In the Land of the Long White Cloud

is nowhere to be found.”
    “Maybe it would still taste good with frankincense and myrrh,” James remarked.
    The men laughed.
    “Just tell Mr. Warden that gluttony is a sin,” Andy McAran advised. “But do it in Maori just in case. If you say it in English, he may bite your head off.”
    Sighing, Gwyneira saddled her mare. She needed some fresh air. The weather was far too lovely to be wasted poring over books.
    “You lot aren’t any help to me either,” she chided the men, who were still kidding around as she led Igraine out of the stables. “If my father-in-law asks, tell him I’m gathering herbs for his stew.”
    At first Gwyneira had her horse go at a walking pace. As always, she savored the panoramic vista of the land, which extended in all directions before the breathtaking backdrop of the mountains. Once again the mountains seemed so near, as though they could be reached in an hour’s ride, and Gwyneira enjoyed trotting toward them, with one of the peaks as a goal. After not getting perceptibly closer after two hours, she turned around. This was what she liked in life. But what in the world was she going to do about the Maori cook? Gwyneira without question needed female support. But the next white woman lived twenty miles away.
    Was it even socially proper to pay a visit to Mrs. Beasley only a month after getting married? But maybe a trip to Haldon wouldsuffice. Gwyneira had yet to visit the small town, but it was about time. She had letters to post, wanted to buy a few things, and above all was eager to see some new faces that did not belong to her family, the Maori servants, or the shepherds. They had all gotten to be a bit much—with the exception of James McKenzie. He could accompany her to Haldon. Hadn’t he just said the day before that he had to pick up the goods he’d ordered from the Candlers? Gwyneira’s spirits lifted at the thought of the excursion. And Mrs. Candler would certainly know how to make Irish stew.
    Igraine was happy to gallop homeward. After the long ride, she was looking forward to the feeding trough. Gwyneira was hungry herself when she finally led the horse back into the stables. The aromatic scent of meat and spices emanated from the workers’ quarters. Gwyneira could not help herself. She knocked, full of hope.
    It seemed that she was expected. The men again sat around an open fire, and a bottle made the rounds. An aromatic stew was simmering over the flame. Wasn’t that…?
    The men were all beaming as though they were celebrating Christmas, and Dave O’Toole, the Irishman, held out a dish of Irish stew to her. “Here, miss. Give this to the Maori girl. These people are very good at copying. Maybe she’ll manage to figure it out from this.”
    Gwyneira thanked him gratefully. Doubtless this was just the dish Gerald had hoped for. It smelled so good that Gwyneira would have liked to ask for a spoon and empty the bowl herself. But she got a hold of herself. She would not touch the delicious stew until she had given Kiri and Moana a chance to sample it.
    She set it down safely on a hay bale while she waited on Igraine and then carried it carefully out of the stables. She almost ran into James, who was waiting for her at the stable doors with a bouquet of leaves, which he handed over to Gwyneira as ceremoniously as though they were flowers.
    “
Tàima
,” he said with a half grin, winking at her. “Instead of frankincense and myrrh.”
    Gwyneira took the strands of thyme and smiled at him. She did not know why her heart beat so frantically as she did so.

    Helen was delighted when Howard finally announced that they would go to Haldon on Friday. The horse needed to be reshod, which was apparently always the reason for trips to town. She realized that it must have been during a visit to the blacksmith that Howard had learned of her arrival.
    “How often does a horse need to be shod?” she asked carefully.
    Howard shrugged. “It depends, but usually every six to ten weeks. But the bay’s hooves grow slowly; sometimes a shoe lasts him twelve weeks.” He patted his horse approvingly.
    Helen would have preferred a horse whose hooves grew more quickly and could not stifle a remark. “I’d like to be around people more often.”
    “You could take the mule,” he said generously. “It’s five miles to Haldon, so you’d be there in two hours. If you set out right after milking, you could easily be back by evening to cook dinner.”
    Helen knew Howard well