Grant said slowly, “Am I to understand Mrs. Phillipson has been telling you all this?”
Mrs. Mac was saved the necessity of a reply by Sarah’s hanging up the receiver and turning to them, quite unaware that she’d been the centre of discussion.
Grant said, without a trace of apology in his tone, “What did Jeff want?”
Sarah raised an eyebrow in a fashion that would have caused a lesser man to wilt. As that had no effect she gave a sigh that excused his boorish behavior on the grounds that he was, after all, nothing but a wild colonial boy, and said lightly:
“It’s no secret. Jeff’s taking me to the New Year’s Eve dance in Cheviot. No objections, I suppose? Nan told me it’s a grand affair. I thought I’d love to go.”
Grant said stiffly, “If I'd known yen wanted to go, I would have taken you.”
Sarah’s laugh held a touch of malice. “I have to put up with a reluctant partner in business affairs. I don’t think I could stand it at a dance.”
Mrs. Mac got up, said something about needing a cardigan and left them to it.
Grant said, “What makes you think I’d be reluctant? I thought that, since Christmas night, we’d been ... friends.”
“Have we?” Sarah’s amazement was genuine, though it sounded as malicious as her laughter. “I thought that was only a truce for the festive season. Besides, Jeff is a dear. He has no awkward angles ... he doesn’t look for motives.”
“Motives for what?” His tone was sharp, demanding a straight answer.
He got it.
Sarah said plainly, “Motives underlying our friendship. He doesn’t think I strike poses, drape myself against the right backgrounds. He accepts me for what I am.”
“And what, exactly, are you, Sarah?”
The sapphire eyes were as hard as his. “You don’t need me to tell you what I am, Grant Alexander. You made up your mind before you ever saw me ... I’m a gold-digger, an opportunist, someone who could make capital out of a dying man’s agony of mind! That’s what I am to you ... what ever I am ... to Jeff.” Her voice softened on the last two words.
Grant Alexander had her by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh.
“Shut up!” he said. “Shut up, do you hear me!”
She was outwardly cool still. This time there was more justification for what she said. “Do I hear you? Good heavens, I should think half the countryside would.”
“What of it? You don’t expect finesse from New Zealand men, do you? And mostly women get exactly what they expect from men!”
He heard Mrs. Mac coming down, released her so abruptly she almost fell, strode outside. Sarah found her legs were shaking.
It seemed odd that Mrs. Mac came in smiling. “Men!” she said, “and their preconceived ideas!”
Sarah looked at her curiously. “What do you mean, Mrs. Mac?”
“It’s gey unfortunate you’re one of the fair Isbisters ... he doesna like blondes. His first love was a blonde, a pretty, dolly little thing, daft as a brush. She let him down rather badly. He was the lucky one, had he but known. So now he likes them dark. Has some quaint notion you can aye trust a dark woman.”
Something like a pang tore through Sarah. Dark ... she thought of Elaine Thomason’s velvety dark beauty, the lovely matt white skin that never showed a flush of emotion, the liquid eyes, the creamy brow from which the dark hair waved softly back. His first love had been blonde ... what would his second, his last love be? It certainly wouldn’t be Sarah Isbister, the fair Norsewoman, the supplanted, the interloper...
Sarah said, “Well, if that’s all, I’ll go over home now.”
The cool breeze struck gratefully against her hot brow. She would take the long, way round, go over the hill and down into the valley, coming up to the cottage through the poplar lane, a favorite walk of hers.
It was just as she entered the lane she heard the voices, angry voices ... at least one was angry—Grant’s. He appeared to be finishing a statement.
“I will not be disobeyed ... you understand, Rory? You’d better, believe me. Now get off that tractor and walk back to the house. You can get on with the milking, and for punishment you cannot drive the tractor for the rest of the week. Now scram!”
Sarah didn’t hesitate. She was through the poplars in a trice, threw a leg over the fence, and was into the paddock.
“Grant!” she said, the hot words tumbling out. “There’s no need—just because you’re angry with me—to bully Rory. I detest and despise people who take out their dirty temper on someone who can’t hit back. If Rory has annoyed you, you should complain to me, and I’ll deal with him. I’m Rory’s guardian, not you!”
Before Grant could speak, Rory cut in, his freckled face scarlet with embarrassment.
“I say, Sis, cut it out! Grant’s quite right. I took the tractor up the hillside without the crawlers on, and it had rained last night. I was just too darned lazy. It nearly overturned on me just as Grant got here. I gave him an almighty fright. I deserve everything he said. I’m lucky he didn’t clock me one.”
Sarah’s face went white. She knew the terrible toll of life tractor accidents took. Knew that they were only as safe as the common sense—or lack of it—of their drivers.
Grant said quietly, “Thank you, Rory. Now, as I said, scram!”
As Rory vaulted the barbed-wire fence Sarah said, “Sorry ... I—I thought ...”
“You thought I’d ventured my temper on the boy. Thanks for the compliment. I know you regard me as a beast, but at least I pride myself on being a just beast.”
Sarah stood there forlornly, bereft of what she’d thought was righteous anger. She lifted her head and said, “you’ve thought worse things of me.”
“Weren’t they true, Sarah?”
She said bitterly, “Oh, what’s the use? You will never admit my motives are less than self-seeking. So I won’t attempt to justify myself.”
His anger seemed gone, but he said, “If I thought you were genuinely attracted to Jeff Phillipson I’d ... I’d—”
Sarah caught her breath. Did he suspect then that she was only going out with Jeff because she didn’t want Grant to guess how she felt about himself? Sarah felt a little sick. She had suffered so much humiliation, but that would be too much. “You’d what?” she asked.
“I’d respect you. But if I thought you were using Jeff for your own ends ...?”
Sarah's heart was racing. Then he did guess. She swallowed.
“My ... own ends?”
“Must I cross the t’s and dot the i’s? Jeff’s estate is even larger than this—”
He got no further. Sarah’s hand flew up and caught him a stinging blow across the mouth.
The next moment she knew absolute panic and would have leapt away, but an iron grip was about her wrists, holding them behind her back.
The hazel eyes so close to her were glinting with amusement. “You said New Zealand men lacked finesse, didn’t you? Let me tell you you’re rather primitive yourself!”
“Perhaps,” flashed Sarah, for she was aware she needed anger to sustain her, to save her from feeling absolutely ashamed of herself, “this country is de-civilizing me.”
His grip did not relax at all. “Never think it. I’m inclined to think you’re descended from the Viking women who set sail with their men, fighting by their sides... and a darned good spanking would do you a world of good!”
As he saw the momentary flash of fear in her eyes, he laughed. “Oh, don’t be afraid, I don’t believe in brute force.”
He relaxed his hold slowly, bringing one of her hands around to the front.
“What in the world have you got in your fist?” It took Sarah a moment to re-orienate herself to the ordinary from the dramatic.
She gazed vaguely at her hand. “Oh, just some wool I gathered from the barbed wire as I came.”
“What in the world do you want it for? Stuffing cushions? Hardly worth it ... all the scouring it needs.”
She shook her head. “Mrs. Mac assures me the spinning-wheel is not purely ornamental. It can still be used. I’m going to spin this into home-spun for Rory’s farm socks.”
Grant was silent for a moment from sheer astonishment. Homespun ... it had a pleasant sound ... you couldn’t tie that up with the siren type, could you? Raw fleece and glamour ... could they go together?
There, in the sunlight of the stubble field, they stood and regarded each other. Sarah had the queerest sensation. Perhaps because she belonged to the islands of the sea it seemed to her that a wave of ... well, a wave of what? ... understanding ... kinship of spirit? ... or what, washed up nearly to their feet It didn’t quite reach, because suddenly Grant said, with a harsh note in his voice, “You’ve a genius for it, haven’t you ... striking the right note! Do ask Jeff’s mother over some time when you’re spinning. That ought to clinch things. She’s an excellent woman, but a trifle cheeseparing.”
Sarah turned on her heel, walked without haste away, fighting two things, one an impulse to run, the other to burst into tears.
She found it the oddest thing how after each, barbed encounter life flowed on again normally. She ought to be grateful really to Grant that he behaved so well in front of the children.