In the Land of the Long White Cloud

his plans to her. “After all, it’s the Bridle Path!”
    Gerald laughed with pleasure. “You’ll be surprised at how the path has changed,” he said happily. “We’ll be taking the coach, relaxed and properly attired.”
    On the day of the trial, he wore one of his best suits. And Paul, in his first ever three-piece, looked very grown up.
    Gwyneira agonized over what was appropriate. If she were honest with herself, it had been years since she had thought so much about her clothing. But no matter how many times she told herself that it didn’t matter what a middle-aged woman wore to a trial as long as it was neat and didn’t draw too much attention, her heart raced at the mere thought of seeing James McKenzie again. What was worse, he would see her too, and he would recognize her, of course. But what would he feel when he saw her? Would his eyes light up again as before when she hadn’t known how to appreciate it? Or would he just feel pity, because she had aged, because her first wrinkles were marking her face, because fear and worry had taken their toll on it? Perhaps he would feel only apathy; she may be only a distant, faded memory now, extinguished by ten years of wild living. What if the mysterious “accomplice” really had been a woman? His wife?
    Gwyneira turned over her memories in her mind, some of them becoming girlish daydreams when she recalled her weeks with James. Could he ever forget the day on the lake? The enchanted hours in the stone circle? But then again, they had parted on bad terms. He would never forgive her for having Paul. One more thing Paul had destroyed.
    In the end, Gwyneira decided on a simple navy-blue dress and a tippet, buttoned in the front, though the tortoiseshell buttons were a little precocious. Kiri put her hair up in an austere coiffure, which she offset with a bold little hat that matched the dress. Gwyneira felt as though she had spent hours in front of the mirror, pulling at this or that strand, making adjustments to her hat, and fixing the dress’s sleeves so that the tortoiseshell buttons were visible. When they were finally seated in the coach, she was pale with expectation, fear, and a sort of anticipation. If it continued like this, she would have to pinch her cheeks to give herself a little color before entering the courtroom. But even more than being worried about her pallid complexion, Gwyneira hoped not to turn beet red when she saw James McKenzie again for the first time. She shivered and convinced herself that it was just the cool autumn day. She could not keep her fingers still. She tensely crumpled the curtains at the coach’s window.
    “What’s the matter, Mother?” Paul finally asked, and Gwyneira cringed. Paul had a fine-tuned sense for human weakness. He could not, under any circumstances, get the impression there had ever been something between her and James McKenzie.
    “Are you nervous for Mr. McKenzie?” he asked, already drilling her. “Grandfather says you knew him. He knew him too. He was the foreman on Kiward Station. Isn’t it crazy, Mother, that he then ran away and made a living stealing sheep?”
    “Yes, very crazy,” Gwyneira replied. “I would never…none of us would ever have thought him capable of such a thing.”
    “And now he might be hanged!” Paul remarked with pleasure. “Will we go if he’s hanged, Grandfather?”
    Gerald snorted. “They won’t hang the scoundrel. He got lucky with his judge. Stephen’s not a farmer. It doesn’t bother him that McKenzie brought some people to the edge of ruin.”
    Gwyneira almost smiled. As far as she knew, James McKenzie’s thefts had been no more than pinpricks for those affected.
    “But he’ll spend a few years behind bars. And who knows, maybe he’ll tell us a bit about the men behind the scenes today. It doesn’t look like he did it all on his own.” Gerald did not believe the storyabout there being a woman accompanying James McKenzie. He agreed that it had been a young accomplice but had only caught a glimpse of him.
    “Who he was selling to would be of interest. In that respect, we would have had a better chance if they tried the fellow in Dunedin. Sideblossom was right about that. Speak of the devil! Have a look. I knew he wouldn’t miss the man’s trial.”
    John Sideblossom’s black stallion galloped past the Wardens’ coach, and he greeted them politely. Gwyneira sighed. She would have loved to avoid having to see the sheep baron of Otago