The Timber Baron's Virgin Bride. Daphne Clair

      He must have mentioned the plan to his mother, because after talking to him that night, Pearl told her, “Bryn said you’re riding together on Sunday. It’ll be nice for him to have a companion. I don’t think Kinzi rides at all.”

      “His girlfriend?” Rachel’s voice was suitably casual.

      Pearl sighed. “Maybe something will come of it this time. They’ve been seeing each other for quite a long time.”

      On Sunday Bryn turned up with a long-legged, green-eyed redhead. Her hair was cut in a short, straight, jagged style that would have cost a modest fortune. A primrose cashmere sweater and skinny jeans hugged a figure that most women would give a whole mouthful of teeth for, and high-heeled ankle-boots brought her near to Bryn’s height. A short denim jacket finished the deceptively casual outfit.

      Kinzi gave Rachel a dazzling smile on being introduced and announced she was here to keep Pearl company while Bryn and “Rachel, isn’t it?” went off to “do your horsy thing”. On a rueful note she added, “The only time I got on a horse the brute threw me.” She laughed, a surprisingly hearty sound. “I know about getting back on and all that, but I thought, why should I? You don’t ride, do you, Lady Donovan?”

      Pearl shook her head. “It’s kind of you to sit with an old lady, my dear. But not at all necessary. And please, let’s dispense with the title.”

      Rachel had to choke back laughter at the uncharacteristic, almost querulous tone of Pearl’s little speech. Meeting Bryn’s slightly pained expression, belied by the amused appreciation in his eyes, she knew he hadn’t missed it, but Kinzi didn’t seem to notice.

      Whether his bringing Kinzi along had been her own idea or Bryn’s, Rachel was very sure Pearl Donovan didn’t, and probably never would, think of herself as an old lady.

      Perhaps it was the look she turned on her son that made him say, “Ready, Rachel? We’ll get going then.”

      She had put on jeans and sneakers with a sweatshirt and was relieved to see that he, too, was casually dressed, although he wore riding boots.

      In the car she told him, “Did your mother mention she had some visitors this week?”

      “She asked them to come?”

      “I don’t think so. They were passing through, I gather.” Pearl had invited Rachel to join them for afternoon tea, but she’d declined, not wanting to intrude. Afterwards Pearl had seemed quite animated, describing the middle-aged couple as old friends and saying what a nice chat they’d had.

      They were the first visitors Rachel had seen apart from Kinzi. Pearl certainly wasn’t doing as much entertaining as she used to. “I think their name was McGill,” she told Bryn.

      He nodded. “They used to live in Auckland until they retired to a beach community up north. I don’t think she’s seen them since the funeral. In fact after the first couple of months hardly anyone visited. She hasn’t shown any interest in resuming a social life without Dad.”

      “Give her time,” Rachel murmured.

      Bryn didn’t look convinced. He wasn’t used to standing by and letting things happen at their own pace.

      The place he drove to offered trail rides and treks, as well as plenty of rolling, open countryside and stands of dark, mossy native bush.

      Bryn’s big bay gelding seemed pleased to see him, and the owner supplied a pretty, soft-mouthed little mare for Rachel.

      They started out at a sedate walk along a broad trail that wound through thick bush, but later when Rachel had got the feel of her mount, enjoyed a glorious gallop across green paddocks under a cloud-dusted sky, ending on a high knoll that overlooked rolling hills and a distant view of the Pacific.

      There they rested the horses and dismounted, removing their helmets to admire sheep-dotted paddocks, blue-green stands of old bush in the folds of the hills, and the deep azure line of the horizon.

      A few grey rocks seemed to grow out of the ground before them, and they sat side by side on one with a flat, slightly sloping top. Rachel rested her elbows on her thighs, her chin in her hands. At their feet grasses with plumed seed-heads bent before a sudden breeze that stirred her hair, loosening a few tendrils from their confining knot.

      For long minutes neither she nor Bryn spoke. Then Rachel said almost to herself, “I never realised how much I missed New Zealand until I came home.”

      Bryn leaned forward and broke off one of the grass stalks, smoothing the fluffy seed-head in his fingers. “You don’t miss the States?”

      “Some things, of course. But my heart is here.”

      “You’ll miss your American friends?”

      “Yes.”

      “A man?”

      She knew he’d turned to look at her, but kept her gaze on the view. “No one special. If there had been, I suppose it would have been harder.”

      Abruptly he said, “Kinzi’s been offered a promotion— a job in Australia.”

      She had to look at him then, but couldn’t gauge his thoughts. He was staring at the stalk of grass, twirling it backwards and forwards.

      “Is she going to take it?” Rachel supposed some response was expected. “What sort of job? I don’t know what she does.”

      “She hasn’t decided.” He tossed the grass onto the ground. “She edits a fashion and beauty magazine, and the Australian owners want her to take charge of several of their publications over there. It’s a big opportunity for her. I don’t want to hold her back.”

      “Would she let you?”

      “Maybe,” he said, and stood up, looking towards the blue-hazed horizon, his back to her. “If I asked her to marry me.”

      With a soundless thud something inside Rachel fell from her chest to her stomach. What was he telling her, and why?

      Enough of this conversation. Rachel picked up her helmet from the ground beside her and began walking back to where the horses were cropping the grass. “If that’s what you want,” she said, “you’d better ask her.”

      She strapped on the helmet, jerking it tight under her chin, and grabbed the mare’s reins. The horse turned its head and whinnied as she put her foot into the stirrup and swung her leg over the saddle, then it danced backwards before she’d found the other stirrup.

      Bryn caught at the reins and steadied the mare while Rachel took a firmer hold. “That’s your advice?”

      She looked down at him, exasperated and oddly angry. “I’m not your auntie,” she snapped. “It’s up to you. Of course if you want to be noble, you could love and let go.” Something stuck in her throat, and she jerked the reins from his hands.

      He stepped back, black brows raised, his mouth laughing. Then he strode towards his own horse, vaulting into the saddle.

      By the time he set the gelding on the downhill path Rachel’s mare was well ahead, but he soon drew level.

      When she broke into a gallop, the big gelding easily kept pace, but they slowed to a side-by-side walk on the wide track through the bush.

      “I don’t make a habit of discussing my…affairs of the heart,” Bryn said, a sardonic inflection on the final phrase. “Did I offend you?”

      “I’m not offended.”

      “Could have fooled me,” he murmured. And then on a note of curiosity added, “Is it a case of female solidarity? Does that weigh more heavily than an old friendship?”

      “You and I were never really friends,” she argued. “There was such a difference in our ages.”

      “Our families were close.”

      “My family were your family’s