The Du Rose Prophecy E-Book

K T Bowes

• Herausgeber: K T Bowes
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A prophecy in the making. History for the taking. And disaster beckons the sons of an ancient family.

Decades ago on a mountain in New Zealand, a rich landowner sat with her grandson and told him the stories of his people. She prophesied he would be the one to rebuild their legacy.

Thirty-five years later and Logan Du Rose is trying to make it happen, but history will not make it easy for him. Each time he believes the prophecy fulfilled, circumstance gets in the way. As he struggles to keep his new family line together, he's distracted by disturbing events. Two deaths at his workplace cause upset and disbelief among the staff, whilst the return of mysterious family treasures create trouble within his household. The diaries of his grandmother have untold stories to reveal, threatening the safety of Logan’s legacy forever.

If you like New Zealand mysteries with a twist of culture and history, then you’ll love the Du Roses.

Leseprobe

The Du Rose Prophecy

K T Bowes

Copyright K T Bowes 2013

Published by Hakarimata Press

Table of Contents

Copyright Page

Would you like to be part of it?

Acknowledgement

Special Thanks

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Epilogue

Du Rose Sons

About the Author

Dear Reader

Other books by this author:

Last Chance

Copyright Notice

Disclaimer

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Acknowledgement

For the real David Allen - who will always be my hero.

Special Thanks

Credit for the weapons expertise and the combat moves goes to Haydn Holdsworth for his knowledge and advice on all things soldiering.

Chapter One

The grounds of the Waikato Presbyterian School for Boys were silent and calm, just as the man liked it best. Holidays and weekends carried a different atmosphere for him, when the whole place felt like his own. No noisy students or aggravating teachers; just peace and solitude, as if the land was asleep. Time to finally think straight.

He sighed and ran a hand through his curly hair, feeling the glossy blond locks under his palm. Vanity momentarily distracted him as he caught sight of his smart figure in a reflection from one of the expensive framed watercolours, donated by a past student who was now incredibly famous and sought after. “Nice,” he chuckled to himself, remembering how he coerced the poor man into parting with it. “The painting, not you. Mind you, you’re not bad either, you old bugger,” he said to his reflection, adjusting the angle of the toupee to his particular satisfaction. He surveyed his empire from the upstairs landing in the main building. The heavy bannister rail under his palms shone in the light from the high, stained glass windows. “This school wouldn’t cope without me,” he muttered under his breath, running his hand over the kauri wood beneath his fingers. He had always loved this staircase. He blew at an imaginary speck and wiped at it with his sleeve.

Even in a hurry, dashing from class to class or simply storming about, catching out errant boys and staff in equal measure - the man always stopped there. The stairs swept away from him on either side, completely identical, cascading downwards at a steep angle for a school. The health inspectors raised concern over it every year. One hundred and thirty years of existence and yet they wrung their hands with the imagined fear of some lump of a boy, falling down it and breaking his neck. At the bottom, each staircase curved around to greet the parquet floor of the administration corridor, like a pair of arms rushing to enfold it in a loving embrace, the antique wood intricately carved and delicate. He never knew until he reached this spot, which of the staircases he would descend to the ground floor. It was enlivening - that moment of choice. Life hadn’t allowed him many choices, not since the day his heart was broken. “No, don’t go there,” he chastised himself, straightening his spine and clicking his heels together.

Someone with a good business head would have rented the building out for weddings at weekends and in the holidays, making a fortune. The bride could have swept down either staircase of her choosing, gliding elegantly into the Great Hall at the end of the corridor to make her grand entrance. The building was filled with stained glass windows, beamed apex ceilings and all manner of expensive heritage, left to the city by Hamilton’s founding fathers. It was one of the few places preserved in this throw-away-culture.

The man turned once again, checking his shiny hair in the reflection of the delicate brush strokes of a watermill scene, before choosing the staircase to the left. In truth, it was his favourite. He loved the stained glass window on that side, glinting at him from above. The Virgin Mary smiled down on him with gentle, tender eyes, offering him absolution. The window on the other side depicted a sword wielding Christ, which filled the man with fear and regret. Still, when he walked down his favourite staircase he was careful only to look at Mary’s face and no other part of the picture window; especially not the bouncing baby boy in her arms. The child’s eyes could drill into his conscience with terrifying astuteness if the sun was at the right angle. Yet it remained the better route. He only chose the other staircase periodically to tease himself. “If you get what you want all the time, you don’t properly appreciate it,” he muttered, a familiar, time-worn mantra.

He teetered on the top step, the toes of his shiny black shoes poking over the uppermost tread. It was the staircase designated for staff. Boys used the other one, which is why the teacher occasionally deviated to it. He loved the way the adolescent males surged out of his way in both directions, irritated, but too afraid of him to display it openly as he forced himself right through the middle of the narrow space and caused a bottleneck. They hated it. He loved it. Power.

Listening to the silence was calming but perplexing, because it shouldn’t be silent at all. The intruder alarm should be clanging out into the surrounding area with deafening peals of distress. The school nestled into a suburb on one side with gully and fields the other. The Waikato Presbyterian School for Boys existed first, out in the countryside for years until the city encroached on its sanctuary, bringing arterial roads and ugly modern housing.

The phone call came early, as he washed his car and enjoyed the peace of a Saturday morning. “One of the local residents reported the alarm sounding. Want us to check it out?” the alarm company co-ordinator asked, making a horrid slapping sound into the phone with whatever he noisily chewed.

“Don’t bother!” the teacher snapped. “Not at your prices for a callout.” He finished smoothing the paintwork with a leather cloth and told his wife where he was going.

On the top step he listened for a moment, still hearing nothing. “Thanks for the wasted trip!” he spat. “Idiots!”

His body jerked as a sound from behind made him turn sharply, almost overbalancing and pitching down the staircase. The faithful bannister helped him right himself, grappling to hold onto the smooth wood at the last minute. The experience left him shaky and disquieted.

“Well, hello.” The man’s eyes widened and he whipped around to face the speaker, the last of the colour draining from his face as cold eyes regarded him, shrouded in a characteristic smugness.

“You!” He gulped, forgot where he was and took a foolish step backwards. The last thing he saw was the flash of silver in the visitor’s hand as sunlight glinted through the stained glass window and reflected a myriad of prism colours, enticingly beautiful. But it was a hated thing, the cursed metallic object, and it caused a deep frown to cross his features as his flailing body hit the first of many hard-edged wooden steps.

The seasoned oak did not yield, but the teacher’s fifty-eight year old body did. By the time he rolled awkwardly down the final, curved embrace of his beloved staircase; he was already unconscious.

The teacher might have survived if the visitor cared enough to ring for help. The bang to his brain from the sharp edge of the newel post would ensure a different kind of life, but he would have lived to labour it.

With a small smile of satisfaction and a casual, “Oops,” the visitor slipped stealthily away, thoroughly delighted with the unexpected outcome of the not-so-chance-meeting.

Chapter Two

“Come on, Phoe, please don’t be difficult!” the child’s father complained through gritted teeth, fighting impatience as his long fingers struggled to fit little booties over her socks. The baby whinged and kicked her legs, causing one knitted object to slip off while the other pinged from her father’s hand and landed somewhere near the lounge door. He sighed and sank onto the battered red leather sofa next to her, putting his head into his hands in a picture of despondence. “I can’t do this.”

The little girl beamed a gummy smile. Seven months old with dark wavy hair and a light olive face, she bore the same piercing grey eyes as her daddy. Their combined Māori genealogy screamed out in waves of inherited mana. She sighed, her head touching the back of the sofa and her legs dangling over the edge of the seat cushion as she rooted for her thumb. Turning sideways, she eyed her father with uncanny wisdom, waiting for his next move. His hair was overlong and wavy and he hadn’t shaved for three days or slept properly. Not since the terrible thing happened. He pinched his fingers over the bridge of his nose and willed the headache away. The child extended her legs over towards him and pitched into the crease between the two seats, making a cute gurgling noise over her thumb and smiling broadly.

Logan Du Rose looked down at his baby, her grey eyes crinkled at the edges in an almond shape as she looked at him with mischief. Her dexterous fingers snatched up an offending bootie from behind her head and she flapped it around in front of her face, her pupils dilating with pleasure. Logan exhaled and smiled at her. “I don’t think you need those, do you?” He sighed. “I don’t know how the hell they fit on anyway. That’s Mama’s job. How does she do these silky ties with you wriggling around?” A tightness gripped his chest and fear settled again. He pushed it away. Give me a difficult brood mare any day, over a pair of woolly shoes! “Let’s go find Whaea Leslie,” he said out loud, standing and lifting Phoenix onto his hip. He stooped to retrieve the dirty nappy and the other bootie, hurling the nappy into the roaring fire as he left the room and shoving the woolly article into his tight jeans pocket.

“I hope youse dint throw that nappy on the ahi!” the Māori housekeeper chided him as Logan pushed open the door to the family dining room. He looked guilty and the brown skinned old woman growled at him, hefting the baby against her huge bosoms. “Youse keep doin’ that!” she complained. “It just cooks it and makes the room stink of roke!”

Logan shrugged. Shit was the least of his problems. “Stop, woman!”

“Your mama wouldn’t do that, would she?” Leslie asked the infant, degenerating into baby talk as the child fixed her with a hopeful gaze at the mention of her mother. The woman looked at the child with sympathy, deliberately avoiding the eyes of her employer. She pressed her lips against the baby’s soft olive forehead, neatly avoiding the inquisitive hand which shot out to grab a long, black plait resting temptingly on the old woman’s shoulder.

Logan kissed his daughter on the side of her face and tousled her hair with his big hand. She turned her face to him, offering a knowing smile that made him feel stronger.

“Youse go see the missus.” Leslie smiled at him, “We’re all praying for her.”

Logan nodded once and turned to leave, almost bowled over in the doorway by a group of women who pushed inside roughly. The front girl froze on the spot, causing the other three to run into each other behind her. “Bloody hell!” he spat, grey eyes flashing and his face hard.

“Sorry, Mr Logan.” They shifted nervously in the doorway, fear creating a haze around them. Devastatingly good looking, he was a hard businessman, not afraid of a fight. Two of the women looked at the ground, knowing even if Logan said nothing else, they would get it from the housekeeper later. The other two looked up at the six foot four inch man through their eyelashes, betraying the lifetime crush each of them nurtured since they were all teenagers together. Logan knitted his brow and moved aside for them to pass, hating the way they sized him up like a piece of muscular meat.

He left with a wave at his daughter and a pause to allow her to wave back, her little hand twisting on the wrist as though she wiped an invisible window. The heels of his cowboy boots clicked on the tiled hallway of the old hotel as he strode towards the lobby. He still heard Leslie explode.

“This is a hotel!” Her voice boomed. “Not a bloody playground! Go clear up the dining room and start on the bedrooms. Youse will be the death of me, heahea girls!”

Logan unlocked the silver Honda CRV in the staff area of the hotel car park. The sweet scent of his wife’s perfume hit him in a heady cloud of longing and his chest hurt with fear. He pushed his emotions aside as always and climbed in. The weather was crisp and the mountains rose up around the gothic style house his great-great-grandfather built, over a century and a half ago. Sometimes the hotel felt like a blessing, the hundreds of acres of bush and pasture, thousands of prime quality beef stock and the horse stud. Other times it felt like a millstone hanging around his forty-one-year-old neck. The responsibility dragged him down when he least needed the added complications.

Logan adjusted the rear view mirror as he started the engine, noticing another line of grey hairs beginning in his sideburns, peppering their jet black companions. He exhaled and pulled out of the gravel car park, hitting the five kilometre tarmac driveway at a dangerous speed and almost piling into a campervan lumbering through the huge wrought iron gates.

The driver wound his window down. “Is the campsite round here?”

Logan nodded. “You should have gone off to the right after the last bend, but it’s fine. Go down past the motel units and say Logan Du Rose sent you that way. They’ll have to open the barrier for you.”

The English driver rolled his eyes in relief, not wanting to brave the breakneck road again for a wrong turn. Logan nodded and sped away, desperate to get to the private hospital in Auckland where Hana was. His phone trilled and he juggled it onto the cradle and pressed the speaker button. “Du Rose. What?”

“Your wahine matua texted last night but reception is bad again so I only just saw it. She wants to see Phoenix. Will you come back for her?” Leslie’s voice sounded crackly on the line.

“No, I’m not!” Logan snapped. He disconnected, rudely avoiding the housekeeper’s tirade. He felt split, knowing his wife wanted to keep breast feeding but was physically unable to cope with the distress. The previous day she struggled against the pain of four incisions in her chest from the heart surgery as the little girl fed. The child coped well with cow’s milk and a feeder cup that morning, Logan reasoned, knowing he was kidding himself. “She’ll kill me.”

Pulling out onto State Highway 1 and heading north towards Auckland, Logan tried to concentrate more on his driving, noticing the cop car hanging around on the hard shoulder touting for business. He touched his brake lights as he approached it, cursing himself for the futile moment of weakness which would show in the radar gun. He indicated and overtook a slower vehicle, maintaining his speed at a steady hundred kilometres per hour until the motorway turnoff to the hospital.

It was after nine o’clock and he missed the rush hour traffic deliberately, although Phoenix made him later than intended. Even though she wouldn’t complain, he knew Hana would be waiting hopefully for his face to appear around the door. And her daughter’s. The thought of her disappointment cut into him and he considered driving all the way back for the baby. Don’t be stupid, he convinced himself; you’re almost there now.

The private Monty Lassiter Hospital or the ‘Monty’ in medical circles was both expensive and fortunately covered by Logan’s medical insurance. Taken ill at Rangiriri Pa, between Huntly and Auckland, the the air ambulance flew Hana straight to Auckland General Hospital, for the lifesaving surgery. A genetic fault led to a thickening and blocking of her aortic valve, slow and deadly. The tear was almost fatal, leading to a massive heart attack. Her brother’s expert compressions dragged her back from oblivion until help arrived. A happy family picnic quickly degenerated into chaos, misery and disbelief as history repeated itself and the Creator attempted to snatch back Logan’s wife, just as he had her mother twenty-six years earlier.

Logan ran a shaking hand over his face, trying not to relive the awful afternoon. It came back to him when he laid his head on the pillow, making him avoid their comfy double bed. He blamed himself, as did her brother. “She’s forty-six years old!” Mark shouted angrily in the hospital corridor as they waited for news of Hana. “She’s just had a baby! How the hell did you miss the fact she repeatedly fainted during her pregnancy? I can’t believe you allowed her to brush it off so casually!” The gifted surgeon was livid. “I suppose you’ll tell me you didn’t know about the other episodes either?”

“I didn’t!” Logan kept his teeth gritted. “You’re the surgeon, not me!”

“Yeah well I checked her over a few weeks ago and told her to see her own doctor. I knew something was wrong!” Mark’s anger switched to himself and he worked to deflect it back onto the handsome Māori pacing the linoleum floor. “Didn’t you notice how tired she got and the weight loss, breathlessness under stress, pains in her upper abdomen and chest...geez man. Don’t you care about her at all?”

Logan balled his fists in fury, wisely keeping his mouth shut but only for Hana’s sake. He didn’t think he had ever felt so helpless or guilty as he did that terrible afternoon, waiting for the emergency surgery to finish. At the pa, Logan and Mark almost came to blows over who went in the helicopter with Hana, but her father, Robert stepped in and insisted Hana’s husband went. “Mark!” he quietly chastised his son, his Scots accent failing to disguise the terrified wobble. “Let her husband go with her. It’s what she would want.”

Mark followed them to the hospital by car and a tense standoff between the men ensued as somehow they both ended up feeling guilty and pushed out.

Logan paced along the corridor to his wife’s room, his boots making no sound on the plush, expensive carpet of the private hospital. He felt the familiar skip of his heart at the thought of seeing her. He loved the wisps of red hair hanging around her face and the shy smile she kept only for him. She was the only person in his life who ever made him feel needed and it completed him. Please be ok, Hana, he begged an unseen God.

Hana’s bedroom was immaculately spotless, not a trace of her remaining. The high bed was stripped and lifeless, the room empty. Logan panicked. He ran back to the nurse’s station with long strides, arriving with a face of dismay and confusion. His grey eyes were the colour of grit and his tanned skin paled horribly.

“It’s ok, Mr Du Rose,” the young nurse said with kindness in her face. “Your wife’s waiting for you in the day room. I’ll show you where it is.” She came around the side of the desk in soft soled shoes which made a dull squeak on the carpet. They entered a room which looked as though it could feature in a Homes and Gardens magazine.

Hana Du Rose sat in a high-backed chair watching television without registering anything happening on the screen. She was rake thin and her clothes hung off her like curtains. The usually pretty face was colourless. Her emerald green eyes were listless and had temporarily lost their twinkle. Curly auburn hair was pulled away from her face in a loose ponytail, which Logan could tell someone else did for her. Tendrils escaped and hung around her face like a curly halo.

At the sound of the nurse, Hana turned to face her with a serene smile that didn’t reach her eyes. But when she saw her husband, it lit up like sunshine on a mirror and she was beautiful. She struggled to her feet and he half-ran to her, frightened to grip her in his usual firm embrace. Instead, he held her as though she was fragile china, feeling the bones through her fleece and chastising himself for his neglect yet again. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. He used his thumbs to brush the hair gently off her forehead and kissed her there, keeping his lips pressed to her skin for as long as he dared with the nurse still looking.

Hearing the attendant’s shoes squeaking as she left the room, he moved his lips onto Hana’s, enjoying the familiar taste and feel of her. He drew her into him, trying hard not to hurt her against his body, but needing to show her how much he needed her. Logan breathed in the scent of her hair and the accustomed smell of her skin, centring himself and trying to regain some semblance of security, realising his nerves were frayed and jangling. The underlying scent of disinfectant and cleaning fluid ruined it.

Hana let him hold and kiss her, needing the physical contact. Her husband felt so strong and invincible, it gave her a needed sense of safety. Every incision or needle mark on her paper thin skin hurt, leaving a continuing ache which wore her out. “Where’s Phoe?” she asked. “I need to feed her.” Hana’s chest hitched at the unexpected relief of finding Logan alone and guilt made her tone rough.

“At home,” Logan’s voice was muffled through Hana’s hair. “It was too hard yesterday. Everything will be all right, but we need to be patient.”

“Yeah, it was hard. She waved her arms around, grabbing hold of anything within reach,” Hana acknowledged. It was exhausting, trying to feed the seven month old baby and keep the tiny hands away from the stitches, the drip wire and everything else of interest. In the end, Logan swaddled the baby in a blanket to pin her down and the little free spirit had not enjoyed the experience.

Hana sighed, laying her cheek against Logan’s chest. She slipped a hand up the back of his tee shirt and savoured the feel of his smooth skin under her palm. He smelled like he always did, of fresh hay and summer sunshine. It gave her comfort and peace which translated into a long relaxing exhale.

Logan misread it, stiffening in panic and dropping so he could catch his wife behind her knees and lift her bodily off the ground. His strong biceps tensed and her lightness terrified him. Hana stifled the groan which almost escaped as the stitches pulled in her chest. She snuggled her face into his soft neck. His hair tickled her nose and made her want to sneeze. “I want to go home, Logan,” she begged plaintively. “Please take me home?”

Logan spun on the spot, trying to find somewhere to put his wife down so he could talk sense into her. Finding nowhere instantly appealing, he plonked himself down in a comfy armchair and snuggled her into his lap. Hana resisted, as though taking part in a silent protest and Logan relaxed and drew her into him, savouring the normality of the embrace despite the distinctly abnormal surroundings. He stroked Hana’s hair and kissed the top of her head numerous times, his brain practicing sentences of negation.

“The doctor said I could go,” Hana persisted. “I’ve got a discharge notice with instructions and a prescription for pills. Please can I come with you?”

“I’m not sure,” her husband answered truthfully. “We’re a long way out if something goes wrong and it’s not the easiest place to land a chopper.”

Hana sat up and looked at him in dismay, betrayal in her green eyes. “You don’t want me to come home.” Anger and astonishment curled her upper lip in a pout. She shoved herself off his knees and stalked away, her slender back rigid and her ponytail swinging. “If you don’t have faith in me, then what’s left?”

Hana saw only personal rejection. She had accepted the discharge notice, convinced rest and familiar surroundings would aid her recuperation. The insurance company wanted her out, her room had been reallocated, and her few belongings were behind the nurses’ station. Now she had nowhere to go. Hana went to the immaculate bathroom half-way down the corridor, shut herself in and sat on the top of the toilet seat in tears. If Logan wouldn’t take her back to his hotel in the mountains, she would need to find an alternative destination. “Because I’m not staying here!” she sobbed.

Hana contemplated her options, which were limited. They included getting a taxi to her house in Ngaruawahia, or even back to the staff unit at the Waikato Presbyterian School for Boys where she lived during term time with her teacher-husband and baby. The major flaw in the plan centred on her heart attack and emergency airlift not including her purse or handbag. “I’ll call Tama then,” she chuntered stubbornly to the empty bathroom. “He’ll fetch me.” Her chest hurt with the realisation that if she dragged her nephew into the miserable situation; it had the potential to fracture his relationship with Logan and they would both blame her. Besides which, she couldn’t go anywhere without Phoenix.

Hana continued to run through her list of friends and possible rides out of the hospital, counting them off on her fingers. Her daughter, Izzie was in Invercargill at the opposite end of the country with her three young children, but her son was an hour and a half away in Hamilton. Their relationship was not the best, but he might be willing to drive up and get her if she begged him. “No house keys!” Hana wailed to herself, hearing her pathetic voice echoing back to her from the wall tiles.

“Mrs Du Rose, are you all right?” asked a soft voice through the door after the owner of it knocked gently. Hana recognised the nurse who cared for her over the last few days.

“I’m fine,” she sniffed, blowing her nose loudly and not wanting the nurse to open the door on her.

“Your husband’s here. He’s concerned about you. Could you please open the door?”

“No,” Hana said sullenly, blowing her nose again. “Tell him it’s fine, he can go. I’m organising a lift for myself. I need to find a way to get my daughter off him and then I’ll be sorted.”

Hana heard whispering outside the door and ignored it. She enjoyed the rare power self-pity fuelled for her after four days of being constantly under someone else’s control. She leaned sideways on the toilet seat and looked at her face in the mirror. “Ugh!” It was blotchy and pinched-looking with a smattering of tears on her drawn cheeks. She squeezed a few more out easily and looked again. She already felt like a geriatric and now she looked like a pathetic one as well. A sad geriatric whose husband won’t give me a ride home from hospital. Hana hiccoughed and the tears ran freely then at her pitiful situation. She tugged at the roll of toilet paper and the last three sheets detached themselves, leaving an empty cardboard cylinder dangling from the metal hook.

The whispering outside the door stopped and the handle turned and clicked. Hana watched as it opened slowly and Logan appeared in the doorway. She screwed her face up in exasperation; forgetting his ability to break in anywhere. “Get lost!” Exhaling crossly, Hana turned away, swivelling on the toilet seat and hearing the hinges emit a dreadful creak. The nurse looked in at her through the gap between Logan’s arm and the door, satisfying herself the patient hadn’t collapsed. Hana pressed the fragile squares of tissue against her eyes and tried to mop herself up, hearing the door click shut again. She wondered if her husband had gone away but couldn’t peek, as one of the tissue pieces had stuck to her eyelid.

Standing up, Hana felt for the sink, only able to see through one eye. The water was cold as she splashed it over her face and she spluttered as some of it went up her nose. A paper towel dispenser hung on the wall to her right and she reached out and snatched towels from it, rubbing the hard material over her face. When she looked at herself in the mirror again, she was pleasantly surprised to find the cold water had reduced the puffiness of her eyes and the frantic rubbing had given her cheeks colour. Her husband’s grey irises met her refection as he stood watching patiently for his wife to finish her ablutions. “I’m organising a lift,” she said facetiously at him. “You can go now.”

The livid scar underneath Logan’s right eye twitched slightly as Hana stared at its reflection in the mirror. It was back to front and looked wrong. Without removing his gaze, Logan leaned back against the smooth wall and put the sole of his boot against it, bending his knee and settling in for a long wait. Hana’s nerve began to leave her, knowing she would inevitably lose this game. She wanted to get out of her claustrophobic self-imposed prison, feeling trapped by the giant male blocking the doorway, his muscles bulging through the white tee shirt. Logan studied his wife with interest as he settled into a comfortable position. Stalemate. A tiny smirk lifted the corner of his lips and he folded his arms.

The battle of wills began and it was familiar and safe, re-establishing their dynamic as a couple. Hana’s fragility terrified her husband. He fell in love with a feisty redhead and very much wanted her back, regretting the foolish doubts he shared out loud. It was selfish and possibly a little cruel. He was ready to say sorry, but wasn’t sure if Hana was ready to hear it. She unnerved him and so he waited, treating her like a horse he was in the process of breaking, exercising his never-ending patience and inviting her to test his iron will for herself. Hana huffed and puffed and sat back down on the toilet seat, determined not to give him the satisfaction of beating her. Again. Deadlock.

The sound of shuffling made them both look round as an elderly man pushed the door open. Dressed in a fluffy green dressing gown, he walked with difficulty, pushing along a metal walking frame. He looked uncomfortable. “Oh, terribly sorry,” he said seeing Logan standing to the right of the door and Hana sitting on the toilet. “There’s a problem with my ensuite and the other one’s engaged.” He tried to turn his walking frame and almost toppled sideways, saved by Logan shooting out his strong forearm.

Hana rose from the toilet lid, her face laced with guilt and called after the retreating white hair, “It’s fine. I’m done here. You can have this one.”

Logan helped the old man shuffle through the toilet door, listing like a stricken tanker. “Thanks so much.” He looked grateful, “I don’t think I’d have made it.”

Hana bolted, hoping to escape the bathroom before her husband but wasn’t nearly quick enough. Clamping his big hands around her upper arms from behind, he pushed her in front of him towards a cupboard door on the opposite side of the corridor. Finding it unlocked, he forced her in one-handed and shut the door behind him. Hana opened her mouth to speak, the metal shelves digging into her back but Logan put a finger over her mouth to stop her. “Firstly, I never said you couldn’t come home. You jumped to conclusions. I have valid reasons for being worried, but I’ve talked to the doctor now and I’m fine about it. They’ve given me an emergency number to call and an advice line I can access if you get sick again.”

Logan leaned in close to Hana and placed his right hand against the shelving unit above her. He towered over her and she felt tiny in comparison, looking at his shirt buttons at close range to avoid the penetrating grey eyes reading her like an open book. One of the little buttons was coming adrift, its cotton threads protruding dangerously. They fluttered comically in her breath.

“So how do we play this?” Logan asked, sounding tired of Hana’s amateur dramatics. She shrugged like a sullen teenager and shook her head. “Will you stop being difficult and get in the car with me, or do I carry you out kicking and screaming?”

Hana smirked, relieved he hadn’t suggested leaving her there to fend for herself. She felt grateful it wasn’t even on the list of options. She hung her head and feigned contrition. Logan ran his fingers down her damp cheek and lifted her head to look at him. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispered, his voice laden with emotion. His mouth was warm and luscious against Hana’s dry lips and she drank in the kiss with enthusiasm. The wounds on her chest ached as the familiar feeling plummeted through her stomach, desire and lust reviving her tired body. She pushed her hands under his shirt and felt the solid muscles either side of his spine and the tautness of his body, wanting more. Clattering in the corridor disturbed them and Logan pulled away first, indicating the door with a jerk of his head. “Stop being an egg and get your nono in that car!”

Hana slipped out from under Logan’s arm and scooted, rattled by the loud beating of her heart in her ears. Logan stirred something latent within her and the new pacemaker responded, channelling the heightened blood flow caused by passion. Hana hoped it would be able to cope with the responses the beautiful Māori invoked, every time his feather light touch dusted her porcelain skin.

Chapter Three

Hana wept bitter tears in her room for half an hour after her father; Robert McIntyre left for the airport and his arduous flight back to England. She cried over the twenty- six wasted years, having truly believed he hated her for her accidental teenage pregnancy. The Scotsman found her in McDonald’s in Hamilton, of all places on the earth and the reunion was eventually healing. But the parting was bittersweet, her heart attack robbing them of further precious hours in his short visit. The sight of her strong father in tears at their good-bye was something Hana knew would haunt her until her dying day.

The melodramatic side of her nature told her she would never get over it, while the rational, sensible side wrestled and argued and urged her not to be silly. It was enough to set her off crying again, conjuring up that image in her mind of his steady blue eyes fighting the terrible inner pain of leaving his daughter. Especially now. She recalled his trembling hand waving up at her on the balcony as Logan stuffed his belongings into the boot of the Honda. What if I never see him again?

Robert had been so brave, holding it all in until the last minute, but that final look up at her had done it for them both. Tears coursed down his crinkled face like a burst dam and he struggled for control, knowing he was upsetting her further. Even from the distance between them, Hana saw the glassiness of his eyes and the emotions there. His soul seemed to cry out to her, I don’t want to leave and hers answered painfully, then don’t.

Elaine, his second wife, belted him into the back seat like a child as Tama climbed into the front. Robert wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and waved in the general direction of the balcony, but he couldn’t look at Hana again. Another glance at her agony on display would break him open for sure. Even Logan didn’t look at his wife as he backed the car out and drove towards the gates and Hana felt unacknowledged and invisible.

She stood watching for a long time after the sound of the wheels on the driveway dulled to nothing and the Honda treacherously bore her parent away from her. The wind got up and caused Hana’s red hair to stream out behind her, buffeting her thin frame relentlessly and making her feel even more of a victim. Her life felt like a bad movie; one where everything went wrong for the heroine and while the innocent cinema goers waited patiently for a happy ending, the credits rolled and the heroine stayed dead or alone. A sick feeling rose up in her chest and she struggled to name it so she could send it away, but it refused to be called by any label that might help. So she stayed feeling sick, unsettled and lost.

“I want to come with you,” Hana wept to Logan the night before. “I need to say goodbye.”

Logan shook his head and denied her. “No way, Hana. The journey here was too much for you. I’m not taking you to the airport. Stay here and rest.”

Hana was inconsolable, crying before daybreak at the injustice of it all. Surely at the very least, they could have let her squish in the back between her father and his wife and not denied her that last hour of comfort. “Why’s Tama going?” she had sobbed.

“He’s signing his contract at the Fire Department headquarters in Auckland.” Logan was resolute and immovable and Hana pouted at the memory of his strong jaw and the determined set of his shoulders. He held her while she cried and protested, unmoved by the enormous tears that ran down his shirt and speckled his arms.

“I hate you,” she wailed and he had laughed at her then.

“No you don’t.”

Hana regretted all the wasted hours when she could have sought her father out and made the most of his presence on her side of the world. She should have hugged him, kissed him and told him she loved him until he knew for sure she meant it. She should have stopped him going sightseeing, made him stay in her company the whole time and not told him he deserved a holiday. She should have been selfish and kept him all to herself.

Even as she worked through those feelings, Hana knew they were irrational and childish. Robert McIntyre knew his daughter loved him. The greatest resentment in Hana’s muddled emotional shopping list was that the heart attack and subsequent surgery robbed her of precious time with her dad. It forced her to sleep often and seem tired and unenthusiastic in these last days. She hated her body for subjecting her to that. And therein lay a huge part of the problem. She no longer trusted her body. She was forty-six years old, not ninety-six and yet it hobbled her as thoroughly as if she was. The cuts on her chest and the invasive pacemaker were a constant reminder of her own mortality, her inability to predict anything about her life, not even the next heartbeat.

Anger bubbled up inside the woman like an ugly thing. Hana daren’t even go to the family dining room, where she knew Leslie looked after her baby. Even Phoenix doesn’t need you or your milk anymore, a spiteful voice whispered in her head and she finally named the thing that ate at her soul. It was a spirit of abandonment.

Hana ran from the bedroom and down the spiral staircase to the ground floor. The rush of adrenaline caused her to grab at her chest, terrified she might cause the object next to her collarbone to administer the promised shock the consultant described for her. She didn’t want to be jabbed like a kick to the chest and felt an overwhelming urge to rip the hideous thing out herself. Nobody asked if I wanted it, no-one consulted me! The dreadful sadness morphed into something terrible inside, reeking with the stench of self-pity and powerlessness. Hana caught the reflection of ingratitude in a hallway mirror and it was not attractive.

She needed to get away, to be high up out of reach and look down on her situation from a different vantage point. Hana craved the wind in her face and the sense of freedom which illness robbed her of. The isolation of Logan’s new house in the mountains called to her with a recognisable voice, shouting to her on the wind to come, feel its enfolding grace and find herself again. The doctors told her not to drive, not until her condition was settled and her local specialist signed the documentation. Nobody banned her from horse riding.

Hana kicked off her slippers in the mudroom at the back of the hotel where the stockmen kept the riding boots and broken tack. Digging around, she found her sister-in-law’s, boots and chaps and fitted them on over her jeans, clamping Miriam’s hat down over her hair. She felt a flicker of sadness for her dead mother-in-law and buried it, knowing her fragile courage would fail in the face of overthinking. Even the short walk to the stable yard seemed endless. A lot of things did nowadays.

As she neared the sound of clattering buckets, Hana tried to get her story straight for Jack, the ancient stable manager. He might be deaf but he missed absolutely nothing and he wouldn’t let her ride out on her own without talking to Logan first. She felt momentarily relieved at her husband’s absence and then teared up at the thought of the airport run which took him away. Getting her tale ready and fortifying herself for an argument or abject refusal, Hana took deep breaths and forced herself to saunter casually into the yard.

Jack’s old Jeep was noticeably absent from its space at the entrance to the lunge arena gate and Hana experienced instant relief. An urgent neigh came from a row of stalls facing east, the brick work bathed in sunlight. Turning, Hana found herself face to face with Sacha, Logan’s temperamental mare. The beast jerked her regal white face upwards as though in greeting and Hana lifted her hand to wave, feeling suddenly stupid and putting it back by her side. “Hi,” she said instead, feeling a fool.

The yard seemed empty of humans and Hana considered her options. Sacha’s tack rested on a wooden stand outside her stable door and she contemplated struggling to tack the horse up, discounting it instantly. If the effort of lifting the heavy tan stock saddle didn’t kill her, then the angry mare probably would within the confines of her stall. Sacha’s mean reputation preceded her although Hana had ridden her successfully once, much to everyone’s astonishment.

Sacha stretched her neck out for a pat and scraped her shod front foot against the concrete floor of her stall. Hana reached out a nervous hand and stroked the elegant forehead gently. The horse shook her head from side to side and closed her eyes. Hana got closer, convinced at some point the mare would take her revenge for stealing Logan’s affections away and bite, but she didn’t. The woman stood and caressed the white forelock and stroked the rounded Anglo-Arab nose tenderly. “I want to go up to the new house,” Hana whispered, “but I know they won’t let me. My dad left and they wouldn’t let me go. They didn’t want a scene at the airport. Logan said it was for my benefit but it was really for his. And while I’ve been in hospital, they’ve been feeding my baby cow’s milk so she isn’t bothered about me that much anymore. She always preferred her daddy, so that proves it. I guess you know what that’s like; your colt must be getting big now.”

Hana faltered, unable to describe the emotions raging through her mind. She lay her forehead against the mare’s and closed tired green eyes. The horse stayed still and all Hana could hear was the sound of snuffled breathing from the huge lungs.

The clatter of footsteps on the concrete behind made them both jump away guiltily. A young man in his early twenties approached with a bucket and a yard broom. He was dark skinned and black haired with a confident stride. Despite the winter chill, he wore jeans but no tee shirt, his shoulders and ribs swathed in tattoos denoting his whakapapa, lineage. He stopped abruptly, staring at Hana. “Miss, I’d watch that beast. She’s a nasty mare. Real up herself, she is.”

Edging closer, his eyes widened in surprise at Hana’s proximity to the horse, cradling the whiskery chin in her cupped hand. The mare’s eyes were closed in pleasure, but she opened one of them to give the man a wicked, white rimmed eyeball. He pulled a face and stepped back.

“Where’s Jack?” Hana asked, forcing politeness in the hope of assistance.

“He’s gone to the township for some stuff. He’ll be back soon though.”

Hana hissed through her teeth. She needed to get away before Jack returned. Otherwise, she wouldn’t get away at all. She decided to risk it. Leaning close into Sacha, she whispered, “Please help me,” and unlocked the top and bottom bolts on the stable door. The horse put her head up obligingly as Hana took hold of her halter and pulled her forwards through the door, intending to lead her over to the tacking area. The young man stepped in front of her, shaking his head, his face disbelieving.

“No, Miss, that’s Mr Du Rose’s beast, you can’t take her. You wouldn’t want to. Wait till Jack gets back and he’ll sort you out something else. Are you a guest from the hotel? I’ve got other mounts and if you wait, I’ll take you on a ride through the lower slopes.”

Hana continued walking, Sacha following meekly at her side. “Please could you bring her tack?” Hana asked with quiet authority.

The inexperienced young man groaned. He looked increasingly awkward and his strong hands fluttered by his sides. “Miss, I’m new here. I’m apprenticed to the best horseman in the central North Island and it’s all about to come to a skidding halt. You’ll get me fired, Miss.”

He bit at a ragged thumbnail, confusion blemishing his handsome features. Relief coursed across his face as another man entered the yard, head down, his hat covering his eyes. “Toby, can you help me mate?” he begged. “This lady...”

The new comer stopped at the sight of the pretty redhead leading the usually ferocious mare. “Hey Mrs Du Rose,” he said and touched the brim of his cowboy hat lightly. “You feeling better now?”

“Yes thanks, Toby,” Hana replied, smiling at Logan’s head stockman. “Please can you help me tack Sacha up? I can’t lift the saddle; it’s too heavy.”

Toby was conflicted but only for a second. “You rode her before, aye?”

Hana nodded. “Yes, she’s fine with me.”

Toby nodded once and then shrugged. He looked across at the statue of a stable hand, hopping from foot to foot like an idiot. He beckoned him over, his voice sharp. “Rawhiti will help, if that’s ok? I’m taking the quad up to the forty-first to move some stock and I should get going.”

On cue, his radio chirped and an impatient voice crackled through like a disjointed universe calling. A string of swear words followed as somebody somewhere reached the end of their patience. Toby looked apologetically at Hana and beckoned the young man again. “Geez man, you made of salt or what?” he asked angrily, “Help the missus will you?”

He looked back as he strode over to the huge equipment shed, pleased to see the man finally come to life. Toby paused to watch Rawhiti bring the saddle and bridle across the yard, gingerly avoiding the mare’s back legs. The stockman fired up the bike with a roar and shot out of the shed, making them all jump.

“How do I say your name?” Hana asked kindly as the man put the saddle pad onto the shiny white body with care. “Rawhiti, Miss,” he answered politely, pronouncing the ‘wh’ at the centre of his name as an ‘f’. Hana repeated it a few times until she got it right and the man nodded, pleased at the trouble she took. “Most Pākehā. just call me bro,” he said sadly. He fitted the saddle onto the ridged spine and jumped once when the horse turned to look at him. He hissed with exasperation. “I’ve worked with horses since I could walk and this mare is one b...” he bit back the swear word, remembering who he was talking to. “Are you Logan Du Rose’s wife? The boss man?”

Hana smiled serenely. “Yes, I am. And Sacha’s playing with you,” she said, stroking the long shaggy forelock out of the mare’s eyes.

Rawhiti raised his eyebrows as he tightened up the girth, watching the back leg come slightly off the floor in warning and readying himself to dodge it. He got the bridle on without incident but could swear the mare narrowed her eyes at him as she took the metal bit behind her front teeth. “Evil, just evil,” he muttered. “Want help up?” He offered Hana his cupped hands for a leg up, but she shook her head and led the mare over to the mounting block.

The horse stood meek as a lamb while the woman settled herself in the saddle. But Rawhiti caught a flash of pain in her pale face as she swung her leg across the broad back and clambered on. “You sure you’re all right, Miss?” he asked. Something hammered in his brain about the missus having not been well, but he couldn’t recall what important detail clamoured to make itself known. As Hana clattered sedately out of the yard, he went back to his sweeping, hoping he hadn’t made a bad first impression.

“Which way, Sach?” Hana asked the horse quietly as they left the pristine stable yard. “I don’t think I’m in any fit state to open gates today.” The mare snorted and turned left, making for the steep track put in for the construction vehicles in the house building process. It would later become the five kilometre driveway. At the moment, it was hard-core packed down with bright orange sand and safe for the shod feet to walk on, provided they stayed in the middle. “I hope we don’t meet any big lorries,” Hana said, observing the dense bush on one side and the perilous drop on the other. “There’s nowhere to wait.”

Hana relaxed into the saddle and enjoyed the freedom of being alone. It had become a rarity in the last week for the woman to be left by herself. In the hospital, nurses and doctors checked her constantly, waking her to do their various tests. Once at the hotel it was Logan or Leslie, Mark, Tama or her father who peered over her anxiously. She was tired of waking up with a start to find a worried face above her line of vision, checking her for signs of life.

The wind gusted and threatened to steal Miriam’s hat off her head. Hana took it off and reached inside, finding the elasticated cord and pulling it down over her chin. It was too precious to lose. Irreplaceable. As the driveway progressed underneath the canopy of the bush, it grew more shaded from the elements and the rule of nature took over. It didn’t seem to matter what man did; the bush would retain its fierce hold on life as long as it was able, defying the odds and springing back up even after a bush fire.

They walked along making decent progress on the incline, Sacha walking with lengthened reins and her head down, seeming to examine the ground underfoot with interest. Hana let her pick her own footing and sat heavily, allowing herself to breathe deeply and consider the events of the past week with objectivity.

She had felt the cold fingers of death exactly a week ago, knotting eagerly around her heart. The pain was far more frightening than dying itself, something Hana had never considered. It made her think of her late husband, Vikram Johal. He died in a horrific car accident on the Kaimai Ranges, ploughed into head-on by a speeding articulated lorry which ran out of control on a bad downhill bend. Vik, coming up the mountain, didn’t stand a chance and the coroner said he died on impact. Hana hoped so. Her heart attack was so unbearable, she didn’t want to think of Vik’s premature death being one of hopelessness and agony.

“Perhaps my experience would have more purpose,” she told the plodding mare, “if I could stand up in church and claim an out-of-body moment or a meeting with Jesus.” But she couldn’t. It had been as terrifying as it was pointless. Hana felt as though she learned nothing, except perhaps not to trust her body. Neither she nor her poor husband needed showing how fragile life was. Surely they had lost more than enough between them already.

Hana felt the tightness of the stitches in her chest and shoulder as Sacha negotiated a piece of disturbed ground and she reached up gingerly to touch the outside of her shirt. Her fingers strayed inside, to touch the object underneath her left collar bone. It wasn’t huge, hardly noticeable. They said that she would get used to it. It felt odd. Hana sighed heavily and Sacha lifted her head and flicked her ears back and forth. The woman leaned forward and patted the velvety neck with gratitude. “You’re uncannily perceptive. Perhaps that’s why my husband keeps you.”

The gate to the top site was wide open; so different to the coveted, protected piece of land Logan first introduced Hana to. She was his girlfriend then, tentatively taking her first steps into a new relationship and terrified of being hurt. She hadn’t known he was obsessed by her and had been for almost three decades. Right from the age of fourteen when he first saw her on a London tube train, pregnant, unmarried and tearful, Logan Du Rose made it his life’s work to find and possess the affections of the stunning redhead.

Hana doubted if Logan would ever have taken ‘no’ for an answer. He hadn’t needed to. She fell in love with him almost straight away after a chance at the school she worked at. Then circumstance forced them together, far quicker than if they were left to their own devices.

Sacha nosed her way through the gate and stood patiently waiting for instructions. Hana neglected to bring the halter or lead rope and now she was here, didn’t fancy the jolt which a dismount would cause her sore scars. “I don’t know how to do this, Sach,” she said, looking around her with a returning sense of hopelessness.

The mare, sensing her anticipated discomfort, wandered slowly over to a picnic table the builders used for their lunch breaks and lined herself carefully up next to it. Hana was grateful for her equine thoughtfulness and dismounted onto the table top, leaning on Sacha’s neck to get herself down without overbalancing it. “You’re pretty amazing, do you know that?” Hana kissed the side of the furry face.

Logan usually untacked the animals and put halters on them now the paddock was a building site, tying them up to the nearest fence. Hana doubted if she would be able to lift the saddle back and if she didn’t, the mare might roll and hurt herself or damage the saddle. It seemed as though having made the journey up here, Hana would be unable to look around the house. “I don’t know what to do now,” she said to the horse, sounding pitiful and Sacha snuffed gently into her hand. Hana lay her cheek against the soft furry forehead and closed her eyes, wondering what to do. Finally, she unclipped the reins from the bridle and loosened the girth a little. “Please don’t roll on Logan’s saddle because after he’s killed me, he’ll be coming for you. You can eat the grass and I’ll wash your bit when we get back.”

The horse snorted grass seed and proceeded to graze, lifting her head once as Hana added, “Oh and please could you come when I call you? I don’t think I can chase you home anymore. I’ve got enough problems.”

Sacha appeared to nod in her direction and carried on grazing, despite the metal snaffle in her mouth.

Hana wandered around the site looking at the familiar landmarks now incorporated into her new home. At the end of the driveway before it plunged steeply down the mountain, stood the old kauri tree. It stood there forever. Hana lifted her arms and tried to reach fully around its huge girth, finding she didn’t even get half-way around its smooth, knotless bark. With her cheek pressed against the cool wood, she fancied she heard its steady heartbeat drawn from the gentle motion of the earth turning on its axis. Looking up she read the names of Logan’s family. The beautiful script began with the Frenchman, Du Rose, who settled on the land in the 1800’s. It stretched through the family, a rich tapestry of names interlocked in swirling graphics and ended with her own baby’s name, Phoenix.

Hana wondered how Logan got up there to do that last carving, figuring he must have climbed the tree. He would tell her off for hugging the sacred object. It had great mana in his family, his own and his daughter’s afterbirth buried at the bottom in the dusty earth. She should wash her hands to get rid of the tapu, but rebelled and didn’t even bother looking for water. “What else can go wrong?” she mocked Logan’s ancestors. “Kill me? Too late!”

Hana raked the ground with her eyes and a sense of growing distaste. She thought of the night of Phoenix’s birth and the sound of Logan burying the placenta in the hard ground with the heel of his boot, the mountain noises and the cackle of the tui who fluttered in the trees, watching instead of settling in his nest for the night.