. I’ll go for a walk after we have smoko and leave a message for her to call me. That way, I can talk without any fear of Bridget overhearing. She creeps around like she's afraid to be seen.’
‘Are there any people up at the riverside camp sites today?’
Laura shook her head. ‘No, only over at the billabong. It’s easing off now that summer’s coming.’
‘How long are you going to do this for, Laura?’ Tom asked gently. ‘It’s a lot of work for you, love.’
‘It gives me something to do now that the girls are gone.’
‘You should be having a rest.’
‘I sleep well at night. I don’t need any rest.’ She looked at him firmly. ‘Look, I’ll go back and make us a cup of tea now. I’ve got some scones just out of the oven. Would you like them with butter, jam and cream?’
She raised her eyebrows as she spoke to him.
‘Perhaps a little bit of that low cholesterol butter would be good,’ he said with a cheeky grin. ‘Maybe a smidgen of jam.’
‘Very sensible choice, Tom O’Byrne.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll be back in a little while.’
As Laura walked back to the house, she was thoughtful. Tom didn’t realise how important the campground was to her. The retired people who visited, the young adventurous families who came with their children, and the volunteers who helped her by taking the bookings and cleaning—they gave her an interest beyond the empty nest. She knew if she didn’t have that, it would be very hard. Tom had the farm, he had his cattle and goats and his family history research that absorbed him whenever he was inside. She had meals to cook, the house to clean, and that was it. Now that she had Bridget at home, that was an extra worry—not so much having her youngest daughter there, but worrying about her mental health after what that man had done to her.
Eighteen months, Bridget had been trapped in Sydney with Antony Saar, working on what he’d called revolutionary agricultural technology. Eighteen months of dropping out of her computer science degree to work on a startup that turned out to be built on lies. Laura had only pieced together fragments of what had happened—Antony’s manipulation, the fake investors, the SEC investigation into fraud. Bridget had come home financially ruined, with no degree to show for her time, and her confidence completely shattered.
The girl who’d left Ceann Mara full of excitement about changing the world through technology had returned hollow-eyed and silent, flinching whenever a phone rang, checking over her shoulder as though expecting someone to appear.
Laura forced a smile to her face as she climbed the back steps, seeing Bridget’s shadow at the kitchen window.
She pushed open the screen door. ‘I’m about to put a cuppa on for Dad, love. Do you want to come over to the shed? He’s going to have his smoko over there.’
‘No, I’m fine.’ Bridget didn’t turn from the window. ‘I’ll just have a cup of coffee here. I’m going to watch some television.’
Laura had noticed one thing since Bridget had been home—she was never on the computer, never on her phone. For someone who had specialised in IT and had run an IT business, that was deeply concerning. It was as though she couldn’t bear to touch the technology she’d once loved.
‘What’s with all the baking, Mum?’ Bridget reached over and took a scone off the cooling tray. ‘May I have one, please?’
Laura smiled. ‘Of course you can and thank you for the lovely manners.’
‘And all the baking?’ Bridget asked again as she crossed to the fridge and got out the real butter and some jam.
‘We’re going to have a full house this weekend.’
Laura didn’t miss the moment her youngest daughter froze as she reached into the fridge. Her shoulders tensed, and her head swivelled around.
‘What do you mean, a full house? Who’s coming?’
‘All the girls are coming home—Shea and Heath with James, Cat and Logan with Emma and Oliver, Róisín and Seth with Mairead, Erin and Jack with Samuel. It’s going to be wonderful. I don’t think we’ve all been together since you’ve been home, have we?’
‘No, but I’m sure we will at Christmas,’ Bridget said quickly.
‘Hopefully.’
Laura reached for the kettle and switched it on again before bending down and getting two cups out of the drawer.
‘Shame I won’t be home,’ Bridget said.
Laura straightened, her hand flying up. She turned to face her daughter. ‘What do you mean you won’t be home? Are you going somewhere?’
‘I’m going away this weekend. I’m sure I told you.’
Laura shook her head. ‘No, you didn’t mention it, Bridget. Where are you going? Have you got something on?’ She was reluctant to pry, but it was the first time Bridget had suggested leaving the property since she’d come home three months ago.
‘I just have some things to do.’
Laura bit her tongue, wanting to ask where, wanting to understand, but afraid of pushing too hard. ‘It’s a shame you can’t put it off till another weekend.’
Bridget popped the rest of the scone into her mouth and shook her head, making unintelligible sounds through the mouthful.
‘Perhaps I can change it to another weekend,’ Laura said
Bridget swallowed. ‘No, don’t do that, Mum. You know how hard it is with Cat and Logan with their new property. The others are busy too. They won’t be able to change their plans.’
‘Have you been talking to them much, sweetheart?’ Laura asked carefully.
Bridget shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t talked to anyone. Anyway, I’ve got some things to do. I’ll see you at dinner. Bye.’
She slipped out of the kitchen before Laura could respond, and moments later, Laura heard the familiar creak of that floorboard, followed by the soft sounds of the family room door closing.
Laura stood in her kitchen—the kitchen where she’d raised five daughters, where she’d taught them to bake and laugh and be strong—and felt utterly helpless. Through the window, she could see Tom heading towards the bench seat by the river to wait for his cuppa, his walk still steady despite his years, still the man she’d fallen in love with all those decades ago.
She thought about what Bridget had been through. The manipulation, the lies, the fake business built on vapour and Antony Saar’s smooth tongue. The expensive apartment that had never been hers, the designer clothes that were just a costume, the role of “technical co-founder” that had been nothing but window dressing for a con man’s pitches. The moment she’d found him with another woman—one of the so-called investors—and realised everything had been a performance.
And then the SEC investigation, the fraud charges, coming home with nothing—no degree, no job, no confidence, and probably legal bills she hadn’t mentioned.
Laura poured the tea and arranged Tom’s scone with butter and jam, just the way he liked it. But her mind was on the family room, where her brilliant, broken daughter sat playing with a dollhouse, rearranging miniature furniture as though if she could just get the tiny world perfect, her real one might follow suit.
The weekend gathering suddenly felt less like a celebration and more like a reckoning. Four daughters coming home to find the fifth one hiding—from them, from herself, from the wreckage of what Antony Saar had done.
Laura picked up the tray and headed back to the shed, carrying tea and comfort to her husband, whilst their youngest daughter remained behind, lost in a miniature world where nothing could hurt her anymore.
Under Darling Skies Pre-order here:
PRINT: annieseatonstore.ecwid.com/Under-Darling-Skies-Pre-order-April-2026-p781513838
eBook: books2read.com/u/meOr99
Laura O’Byrne crept backwards away from the family room, focusing on missing the floorboard three steps back that always creaked. The grandchildren always got the giggles when they stood on it, delighting in making it cry out as they thundered their way into the room that now held not only new toys, but many of the beloved playthings her five daughters had grown up with at Ceann Mara.
She reached the end of the hallway and slipped through the kitchen, quietly pushing open the timber-framed screen door. The latch clicked softly behind her as she hurried across the yard, dust puffing up from her sensible work boots with each step.
The afternoon heat pressed down on her shoulders, but Laura barely noticed. She needed to talk to Tom, needed to tell him how worried she was about Bridget. Three months their youngest daughter had been home now, and while Tom thought she was healing, Laura had seen things that kept her awake at night.
The low hum of machinery as she approached the big shed from the house side confirmed her husband was there. The two stockmen had left earlier, so she knew Tom would be alone. Even though she knew he’d be in for his afternoon smoko shortly, she couldn’t talk to him while Bridget was in the kitchen with them. Not about this.
As she walked, Laura’s eyes swept across the familiar landscape of home—the peppercorn trees casting dappled shade across the green lawn that was her pride and joy, the dog pens between the house yard and the big shed where the working dogs drowsed in the heat, the glint of the Darling River beyond the airstrip. One hundred and fifty years, the O’Byrnes had been on this land. Seven generations. And now their youngest daughter sat on the floor playing with a dollhouse like she was eight years old again.
Tom was down the back of the shed, and Laura swallowed hard, looking away from the side where he’d had his heart attack when the motorbike had fallen on him four years ago. Time had passed since that terrible afternoon, but she’d appreciated every minute she’d had with him since, knowing she could so easily have been a widow.
He looked up with a smile as he heard her approaching. ‘Hi, love. What are you after? For a moment there, I thought you’d brought my smoko down. That would’ve been great.’
‘I can if you’re busy. I can go back and make a cuppa and bring it over. We could sit by the river and have it.’
‘Sounds like a plan to me.’ He set down the solar panel he was working on, a slight frown crossing his rugged features. ‘What’s up? Is everything okay? You haven’t had any bad news or anything, have you?’
‘Not exactly,’ Laura said carefully. ‘But I do want to talk to you. I’m really worried about Bridget.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Laura, you have to realise she’s an adult now. She’s been through a tough time, and she’s come home to sort herself out. We’re here for her.’
‘Yes, I know we are, but you haven’t seen what she does when you’re not there.’
‘What do you mean? I know she’s been a bit quieter than usual, but I guess after what she’s been through, that’s natural to expect.’
Laura took a deep breath. ‘After you go out during the day, and she thinks I’m busy in the kitchen, she always goes to the family room.’
Tom quirked an eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘She sits on the floor and plays with the dollhouse. The one you built for Roisin and Erin when they were little.’
‘Plays with it? What do you mean?’
Laura clenched her hands in front of her. ‘Exactly what I said. She sits on the floor and plays with the dollhouse as though she was eight years old. She takes out the furniture, and she puts it back in. She plays with the dolls. Over and over again.’
‘I guess if she’s just revisiting old memories, it might make her feel good.’
‘Tom, she does for three or four hours at a time. Yes, she always gets to the kitchen in time for you to come in for smoko morning and afternoon, and lunchtime if you come in, but the rest of the day she sits there on the floor, rearranging the furniture, moving the little dolls around.’
‘Have you said anything to her about it?’
Laura shook her head. ‘No. I’m treading a careful path here.’
‘She seems okay to me, though—she’s talking to us at night, and she’s getting out on the property sometimes. Maybe it’s just something that makes her feel good. Maybe she’s bored,’ he suggested. ‘It’s nothing like when Cat was home after she had her problems. Cat locked herself in her room, didn’t eat, and wouldn’t talk to us for weeks. You can’t have forgotten that.’
‘This is different,’ Laura insisted. ‘She’s just handling what she went through in a different way. But Tom, it’s not normal for a twenty-three-year-old to sit and play with a dollhouse for hours on end.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’ Tom asked, pulling a face.
‘I don’t want you to do anything about it. I don’t think there’s anything we can do. I’m very conscious of not saying the wrong thing to her. I don’t think it would take much for her to leave.’
‘I think it’s good that she’s home.’
‘It’s been a while now, though. We’re into the third month.’
Tom walked over and held out his arms. Laura stepped into the one haven that had always made her feel better, resting her head on his shoulder and absorbing the familiar scent he carried with him after a day in the shed—grease, metal filings, dust, and honest work.
‘What do you think we should do?’ She stepped back and looked up at him.
‘Well, the girls are coming home this weekend, remember?’
‘How could I forget? I’ve been baking non-stop all week.’
‘It’s a lot of people to feed—five daughters, their partners, and all the grandchildren.’ He grinned, and Laura tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Bridget was always closest to Erin, wasn’t she? When they were growing up.’ Tom said thoughtfully.
‘Yes, they’ve always got on well.’
‘Have you talked to any of the girls about her? About what you’re worried about.’
‘No, I’ve respected her privacy. I know she was devastated by what happened with that awful man—that Antony Saar. When the girls ask when they call, I just say she’s home, and she’s going well. I don’t want to share anything yet without Bridget’s permission.’
‘Perhaps you could give Erin a call on the quiet and have a chat with her. She could take Bridget for a walk or a ride together or something, and Erin could gently probe, make sure how she really is.’
‘Do you think we should talk to her first?’
‘That’s the hard thing about being a parent,’ Tom said. ‘We’re always seen as the oldies, and I don’t think our advice is given as much credence now as it was when they were little tackers.’
‘Yes, I agree. That’s a good idea to talk to Erin. I’ll go for a walk after we have smoko and leave a message for her to call me. That way, I can talk without any fear of Bridget overhearing. She creeps around like she's afraid to be seen.’
‘Are there any people up at the riverside camp sites today?’
Laura shook her head. ‘No, only over at the billabong. It’s easing off now that summer’s coming.’
‘How long are you going to do this for, Laura?’ Tom asked gently. ‘It’s a lot of work for you, love.’
‘It gives me something to do now that the girls are gone.’
‘You should be having a rest.’
‘I sleep well at night. I don’t need any rest.’ She looked at him firmly. ‘Look, I’ll go back and make us a cup of tea now. I’ve got some scones just out of the oven. Would you like them with butter, jam and cream?’
She raised her eyebrows as she spoke to him.
‘Perhaps a little bit of that low cholesterol butter would be good,’ he said with a cheeky grin. ‘Maybe a smidgen of jam.’
‘Very sensible choice, Tom O’Byrne.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll be back in a little while.’
As Laura walked back to the house, she was thoughtful. Tom didn’t realise how important the campground was to her. The retired people who visited, the young adventurous families who came with their children, and the volunteers who helped her by taking the bookings and cleaning—they gave her an interest beyond the empty nest. She knew if she didn’t have that, it would be very hard. Tom had the farm, he had his cattle and goats and his family history research that absorbed him whenever he was inside. She had meals to cook, the house to clean, and that was it. Now that she had Bridget at home, that was an extra worry—not so much having her youngest daughter there, but worrying about her mental health after what that man had done to her.
Eighteen months, Bridget had been trapped in Sydney with Antony Saar, working on what he’d called revolutionary agricultural technology. Eighteen months of dropping out of her computer science degree to work on a startup that turned out to be built on lies. Laura had only pieced together fragments of what had happened—Antony’s manipulation, the fake investors, the SEC investigation into fraud. Bridget had come home financially ruined, with no degree to show for her time, and her confidence completely shattered.
The girl who’d left Ceann Mara full of excitement about changing the world through technology had returned hollow-eyed and silent, flinching whenever a phone rang, checking over her shoulder as though expecting someone to appear.
Laura forced a smile to her face as she climbed the back steps, seeing Bridget’s shadow at the kitchen window.
She pushed open the screen door. ‘I’m about to put a cuppa on for Dad, love. Do you want to come over to the shed? He’s going to have his smoko over there.’
‘No, I’m fine.’ Bridget didn’t turn from the window. ‘I’ll just have a cup of coffee here. I’m going to watch some television.’
Laura had noticed one thing since Bridget had been home—she was never on the computer, never on her phone. For someone who had specialised in IT and had run an IT business, that was deeply concerning. It was as though she couldn’t bear to touch the technology she’d once loved.
‘What’s with all the baking, Mum?’ Bridget reached over and took a scone off the cooling tray. ‘May I have one, please?’
Laura smiled. ‘Of course you can and thank you for the lovely manners.’
‘And all the baking?’ Bridget asked again as she crossed to the fridge and got out the real butter and some jam.
‘We’re going to have a full house this weekend.’
Laura didn’t miss the moment her youngest daughter froze as she reached into the fridge. Her shoulders tensed, and her head swivelled around.
‘What do you mean, a full house? Who’s coming?’
‘All the girls are coming home—Shea and Heath with James, Cat and Logan with Emma and Oliver, Róisín and Seth with Mairead, Erin and Jack with Samuel. It’s going to be wonderful. I don’t think we’ve all been together since you’ve been home, have we?’
‘No, but I’m sure we will at Christmas,’ Bridget said quickly.
‘Hopefully.’
Laura reached for the kettle and switched it on again before bending down and getting two cups out of the drawer.
‘Shame I won’t be home,’ Bridget said.
Laura straightened, her hand flying up. She turned to face her daughter. ‘What do you mean you won’t be home? Are you going somewhere?’
‘I’m going away this weekend. I’m sure I told you.’
Laura shook her head. ‘No, you didn’t mention it, Bridget. Where are you going? Have you got something on?’ She was reluctant to pry, but it was the first time Bridget had suggested leaving the property since she’d come home three months ago.
‘I just have some things to do.’
Laura bit her tongue, wanting to ask where, wanting to understand, but afraid of pushing too hard. ‘It’s a shame you can’t put it off till another weekend.’
Bridget popped the rest of the scone into her mouth and shook her head, making unintelligible sounds through the mouthful.
‘Perhaps I can change it to another weekend,’ Laura said
Bridget swallowed. ‘No, don’t do that, Mum. You know how hard it is with Cat and Logan with their new property. The others are busy too. They won’t be able to change their plans.’
‘Have you been talking to them much, sweetheart?’ Laura asked carefully.
Bridget shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t talked to anyone. Anyway, I’ve got some things to do. I’ll see you at dinner. Bye.’
She slipped out of the kitchen before Laura could respond, and moments later, Laura heard the familiar creak of that floorboard, followed by the soft sounds of the family room door closing.
Laura stood in her kitchen—the kitchen where she’d raised five daughters, where she’d taught them to bake and laugh and be strong—and felt utterly helpless. Through the window, she could see Tom heading towards the bench seat by the river to wait for his cuppa, his walk still steady despite his years, still the man she’d fallen in love with all those decades ago.
She thought about what Bridget had been through. The manipulation, the lies, the fake business built on vapour and Antony Saar’s smooth tongue. The expensive apartment that had never been hers, the designer clothes that were just a costume, the role of “technical co-founder” that had been nothing but window dressing for a con man’s pitches. The moment she’d found him with another woman—one of the so-called investors—and realised everything had been a performance.
And then the SEC investigation, the fraud charges, coming home with nothing—no degree, no job, no confidence, and probably legal bills she hadn’t mentioned.
Laura poured the tea and arranged Tom’s scone with butter and jam, just the way he liked it. But her mind was on the family room, where her brilliant, broken daughter sat playing with a dollhouse, rearranging miniature furniture as though if she could just get the tiny world perfect, her real one might follow suit.
The weekend gathering suddenly felt less like a celebration and more like a reckoning. Four daughters coming home to find the fifth one hiding—from them, from herself, from the wreckage of what Antony Saar had done.
Laura picked up the tray and headed back to the shed, carrying tea and comfort to her husband, whilst their youngest daughter remained behind, lost in a miniature world where nothing could hurt her anymore.
Under Darling Skies Pre-order here:
PRINT: annieseatonstore.ecwid.com/Under-Darling-Skies-Pre-order-April-2026-p781513838
eBook: books2read.com/u/meOr99