Chapter 16
The late-afternoon sun coated the bushveldt in yellow gold as their chopper landed on Brandt’s farm.
He carried the bags off the helicopter first, then returned for Dalilah, taking her hand as they ran in a crouch under the whirling blades. He gave a thumbs-up, and the chopper lifted, banking into the sky, then growing smaller and smaller before winking out on the horizon. He placed his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close as they stood together, watching it disappear, their bags at their feet. As the sound faded, the birdsong rose around them in a raucous crescendo.
They were on a rise, and about a hundred yards out a copper-colored stream meandered into a pool of rocks. Beyond the stream was a bush runway and empty airplane hangar. In the distance, Dalilah could see giraffe and a herd of antelope moving. The air on her shoulders was rounded and warm and the sense of peace was almost palpable—no industry, no civilization, for as far as the eye could see.
Dalilah couldn’t believe how exhilarated she felt, or how this had happened. She glanced up at Brandt’s rugged profile and saw that he was watching her, a strange look on his face.
“What is it?” she said.
“I’m nervous.”
She laughed. “You? Nervous? What on earth for?”
“Because I want you to like it.”
She studied his eyes, as clear blue as the sky behind him, and she knew he was talking about both his place, and making love to her. “I love it already,” she whispered, then turned to look back out over the land. “How far does your property extend, Brandt?”
“All the way to those trees on the ridge over there.” He pointed to the horizon. “That’s where the next farm starts. Not a soul as far as the eye can see. Come, let me show you inside.”
Truth was, Dalilah was nervous, too. Brandt Stryker was a lone ranger, and she wondered how long it might take before he once again felt the need for solitude. She, on the other hand, was not a loner, nor a quiet personality, but this was also in part why she felt so drawn to this man—he balanced her. He was a rock, solid and sure and steady, and although he was yet another alpha male in her life, Brandt had made it clear he valued her passion and independence, and that this was what made him beautiful to her. But how it could all work out, she didn’t know.
One step at a time, she thought as he led her up a stone path toward his house, which had been built into an outcrop of rock—lots of stone, glass, wood and a wide veranda that ran along the entire front.
She stopped to take in the architecture, the lines, the way it all blended into the natural surroundings. It would be hardly visible by air, she thought, camouflaged into the rock.
“Designed it myself,” he said, watching her. “There’s a small village on my land and the locals helped me build it, one rock, one brick at a time. I flew in whatever materials I needed. Took me three years to get this far.” He smiled. “And I’m still at it. Bit by bit.”
“It’s exquisite, Brandt,” she whispered, holding his callused hand, thinking of him alone out here, under the hot African sun, putting this place together stone by stone. A home.
“It’s big,” she said, her gaze moving along the veranda, noting that the wooden shutters that could be drawn across the length of it. She looked up at him, right into his eyes. “Why did you build this?”
Surprise raised his brow. “That’s an interesting question.”
Dalilah moistened her lips. “It looks far too big for one,” she said. “And you’re this guy who moved out here for solitude.” She shrugged. “It just...doesn’t quite fit.”
He shrugged, watching her eyes. “Maybe that urge to create a home—you know, the man and his castle—” he grinned “—never truly died after Yolanda. As a kid it had always been a dream of mine to have lots of land, a farm. Animals.”
“The soldier-farmer,” she said.
“Hey, life throws curveballs. You do what you can.”
“Yeah,” she said as she smiled at him. “And sometimes those balls curve right back.”
“Come inside. There’s something out back I think you’ll like.”
* * *
A warm breeze flowed through floor-to-ceiling glass sliders that had been opened along the length of the wall to expose an endless view of the bushveldt over the veranda. Old-fashioned wooden ceiling fans paddled the air slowly, and there were fresh blooms on the counter—strelitzia on long stems, like bright birds of paradise. He must have called ahead, Dalilah thought, and asked someone to open up the house, bring in flowers. Her heart squeezed in her chest.