"No fair!" he shouted, already pounding after her.
She laughed all the way, shouting her indignation when he pulled ahead and beat her by a full head.
"We're even now," he insisted, still laughing.
With an indulgent shake of her head, she fell into pace beside him again. They rode for some distance, Gerald pointing out little details of the landscape, explaining where the property lines fell. There were miles and miles of land, so much that Christopher Standeven's holdings seemed endless. The mountains rose regally in the distance, a beautiful backdrop of breathtaking earth and sky. Just being there, breathing the warm, clean air, seeing nothing but land and sky that went on forever, feeling the horse sway beneath her, it would be so easy to forget that she didn't belong here. She felt as though she'd never existed anywhere else but here, in this one single moment in time.
Gerald finally brought them to a halt beside a lake, and bade her dismount. Grateful for the opportunity to stretch her legs, Michaela obliged, dropping the reigns over the horse's neck as she glanced around at her surroundings. It was a beautiful spot, perfect for picnics. Gerald pulled a blanket from his saddle pack and spread it on a smooth, lush knoll for them to sit on. Leaving the horses to graze nearby on the sweet smelling grass, she joined him, and they enjoyed the view in companionable silence.
"It's so vast," she finally murmured. "I never knew anyone could own so much."
"It's all come by quite honestly," Gerald mused, chewing on a stalk of grass as he contemplated the mountains in the distance. "Father owns a couple of diamond mines. He inherited one of them. It makes for a good living, I suppose."
She turned to watch him as he spoke. She was shocked. She had no idea they were so affluent. It made her feel even smaller, more uncertain now. How could such a wealthy man be comfortable taking in a total stranger?
"He has full ownership in the South African mine, but he's in a partnership in a Brazilian mine, the one he inherited. Mato Grosso."
It meant nothing to her. She knew nothing of such things, just that diamonds were beautiful and expensive.
"I've never had the desire to follow in his footsteps. It's a difficult business. One has to have a constitution of steel. It can actually be dangerous."
"Dangerous?" She felt a slight twist in her heart and instantly recognized it for what it was. Fear for Mr. Standeven.
"Yes. People are constantly trying to get into the mines, to steal as many diamonds as they can. There are more killings than you'd care to know about. And then there are the real thieves, the men who want to steal the entire mine out from under you. It takes determination and grit to stay on top, to keep the corporate pirates away. I couldn't do it. I have no head for business."
He let out a laugh that had a slight bitter undertone. "One day I overheard Cook saying to Rebecca the maid, 'Gerald is such a wonderful son. He has enormous respect for his father. It's a pity he doesn't have any desire to take over the family business one day. But he's simply not interested in doing anything.' " He shrugged. "Fortunately, dear old dad doesn't hold it against me."
She gave him a rather sad smile. She could feel for Gerald, overhearing such intolerable words from someone who obviously hadn't a clue as to what he really wanted for himself. She had long suspected that Gerald held a desire close to his heart, a desire he hadn't yet voiced to anyone. She believed everyone had dreams. Some knew what their dream was, but some had yet to discover it. Gerald simply hadn't embraced his yet.
"Tell me, what is it that you want to do?" she asked, hoping to coax him into a confession.
He shrugged again. "I suppose I'm a very wealthy bum."
"No, really. There must be something. Everyone has at least one dream."
He gazed at her for a long time, as if weighing his options, and then finally said, "Promise you won't laugh."
"Of course, I won't," she assured him.
"I want to be an architect."
Michaela gasped in delight. She had never expected such an artistic endeavor coming from Gerald. "An architect," she breathed. "What a wonderful idea. Does your father know?"
Gerald shook his head.
"Why haven't you told him?"
"I don't know. It seems like a silly thing for a millionaire to want to do."
"I don't think it's silly to create things. I think it's wonderful. It's...freedom. You make the choice of how to create, when to create, what to create. It's wonderfully fulfilling."
He regarded her intently for a moment. "You speak so sincerely, as if you know something about creating. Do you have dreams, Michaela?"
She hesitated on the verge of telling him. "I...."
"Of course. How silly of me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to press you. The amnesia. Sometimes I forget. It's almost as if you fluttered down out of the sky to be with us."
"Such a romantic sentiment," she murmured.
"But suitable. You are like an angel, Michaela, whether you know it or not. A quiet little angel tiptoeing among us."
She laughed at his serious tone, then realized how good it felt. There'd never been much laughter in her home, only contention and constant strain.
"Gerald. Tell me about your father, about his...empire," she begged. She wanted to know so much about them, everything she could, something to take with her and hold dear when she had to leave.
He sighed. "There's so much to tell, yet...so little."
She stared at him. What a curious remark.
"He's always been a hard worker, striving for perfection. It's a wonder he tolerates me. Yet, he finds it in his heart to accept me as I am. He never treats me with anything less than the dignity I don't really deserve. Always regards me with respect." He smiled. "Odd though, I still sometimes feel like a child when I'm in his presence."
"Your father does seem to have a way of making one feel somehow less," she agreed.
"He's a very intimidating man, a powerful figure of a man. Some people love him on sight because of it. Those that fear him for it, hate him on sight. I've always respected him immensely, always viewed him with something like awe really." He shook his head, his eyes on the horizon, and smiled as if he were recalling something particularly pleasant.
"Grandfather made him work in the mines from the time he was a boy. The old man wanted him to appreciate the family wealth, wanted him to know what real work was like. Grandfather had no idea. My father created a virtual empire where Grandfather had only halfheartedly succeeded. He's no slouch, my father." He sighed. "Thank God, he doesn't feel the same way the old man did. Grandfather would've had me in the mines by the time I was fourteen. Fortunately for me, Father didn't see it that way."
Michaela listened intently to every word. Anything about Christopher Standeven had her total interest.
"Working in the mines hardened him. I suppose he didn't want that for me. He saw too much there." Gerald paused for a moment before continuing. "He has a long, jagged scar down his back from a knife a crazed worker wielded against him. The poor sap was intent on making off with enough diamonds to retire with. Father managed to subdue him, and the man was sent off to prison. No one ever forgot it. That one fight earned my father the immediate respect of every man in that mine. He worked with them at the core, sweating and laboring, and then bleeding as he fought that man off. It certainly would have inspired respect from me."
Michaela could only sit there and listen, awed by the vision Gerald had created in her head, a vision of a much younger Christopher Standeven, dirt-smeared and perspiring under the backbreaking strain of hard physical labor. A vision of his back, bloody and torn from the brutal attack, of him standing there bleeding, his eyes burning with determination as he subdued the other man. It was like something out of a novel, and it made her breath catch in her throat. She knew then that she was in the presence of a great man. She would never again in her entire life meet a man like Christopher Standeven, and she felt fortunate to have this one tiny sliver of time with him, with his family. It was like a gift, a wonderfu
l gift sent down from heaven.
Gerald had asked her if she had any dreams. How could she answer? By some beautiful blessing of fate, she was living her dream right now. She was surrounded by people who cared about her welfare, people who would never think of holding her back, of squelching her hopes. People who wanted to see her fly as high as she could soar. And she never wanted it to end.
Having finished his story, Gerald got to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. "Come on. There's so much more to show you," he urged.
She put her hand in his and got to her feet. For a moment, he just stood there looking down at her, her hand still securely wrapped in his, the sun sparkling in his beautiful, hazel eyes. Her heart swelled with bittersweet affection for this man. Dear, sweet Gerald. It would be so hard to leave him behind. Would he hate her when he discovered that she'd never had amnesia at all? Would he despise her when he learned that she had lied because she'd been too frightened to do anything else?
"Good Gerald," she whispered, a tear trembling on her lashes. "You're so good and kind to me. I don't deserve it."
He watched the tear escape from her lashes and slowly trickle down her cheek. With a tender touch, he reached up and wiped it away. "You're so wrong, Michaela. You deserve all the happiness God can bring you."
He bent forward and briefly pressed his lips to her forehead. It was a fleeting moment, but it touched her heart just the same.
By the time they were riding off over the hills together, she felt good again. She felt free. Alive.
When they'd had their fill of the countryside and Gerald's hunger had grown so that he could no longer ignore it, they turned back homeward. The moment they arrived at the stables Gerald dismounted and turned his horse over to the waiting stable master, eager to get up to the house and fill his gullet. Michaela teased him about his appetite. She didn't know how he could eat so much and stay so trim.
Oh, the fortune of men. They didn't realize how lucky they were. She was envious of their freedom. It was precisely that yearning that had caused so much of the strife in her family. Her desire to be wild and free to do as she pleased had created so many problems.
"Come on, Michaela. You must be starving by now," Gerald called over his shoulder.
"I'll catch up later. If Leo doesn't mind, I'd like to help him brush down the horses."
Gerald shrugged. "Suit yourself then. I'll have Mrs. Avery put a plate aside for you."
"Thank you," she called as she watched him walk away.
Leo was a sweet man, and Michaela found that she enjoyed his company. He stood nearby and chatted while she brushed down her mount. She liked his easy charm and was pleased that they got on so famously. He made her feel welcome, at home, and she liked spending time in the stable.
"Long ago, an Indian man would never think of permitting someone else to care for his mount," she murmured as she lovingly brushed the horse's coat. "He would personally see to most of the horse's needs, the brushing, the grooming, the training. It was all part of the bonding process, a very important process to a warrior. It ensured that his mount would know him even if he were to fall off in battle."
Michaela had been absently speaking while she brushed the horse, but now she glanced up at Leo, a little surprised that she had opened up to him so readily.
"Now, how would a young lady such as yourself know something like that?" he wanted to know, his eyes twinkling in convivial interest.
She shrugged. "I always did like to study things. Almost anything really. I sort of had to."
"Had to? What a funny statement."
She turned aside and began putting away the grooming equipment. She didn't want to explain that remark. It was just another ridiculous slip of the tongue that made absolutely no sense to a stranger. "I probably read it in a book somewhere."
"I never was much for book learning," he said. "I know horses. I've known 'em all my life. It's served me well enough. I suppose it's all I really need."
Michaela was glad he hadn't pried. But then, of course, he wouldn't. To pry into the personal affairs of a guest in Mr. Standeven's house would be rude, something no decent employee would do.
"Well, I suppose there's work to be done," he said, already detaching her horse from the crossties.
She started to leave, then stopped in the open end of the stable to study Leo, a little hesitant, but intent all the same. "Leo...would you mind if I came down and helped you once in awhile?"
He smiled and tipped his cap. "Anything you like, Miss Michaela. I'd be more than happy to oblige you."
"Thank you." She gave him a little wave and then turned to walk back to the house, smiling as she went. At least now she wouldn't feel quite so useless.
She sighed. She felt almost...content.
Contentment. Now, there was something she could wholeheartedly embrace. If only it could last.
But that was impossible, wasn't it? One day she would have to leave this place, would possibly be forced out. One day.... She stopped herself in mid-thought. She didn't want to think about it. It was too sad, too frightening.
She shook aside the melancholy that was slowly creeping into her heart and went into the house through the kitchen entrance. Cook glanced up from the side counter, then just as quickly glanced away again. Michaela frowned. Cook usually spoke to her, but this time she only barely acknowledged her presence. The back of Michaela's neck prickled with warning, and her heart sank. She could see by the expression on Cook's face, by the way the woman tried to avoid her gaze, that something was wrong.
She paused there for a moment, of half a mind to ask Cook what was wrong, but then thought better of it and pushed through the swinging door and out into the hall. Her mouth was dry and she felt nervous as she made her way toward the library. Voices filtered down the hall. Gerald's earnest plea, Mrs. Avery's anxious tone, and finally Mr. Standeven's deeper, richer voice overriding theirs, sounding self-assured. When she heard the voice of a total stranger follow, her apprehension grew. She was drawn to those voices, both afraid of the consequences, yet driven to know what was going on. She sensed that it was about her. Why else would Cook be so out of character?
Something was wrong here, something that was about to destroy her precarious position. She knew it beyond any doubt, and she was powerless to do anything about it. Her only option was to flee. But that would thrust her back into the unknown.
She took another tentative step, her footfall sounding overly loud against the polished floor, echoing through her head like the sound of an executioner's cryptic drum signaling the final approach of judgment. She paused just outside the door to the library, her heart hammering so loudly in her chest that she couldn't hear what the voices inside were saying. She was beside herself with worry now, her hands trembling so that she couldn't keep them still. Her mind was telling her to run, but her feet wouldn't move. She seemed rooted to the spot now, immobilized by dread and fear.
She took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering closed of their own volition, then another breath, opened her eyes again, and took one last step, the final step that brought her just inside the door of the library. It was something she had to do. For her own good she had to work through the fear. Maybe this family gathering wasn't about her. Perhaps it was nothing she need worry about.
One glance around the room and her resolve disappeared. The other voices she'd heard belonged to three policemen. She automatically feared the worst. The look on Gerald's face and the way Mrs. Avery rushed to her side to draw a protective arm around her confirmed that the police were there because of her. For one horrifying second, she thought everyone knew, that her family had somehow managed to locate her and the police were there to take her back.
She sought Christopher's eyes. It was Christopher's face she desperately needed to see. Would there be anger in the line of his jaw, rage at being betrayed? Or only revulsion?
The happiness she'd felt only seconds ago gave way to despair. She'd just begun to live, truly live for the first time in he
r life. She'd just started to gain confidence in herself, and now this horror.
Panic seized her from all sides, and she wanted to bolt and run. She should have never stepped into the room. She could have taken the coward's way out, slipped out of their lives without ever having to face them, without them even knowing she was gone until it was too late. She should have run when she'd had the opportunity. Indeed, were it not for Mrs. Avery's arm wrapped so solidly around her shoulders, she would have done just that. But her chance had been snatched from her by her own dreadful curiosity, and now she was trapped, forced to face them all. How could she explain? How could she possibly make them understand? Those reasons that had caused her to flee her home in the first place all seemed so ridiculous now. Christopher would never understand. Never.
This couldn't be happening. She couldn't go back home, no matter what anyone else thought. She wouldn't. She'd rather die than go back there.
And then he was there, a full head taller than every other man in the room, standing so straight and tall, so proud, so completely unruffled by the presence of the policemen. Her eyes locked onto him like a drowning woman clinging to a life-saving buoy. He crossed the room to stand before her, his eyes raking over every inch of her stricken face. She wanted to sag to the floor with relief, for there was no revulsion there, no anger, no accusation, only his characteristically undisturbed facade, his usual dignified impassivity.
"Detective Johnstone, this is our Michaela. As you can see, she is quite well and cared for," Christopher informed the man.
The detective only stared at her. He didn't seem so sure. Michaela had to fight the urge to shrink away. She glanced away from him, hoping he didn't see the telling fear in her eyes.
"There, there, dear," she heard Mrs. Avery whisper.
Christopher stepped closer, his eyes never leaving her face, his voice carefully modulated so as not to alarm her. She looked terrified beyond reason. He only hoped he could somehow impart to her that she had nothing to fear.
"Michaela, it would appear that the good Dr. Martin has some cause to believe you are not here of your own accord. You remember Dr. Martin, don't you?"
The Whisper Of Wings Page 14