RED FEATHER LOVE
Suzanna Lynne
When Gillian McBride flew to Swaziland to take up her inheritance of her father's farm she had no qualms about the future. She knew she could depend on Graham Barry, the farm manager.
Graham did turn out to be a tower of strength and she relied on him more and more--but was a shock when he confessed he had fallen in love with her. Particularly as Gillian herself had fallen in love with the lofty Dirk von Bred, who had, from the first, made his attitude clear when he said, "Precocious kids are not my favorite brand of humanity!"
CHAPTER ONE
'Fasten your seat-belts!' came the command.
The giant VC 10 swept towards Jan Smuts Airport and dipped its wing on the side where Gillian sat, her gold-green eyes alight with excitement as she flung back a strand of golden hair and peered at the panorama rapidly gaining in clarity below. Streaming away beneath her were colossal mine dumps, factory chimneys bellowing smoke, skyscrapers and endless houses caught in squares of macadam.
Never had she expected such impressive development in the golden city of Johannesburg, port of call on the way to her newly inherited ranch in Swaziland, that small emergent country on the eastern border of the Republic of South Africa.
Gillian had been born on the Impala Ranch, but her memory of it was vague. Vague too was her memory of Graham Barry, the young rancher, to whose management her late father had entrusted the ranch when he suddenly returned with his wife and child to London twelve years ago, when Gillian was six. Graham was to meet her here today, and fly her in a small chartered Beechcraft to Matsapa, the only airport in mountainous Swaziland.
Gillian's eyes misted over as a sudden bleakness clawed at her heart. What if he failed to meet her? Though she hadn't seen him for twelve years, and hardly remembered him, he was her only link with the past, her only anchor and security in the country for which she was heading.
The plane was about to land. Gillian reached for her black leather bag that lay on the empty seat beside her, and drew from its side pocket a black velvet beret with a cheeky fed feather pinned on in front. It had been her idea, that she and Graham, veritable strangers, should each sport a red feather by way of identification. She preened the feather with a delicate manicured forefinger, then perched the beret cheekily on her shining hair. She flicked a speck of dust from her smart black suit of mourning and drew on her expensive-looking gloves.
The plane touched down on the tarmac with a gentle, buoyant bounce and taxied smoothly to a stop. There was the click-clack of belt buckles being unfastened and the passengers began to file out. '
Gillian stepped neatly down the stairway, her anxious eyes scanning the group of people awaiting the approach of the disgorged flight passengers. As she drew closer, her keen glance skipped quickly from one man's hatband to the next. Her heart filled with misgivings, for nowhere did she spy the agreed-upon feather. The cheerful greetings and excited exclamations of people jostling her gradually faded, as everyone drifted towards the Customs counter. A woman's voice was announcing flight arrivals and departures. Gillian stood, small and defenceless, homesick for the convent she had recently left, where only an occasional tolling bell disturbed the silence and peace. She hated the hustle and noise of the airport. Isolated and dismayed, she was at a loss to know what to do. She felt like bursting into tears, but didn't want to make herself ridiculous and conspicuous.
Suddenly she became aware of a tall sun-bronzed man leaning carelessly against one side of the entrance. She was struck by the lithe grace of his broad-shouldered, lean-hipped body. He was watching her intently. His sardonic gaze travelled slowly and with blatant interest from her feather-tipped beret to her mod shoes, appraising every detail of her slim, boyish figure. He wore no hat and his, slightly long mahogany hair glistened like silk in the bright South African sunlight. His ..hard, chiselled face was deeply tanned and strangely attractive, and his Scotch tweed jacket, coarse-grained sports trousers and the hand-sewn veldschoen on his feet accentuated his essential maleness.
Gillian's first impulse was to turn her back upon his insolent stare, but the tiger in her was aroused, and she promptly retaliated with a rude glare. She curled her lip slightly as she fixed a critical eye on his countrified shoes and with utter disdain she let her gaze travel deliberately upwards to the mocking face. Suddenly their eyes locked. For a moment time stood still. Then, with a slight movement, he slid a slender forefinger under the lapel of his jacket, pushing into prominence the minute red feather imprisoned in his buttonhole.
Rage filled Gillian's heart, rage at being placed at a disadvantage - at being made to appear ludicrous. With her own red quill blazing forth her identity from the best vantage point - her beret - it seemed mean of this man to all but hide his identity from her, with the obvious purpose of scrutinizing her unseen and mocking her.
'So you're Graham.' Her voice shook with anger. 'Iv don't think I'm going to like you, Mr. Graham Barry!'
'Oh?'
'You don't play fair.'
Amusement flickered in the dark eyes and around the edges of the strong mouth. 'Don't get steamed up,' he drawled. 'Let's get you through the Customs.' He stretched out a lean, tanned hand towards the vanity bag she was carrying. 'Here, let me take that. It looks heavy.'
Gillian's eyes flashed fire. 'I'm not paralytic, thank you.' She tightened her hold on the handle and tried to freeze the man with a cold, dignified look.
Firmly he took the bag out of her hand and led the way to the entrance.
Her face turned white with fury. 'Bully!' she blurted at him. A passerby stopped, interested.
'I hate scenes,' he warned her under his breath, and strode purposefully through the entrance of the airport building. She was forced into an undignified trot to keep up with him, for she feared to get lost in the bustling crowd. She stood by, seething, while he quickly claimed her luggage from the Customs. She could do nothing but follow him back to the runway. He had brushed off a porter and was manipulating a box of books, suitcases, vanity bags and hatbox effortlessly. With long panther-like strides he made for a sleek blue two-seater Beechcraft, perched lightly, like a mosquito, on a side strip. She stood uncertainly as he heaved the luggage into the back of the small plane and turned to face her. Utterly unexpectedly and to her consternation, his strong brown hands gripped her firmly under the armpits and hoisted her unceremoniously into the passenger seat. She sat very erect, cheeks flaming, and thought with satisfaction of the unladylike kick she had launched en passant at his shin. She hoped it hurt. Oh, how she hoped it hurt!
With remarkable agility, considering the tallness of his well-built body, and with easy grace, he vaulted into the cockpit and settled himself comfortably. He took no further notice of her, but listened with close concentration to the flight instructions being radioed from the tower. With gentle, shapely hands he manipulated the controls and the engine began to purr.
Gillian peered surreptitiously at his stern profile. The sensitive flaring of his nostrils reminded her of a pedigree Arab steed. His mouth seemed to her cruel - definitely cruel, or was it bitter? Or disillusioned? Angry though she was, she had a sudden urge to touch, with gentle gloved finger, the dark hair curling up slightly in his neck and the short dark sideburns along his tanned cheek. She could hardly believe that this magnetic person was Graham. Somehow she remembered him as a gentle, blond-haired youth, always ready to lead her pony or push her swing. But it was so long ago, and memory does play tricks.
Suddenly her companion sat up, alert, his deep voice radioed acknowledgement of the tower's permission for flight. The purr of the engine changed to a roar and the minute Beechcraft began moving towards the main runway, where it gathered momentum and became airborne. The wind rushed past.
Forgetting her anger in the excitement of a new experience, Gillian gazed at the swiftly-changing panorama of city and suburbs.
Her companion seemed intent on manoeuvring the machine, and studying the wisps of clouds sailing in the blue sky.
She was suddenly aware of the coarse trouser leg against her silk-clad knee and the band of iron muscle under the cloth. Afraid that he might count a swift withdrawal from contact as schoolgirlish prudishness, she sat unmoving, her mind in a turmoil. Keenly aware of his masculinity, yet determined to prove her; indifference, she tried hard to think of a natural reason for changing position and breaking contact. Maybe if she dropped her handbag at her feet? Even as she considered, he drew away his leg. Her cheeks flamed. Had he misconstrued her pretended indifference? It was typical of his egotism and arrogance to think that she was trying to flirt with him. Oh, she could hate this man! If only she could slip away from the midget plane on to a magic carpet and be whisked away, back to the security and peace of the convent, where no man would disturb her equilibrium. She felt foolishly young, inexperienced and vulnerable.
Swaziland was miles away. The thought of being trapped with this male creature at such close quarters for more than an hour was unbearable. The moment she arrived at Impala Ranch, which was now her very own, she would sack this manager of her late father - Dad's attorney would find her a new manager easily! Right now she felt afraid, inadequate, ready to turn tail and flee from the responsibility she was about to take upon her shoulders. She should have listened to her attorney - sold the ranch and remained in England.
Her father's words, when they were on their last holiday together, just before his car crashed, came clearly to mind: 'Always confront, kid! Face up to things.'
It was solid advice. She would follow it instantly. Summoning courage, she turned to the silent pilot at her side.
'Look, Graham,' she said, 'I don't know what's biting you, but from the moment we met you've, been deliberately rude to me, and I would like to know why.' He ignored the question. 'Have you come to look upon Impala Ranch as your own? Is it that you resent my intrusion?'
He looked at her mockingly and merely quirked a black eyebrow.
'We'd better get this straight,' she continued. 'Mummy's gadding goodness knows where, or with whom. For twelve years she's had no interest in my father, me, nor the ranch - just disappeared from our horizon.'
'Stop being sorry for yourself, kid,' he growled.
'I'm not being sorry for myself,' Gillian blazed, 'but I did look to you to help me - guide me. Your attitude is that of an enemy. Tell me why.'
He broke into a harsh laugh. 'You've got, it all wrong, Miss Gillian McBride. I'm not Graham.'
Gillian paled. Abashed, she cried, 'You're not Graham? Then who are you?' Her voice revealed her sudden terror. It became strident. 'And what...'
He put a comforting hand on her shrinking knee. 'Pipe down, my girl,' he advised, almost kindly. 'I'm not in the white slave traffic. I'm not abducting you.'
'B-but Graham wrote and said he'd …'
'Your beloved Graham is sweating it out on a bed of malaria fever at your blessed ranch, and he asked me, his neighbour, to cart you over. Okay?'
'Cart?' she snapped. 'Am I a piece of cargo to be carted about?'
'I'm not interested in what you are,' he drawled, 'and if you think I'm your enemy, forget it. It's just that precocious kids are my particular bête noir. See here' - there was a note of appeasement in his voice — 'as we're forced to spend some time in each other's company, let's at least be civil.'
'Look who's talking!' she said with a touch of sarcasm.
He drew a box of cigarettes and a silver lighter from a jacket pocket. 'Here, light us one.' Her fingers trembled as she flicked the lighter and held the lit cigarette towards him. He had both hands on the controls and bent his face indifferently towards her hand. She placed the cigarette between his lips. Her fingers accidentally brushed his hard mouth. The contact was electric; she drew her hand away swiftly as though it had been stung.
'Light yourself one. Or don't convent girls smoke?' he added tauntingly.
Piqued, Gillian complied, her heart filled with resentment that he should consider her immature and innocent. She choked as she made her very first draw on a cigarette. He shot her an amused look. She couldn't help wondering what her friends and Mother Superior would say if they could see her now. Handing the lighter back to him, she noticed an inscription on the silver back. Surreptitiously, she strained her eyes and read the words: 'Dirk von Breda. All my love, E.'
'So now you know my name.' Again that hint of mockery.
'You're sharp,' she retorted.
'One needs to be both sharp and tough in this country to which I'm taking you.' A note of warmth crept into his voice. 'A beautiful, rugged, challenging country.'
It was the first civil remark that he had addressed to her. She welcomed the cease-fire, though she suspected it to be short-lived. 'I remember so little,' she mused. 'Tell me about it. Tell me about Swaziland.'
'Well, what do you want to know? There's so much to tell.'
'With their newly-acquired independence, how are the Swazi people making out?'
'Under the guidance of a few remaining British officials, the Swazis are gradually taking over the reins. The Government is now all-Swazi. In all civil service posts the whites are moving out and the Swazis moving in.'
'Does it work?'
'Oh yes, I think so. In our area the District Commissioner and Head of Police, both Swazis, are coping splendidly. The Government still receives British aid and South Africa is doing all it can to help. I've seen as many as thirty tractors, manned by South African farmers, cross the border and plough the lands of the Swazi farmers, free and gratis. The emerging Swazi nation is still poor and farming equipment primitive. They need help.'
'What about the white settlers? Are they moving out too?' Her interest was thoroughly roused.
'Some have left the country, many remain. Whites from other countries are immigrating into Swaziland. The general atmosphere is one of peace and goodwill.'
'I'm glad,' she said with feeling.
'Of course,' he went on, 'with so many farms being vacated, the value of property has dropped. Your ranch, for instance, is not nearly worth what it was before, but your cattle are worth a fortune.'
'I'm not money-minded,' she offered. The simple life for me!'
'Clichés. Schoolgirl idealism. Mere delusion,' he railed.
She knew he was trying to provoke her again. 'Your disparaging remarks leave me stone cold,' she said icily. 'Tell me more.'
'Your turn to tell me,' he prompted her with an amused smile. 'Don't you think it's stupid of a young girl like you to come ranching in our wild country?'
'Wild? A moment ago you spoke of peace and goodwill.'
'Politically peaceful, but wild and rough in everyday life - no place for any lone woman - in particular an unprotected, unsophisticated, convent girl.'
'You can leave the fatherly concern out of it. Right?'
'Are you still determined to carry out your plan?'
'I'm going to farm my ranch, Mr. Big. Satisfied?'
'You mean you're going to sit in the cool of your stoep and watch Graham Barry farm for you.'
'No, I'm going to farm. I've brought all Daddy's books on cattle and ranching. I'll learn from them.'
'Methods change. Those books are probably dated and useless. Anyway, if you need any help . ..'
.'Oh, I'll get by without your help, never you fear.'
'I was going to say, if you need help, your Graham will be there to support you.'
'He is not my Graham!' she blazed. 'I don't even know him!' Angrily, she flung her half-smoked cigarette into the wind.
'Hey, don't do that!' he reprimanded, with a quick, anxious, backward look. 'If that's been blown back into the craft, we're in for trouble.'
'Well, stop goading me! You were the one to declare a truce, but you keep instigating me to war.'
She turned her head away quickly to hide the sudden tears. For a while they sat in silence, the little machine throbbing its way eastwards towards Matsapa,' amongst the mountains of Swaziland. They were flying low and she watched the kaleidoscope of hills and woods and the patchwork of pastures and glinting water.
Her mood gradually softened and her thoughts slipped quietly into the sad past. She saw again the Mother Superior beckoning her from the classroom and the dejected figure of kindly old Mr. James, her father's attorney, waiting nervously in the cold stone corridor. She recalled the premonition of doom, as the three of them filed silently into the cheerless, little reception room. She heard again the convent bell tolling mournfully. There was the Mother Superior's protective arm around her as they sat on the cold bench. Mr. James stood before them, turning his hat round and round, trying vainly to speak. She remembered the Reverend Mother's gentle voice as she said: 'My dear, you must be strong!' and Mr. James's words: 'Gillian, lassie, it was a car accident. Your daddy is ...' She had fallen into an abyss of terror and grief. 'No! No!' she had shrieked. 'It's not true! Daddy's not dead! Daddy can't be!' It had taken them both to hold her down in her fit of hysteria. At long last, the doctor's injection of a sedative had calmed her.
After that, the desolation, the void, the unbearable realization that never again would the post bring her a letter from her father. Never again would he fetch her from the convent at holiday-time to go touring or camping or skiing with him. Gentle, loving Daddy. When her butterfly mother, whom she scarcely remembered, had forced them away from the ranch, which Daddy, for all his gentleness, loved, they had come to London. But the butterfly fluttered away and was never heard of again.
Gillian remembered her first day in the convent, her only comfort being that her father was not returning to the ranch, but was settling in London to be near her. And then, just when she was about to take her final examination, the accident. How she had managed to pass she would never know; nor whence came the strength to sweep away all objections and push through her plans to return to Swaziland.
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