In the Land of the Long White Cloud

cooking cabbage. Instead, she had ridden out with Igraine and Cleo to look for a few sheep who had gone astray in the mountains. James McKenzie had asked her to do so, pledging secrecy.
    “I know that Mr. Warden doesn’t look on it fondly, miss, and I’d do it myself or get one of the boys to. But we need every man for herding; we’re hopelessly shorthanded. The last few years we always got some help from the Maori camp. But since the young Mr. Warden is riding with us this time…”
    Gwyneira knew what he meant, and likewise understood what went unsaid. Gerald had saved on expenditures for additional hands and was overjoyed about it. She had heard that much at the family dinner table. Lucas, however, could not replace the experienced Maori shepherds. He wasn’t suited to farm work, and he wasn’t tough enough. He had already grumbled to Gwyneira while they were pitching camp that every part of him down to his bones ached—and the herding had just begun. Of course, the men did not complain openly about the their junior boss’s lack of skill, but when Gwyneira heard comments like, “It would have gone much quicker if the sheep hadn’t broken out three times,” she could piece the rest together. If Lucas were lost in the observation of a cloud formation or an insect, he wouldn’t let himself get distracted by a few sheep trotting by.
    As a result, James McKenzie had him work only with other shepherds, which left them at least one man short. Of course, Gwyneira enjoyed helping out. As the men returned to camp, Cleo was herding an additional fifteen sheep that Gwyneira had found in the highlands. She was a little concerned what Lucas would say, but he didn’t appear to even notice. He ate his stew in silence, then retired to his tent.
    “I’ll help clean up,” Gwyneira announced, as though there were a five-course meal’s worth of dishes to clean. In reality she left thefew dishes for the Maori and joined the men, who were telling stories about their adventures. Naturally, a bottle was making the rounds, and with every round the tales became more dramatic and dangerous.
    “By God, if I hadn’t been there, the ram would have run a horn through him!” Young Dave chuckled. “Anyway, he’s running toward him, and I call, ‘Mr. Warden!’ but he still doesn’t see the animal. So I whistle for the dog, and he dashes between man and beast, driving the ram away…but do you think the fellow is thankful? As if! He rails at me! He was looking at a kea, he says, and the dog drove the bird away. The ram nearly had him, I’m telling you! If I hadn’t been there, he’d have even less in his pants than he already does.”
    The other men bawled with laughter. Only James McKenzie looked uncomfortable. Gwyneira saw that she had better retire if she did not want to hear any more embarrassing stories about her husband. James followed her when she stood up.
    “I’m sorry, miss,” he said as she stepped into the shadows beyond the campfire. The night was not dark: the moon was full, and the stars were shining. Tomorrow would be clear too—a gift for the shepherds, who often had to slog through rain and fog otherwise.
    Gwyneira shrugged. “You don’t have to be sorry. Or did you almost let yourself be skewered?”
    James stifled a laugh. “I wish the men would be a bit more discreet.”
    Gwyneira smiled. “Then you would need to explain to them what discretion means. No, no, Mr. McKenzie. I can picture only too well what happened up there, and I understand why the men are disgruntled. The young Mr. Warden was…well, he wasn’t made for these things. He plays the piano marvelously and paints beautifully, but riding and sheep herding…”
    “Do you even love him?” The words had hardly slipped out before James wanted to slap himself. He hadn’t wanted to ask that. Never—it wasn’t his business. But he’d been drinking; he too had had a long day, and he had cursed Lucas Warden more than once over the course of it.
    Gwyneira knew what her good breeding demanded. “I respect and honor my husband,” she said by way of an answer. “I married of my own free will, and he treats me well.” She should also have addedthat it was none of James McKenzie’s business anyway, but she didn’t manage it. Something told her he had a right to ask her.
    “Does that answer your question, Mr. McKenzie?” she inquired softly instead.
    James McKenzie nodded. “Sorry, miss. Good night.”
    He did not know why he