In the Land of the Long White Cloud

one ignored that Fleurette was more delicate than her mother, her hair a little darker and her eyes a different color, one could have gotten Fleurette and the young Gwyneira confused. Had Paul’s idiotic tattling made Gerald aware of that too?
    Fleurette sobbed and was about to reply bravely that she would never and by no means marry a man other than Ruben O’Keefe, but Gwyneira collected herself and silenced her daughter with a shake of her head and a motion of her hand. There was no point in fighting. Besides, finding a “halfway suitable” young man might not be so easy. The Wardens were among the oldest and most respected families on the South Island; only a few others were on par with them socially and financially. Their sons could be counted on two hands—and all of them were either already engaged or much too young for Fleurette. Young Lord Barrington’s son, for example, had just turned ten, and George Greenwood’s oldest was only five years old. As soon as Gerald’s rage had dissipated, this would become clear to him too. The danger in the house itself was much more of a concern to Gwyneira, but she was probably just seeing ghosts. In all their years together, Gerald had only touched her that one time, when he was completely drunk and caught up in the heat of the moment, and he seemed to regret it to this day. There was no reason to get worked up over nothing.
    Gwyneira forced herself to calm down and urged Fleurette to relax. The whole painful incident would probably be forgotten in a few weeks.

    But she was mistaken. True, nothing happened at first, but eight weeks after Ruben had ridden off, Gerald made his way to the livestock farmers’ conference in Christchurch. The official reason for this “feast with boozing to follow,” as Gwyneira referred to it, was the steadily increasing incidence of livestock theft in the Canterbury Plains. Over the past few months, a thousand sheep had disappeared in that region alone. As always, James McKenzie’s name was being bandied about.
    “Heaven knows where he disappears to with the livestock,” Gerald rumbled. “But he’s behind it, no doubt about it. The fellow knows the highlands like the back of his hand. We’ll send out more patrols; we’ll set up a proper militia!”
    Gwyneira shrugged and hoped that no one noticed how heavily her heart still beat when she thought of James McKenzie. She smiled inwardly at the thought of his hit-and-run attacks and what he would say to a few more patrols in the mountains. Only parts of the foothills had been explored; the region was massive and might still be hiding entire valleys and pastures. Watching over the animals there was impossible, though the farmers sent shepherds as a formality. Those shepherds spent half the year in primitive cabins erected specifically for the purpose, mostly in pairs so that they did not go crazy with loneliness. They killed time by playing card games, hunting, and fishing, and went largely unchecked by their employers. The more responsible among them kept an eye on the sheep, but others may very well never have seen them. A man with a good sheepdog could herd away dozens of animals a day without its being immediately apparent. If James had found a still unknown refuge and, more importantly, a way to sell the stolen sheep, the sheep barons would never find him—except by chance.
    Still, James McKenzie’s activities always offered lively conversation material and a welcome excuse to hold livestock farmers’ conventions or to undertake expeditions into the highlands together. This time too there would be a lot of talk, but little would come of it. Gwyneira was happy that she had never been asked to take part. Although she was the unofficial head of the sheep breeding operation on Kiward Station, only Gerald was taken seriously. She breathed out a sigh of relief when he rode away from the farm, surprisingly with Paul in tow. Since the incident with Ruben and Fleurette, the boy and his grandfather had grown closer. Gerald evidently finally understood that it wasn’t enough simply to produce an heir. The future owner of Kiward Station had to be introduced to the business as well—and to the society of his soon-to-be peers. As Paul rode off proudly beside Gerald, Fleurette finally relaxed a bit. Gerald was still strictly prescribing where she could go and when she had to be home, and Paul spied on her and reported even the smallest infractions against his edicts. After several