The Giraffe Stepped Over The Fence

By Storm James

A coming-of-age story with artful sensuality and adult romance, this novel is a gripping read set in Swaziland in the 1970s.

With sexually rampant parents of the Swinging Sixties era, Shanna Langley struggles with her own morality and when notorious playboy, Marco Bonheur, is stranded on her family’s remote cotton ranch in the Swazi bushveld, all her preconceptions are severely challenged.
And just when should she tell him her damning secret?

Against the backdrop of the tiny, exotic Kingdom of Swaziland and its teeming wildlife, is the enigmatic Dlamini, the Swazi Prince in whose chiefdom events unfold.
While coaching his grandson on the traditions of his people, from the migration of the tribes out of central Africa, through the birth of the Swazi nation, the princely chief controls his jurisdiction: From social disputes to poaches on game ranches, that teem with giraffe, crocodile, hippo, lion, leopard, elephant and rhino, little escapes his subtle influence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm James
• Release date: Feb 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466163515

Storm James

Born in Pietermartizburg, her childhood spent between the bushveld of Swaziland and the colonial boarding school of St. Annes Diocesan College in Kwa-Zulu Natal, the contrasts of Southern Africa have always fascinated the authoress. Having left the corporate PR, Media Liaison and Marketing world, writing and editing company newsletters in Johannesburg, to spend ten years teaching Business and Legal English to executives in Zurich, Switzerland, the authoress returned to African shores to write of southern Africa. The realisation of how different her homeland was to Europe, and how little understood the lifestyle of its diverse peoples beyond the political aspects, created in her a compulsion to write a story containing tales of every day life southern Africa Having observed, first-hand, the extremes of diverse cultures, she offers a series of novels, set in different parts of the country, in different eras and interlaced with history of the peoples of each area in an attempt to give a full and rounded picture of a land and people that lack only a sense of community. 'I came to see that not only was my own childhood unusual in the extreme, but that growing up in southern Africa was a very special privilege. When recounting an odd incident from my past, it was clear that people believed I must have made it up!' she recalls. 'It is so far removed from the consciousness and experiences of those born elsewhere on the planet! I want to honour those differences. Without realising it, we have all absorbed aspects of each others’ cultures; thus, in a world poised on vast change, my fellow South Africans are better equipped to live in it than they realise. I’d like to bring this to their attention whilst showing the outside world a different view to what the media depicts both locally and abroad. '

Book preview

The Giraffe Stepped Over The Fence

"First in the Romantic Africa Series, The Giraffe Stepped Over The Fence sets a high bar for the books to come.

James has shown herself adept at creating a thought-provoking and compelling, character-driven story."

--- SUE MULLER HACKING, award winning author and journalist, Seattle, USA

"Author Storm James brings to life the people, culture and history of the little-known African Kingdom of Swaziland.

The Brit, Boer, Swazi and Zulu characters are skilfully and sensitively portrayed. This fast-paced, well researched

novel is a riveting read."

--- JEANNE BAER, Academic Director, RSA Dip, TEFLA, Zurich, Switzerland.

"This well-crafted novel captures a forgotten world from twentieth century Africa. But it avoids nostalgia for what

has vanished; its riveting focus is on the eternal challenges of romantic and personal relationships that are very

much with us today."

--- KEITH GOTTSCHALK, University Western Cape; Poet, Lansdowne Writers’ Group.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James’s writing explores the rich blend in the variety of races that have fused into the unique Southern African culture. This, coupled with an intimate knowledge of wildlife and farming, sets the scene for a series of books. Locations cover African migration from the 15th century to present day.

She lives on the Dolphin Coast of Kwa-Zulu Natal and sleeps to the thunder of the Indian Ocean by night.

The Giraffe Stepped Over The Fence

By

Storm James

From giraffes to G-Spots

Swazis, Brits & Boers

A story of peoples, passion and betrayals

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

About The Author

Title Page

Contents

Rights

Acknowledgements

The Langley Family Tree

Map of Swaziland

Migration of African Tribes 1500s

Table of Swazi Royals

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Trapped Between Rivers

Chapter 2 - A Secret Rendezvous

Chapter 3 - A Question of Age

Chapter 4 - Awakening Sexuality

Chapter 5 - Ndotseni Game Reserve

Chapter 6 -Bi-Sexual Giraffes

Chapter 7 - Cinderella

Chapter 8 - Coming of Age

Chapter 9 - The Sins of the Parents

Chapter 10 - Seduction

Chapter 11 - Confession

Chapter 12 - A Trip to Port Alfred

Chapter 13 - A Modern Lancelot

Chapter 14 - Confrontation

Chapter 15 - A Police Matter

Chapter 16 - An Angry Knight

Chapter 17 - In Receiving We Give

Coming Soon - The Lion Breached The Barrier

Contact The Author

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing

from the author or author’s representative. The moral right of the author has been asserted.

http://stormjamesauthor.blogspot.com

First published in March 2012.

2nd Edition: August 2012.

3rd Edition: December 2012.

ISBN: 978-1-4661-6351-5 (e-Book)

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-0-620-53165-8 (Printed Book)

Copyright Storm James 2012. All rights reserved.

Cover designed by Nick Green Designs, [e-mail]

Cover illustration copyright 2012. All rights reserved.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A huge vote of gratitude to my friends who made this book possible, for their unfailing support, through thick and thin, in the two years it took to complete the manuscript.

Special thanks to my childhood friend, Tim, who gave me food and shelter and, even from Mozambique, rescued me from starving in the garret — you never gave up on me even when I was ready to give up on myself! To Rose & Peter Dowling for their support and encouragement; to Michael Belohlavy from Switzerland, friend and techno whizz-kid, for his unstinting technical support for the e-book version; to Linda Metten for her practical help and welcome back to Africa; to Jon and Sue for their support and input and Sue’s diligent, tireless editing and proofreading from the high seas on their yacht, Ocelot.

Warm thanks to Nick Green, for his amazing artwork, and Liz Claasen, who stood by me even though she thought me crazy and the content of the book way too racy!

And, of course, to Phil Davis for his input and getting it out there; to Louis and Gareth for their tireless help. Last, but not least, Mike and Carmen without whom, over the years, I’d have sunk long since: you are such stars!

I can never thank you all enough. You all put up with my highs and lows and remained constant and true. I am truly blessed to have you all in my life.

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THE LANGLEY FAMILY TREE

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MAP OF SWAZILAND

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MIGRATION OF AFRICAN TRIBES 1500s

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TABLE OF SWAZI ROYALS

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PROLOGUE

Accident or Murder?

December 1976

It was the vultures that led them to the body. The rains had washed the land free of all spoor but the three Swazis with the young man of European descent had not needed to track. The vultures had been visible from dawn. No-one had spoken since they had mounted up and begun the trek.

He was still heavy-hearted and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep but not so bleary-eyed that he had not immediately spotted the circling vultures against the horizon. He could hardly have failed to notice them. His three Swazi trackers had been waiting for him, silent, their eyes squinting upwards, following the flight of the big, white-backed scavengers. Four Greys were already saddled, water bags bulging, rifle holsters strapped securely, his own horse tethered to the post. Without a word, he had turned back to the house for the rifles and veterinary kit.

It was a procedure they had followed many times when vultures alerted them to abandoned carcasses or the imminent death of an animal, especially when poachers had been active. Carcasses abandoned after being dehorned in the case of rhinoceros, where the horns fetched unimaginable prices on the Chinese market.

In the case of elephant, of course, it was the ivory the poachers were after, but it was getting harder to deal in ivory, thank God. And this new law that had been passed would make a big difference. The bastards would not have it so easy anymore. No longer would his game wardens be helpless, at the mercy of the poachers. Now they, too, could shoot to kill.

Still, it wasn’t likely that poachers had been active last night in the worst storm of the season. The further they penetrated into the bush, the more obvious the storm damage became. Dense foliage covered the ground, stripped in the heavy rain and fierce winds. Here and there, small trees lay uprooted.

The sound of their approach muted by the thick, matted layers of foliage beneath their horses’ hooves, he held up his hand in an unspoken signal as they reached the start of the treacherous, narrow path that cut back into the rock face of the cliff. Silent, eyes alert, scanning the cliffs above them, one of the riders shouldered his rifle while his employer and two colleagues dismounted and tethered their horses before, stooped low, they spread out along the narrow ridge. Carefully, rifles at the ready, they inched into position and peered cautiously down.

The corpse was spread-eagled, face down, brown hair glistening wet in the morning sun. He was wearing khaki shorts to mid-thigh and a dark blue denim shirt. Heavy, brown, lace-up, leather boots to mid-calf, buckled at the sides, long socks pulled to the same height. There was no mistaking the identity of the dead man, even from this height.

For long, frozen moments, no-one spoke or moved.

The squawking, flapping scavengers circling overhead brought him back to the present. The body was clearly untouched by them and it took a closer look for the young man to register the reason. To the right of the body, invisible at first glance, a Swazi man was sitting stiffly upright, motionless beneath the jagged overhang of the cliff. In one hand, he clasped the handle of a spear, which pointed to the skies; in the other hand, his fighting stick and knobkerries.

Shit!

Without the Swazi’s presence, the vultures would have feasted on the corpse, obscuring the knife wounds and the head blow he knew were on the body. Those wounds would surely turn what would have been a routine death by misadventure case into a full-blown homicide investigation.

Accident or murder?

The hairs rose on the back of the man’s neck and his gut tightened in apprehension as he stared down at the corpse. Doubt shook him, disjointed thoughts clashing in his brain, uppermost among them the need to examine the knife wounds he knew would be on the corpse.

How the hell had the body got here?

Damn you to hell, you arrogant, impossible bastard, he thought, looking down at the once powerful frame with mounting fury. Even in death you create chaos!

Adrenaline pumped through the young man’s veins, clearing the numbness from his legs as his scouts sat back on their haunches, silently awaiting his instructions. Their sombre black faces were impassive, guarded, devoid of the usual wide smiles.

The previous night’s downpour left scant hope of a blood trail, scuffing of the ground or uprooted grass but at his command, the trackers spread out and began moving slowly, thoroughly and conscientiously examining the ground in the direction from which the man must have come.

He made his way down the perilous cliff, reliving the events of the previous night in his mind with steadily increasing foreboding. How much did they know about the previous night’s activities? The African bush telegraph worked a hell of a lot better than European technology. He had barely managed to get through to Johannesburg before the phone lines had gone down and had no way of knowing if the message he had left had even got through.

No-one had questioned the presence of an extra horse in the home paddock. They knew whose horse it was, of course, but no-one had asked after the absent owner. In itself, the lack of comment from his staff was not unusual. What was unusual was that no-one had reported the absence of one of his jeeps. The jeep that would have crossed the border when it opened at seven and would now be speeding along the Natal coast through Zululand to the port of Durban. Which meant his staff had guessed that his jeep was being driven by the owner of that extra horse. What plausible explanation could he give for the rider’s flight?

The rider had arrived in the middle of the stormy night, drenched, bleeding and still gripping the knife that had inflicted those wounds. That they couldn’t know. Nor that he had carefully washed the bloody knife and packaged it in a sealed envelope and left it lying on the dining room table!

He would have to get rid of that knife before the police got here.

A corpse with knife wounds, on his land! Doubt shook him, suddenly. It was well known that he had banned the man from his property, even threatened to shoot him for trespass.

Double shit!

Not by look or word had his staff indicated that they knew he had left the property in the middle of the night, that his bed was still fully made, that he was still wearing the clothes he had worn the previous day. Which didn’t mean they didn’t know. He should not have insisted on following his loaned out jeep to the Swazi border. What plausible reason could he give for his own whereabouts?

He jumped onto the ledge then paused in shock as he recognised the tall, stately old Swazi.

The Swazi put aside his weapons and rose, his face devoid of expression as he greeted the European in the traditional way.

‘Sawubona, inkhosane.’ I see you, young sir.

‘Yebo.’ Yes. He barely managed the traditional response. He had read enough detective stories to know that you weren’t supposed to touch the body. How was he going to examine it with this man present? He had to get rid of him before his trackers finished and arrived on the scene.

The young man pulled himself together with an effort and glanced up at the cliff then back to the body. ‘He must have been on horseback.’

The old Swazi shrugged and indicated the vultures. ‘I found him here at first light.’

The European glanced across the valley to where a thin plume of smoke came from just over the crest of the steep cliff on the far side where he knew the man lived. A good ten minute walk, at least. Incredible that he had got here ahead of the vultures. He had to have been close by, unless the dead man had still been alive. He stiffened at the thought, remembering suddenly that the old Swazi had also had issues with the dead man.

I’m becoming paranoid, he thought. I’m so busy trying to put myself in the shoes of the police, I’m acting as if it is a murder. I should be acting as if it were an accident.

And the most natural thing would be to examine the body of an accident victim, surely? The more he thought about it, the more sure he became. The only reason not to examine or move the body would be if you suspected murder.

He turned reluctantly and looked down at the body. After a long time, he stooped and turned it over. Rigor Mortis had set in and it went over stiffly in a single shove. Clearly the man had been dead a long time. Which made the question of the vultures abstention the more puzzling.

The man’s face was like pulp, the normally reddened, sun-ravaged skin washed clean by the downpour in the night, now a deathly white. What blood there was left had congealed only on the part of his face that had been in direct contact with the rock.

A long weal extended from his forehead to the right temple. The young European knew that blow had been sustained long before the man had started his journey. His eyes went instinctively to the cliffs, trying to picture the path of the body as it had gone over the edge, but he did not know enough about forensics to be sure that the police would write it off to the fall. Riding into an overhanging branch, prior to the fall, could better account for it — if he could ensure traces of bark were found in the wound.

He knelt beside the body and gingerly lifted the hem of the shirt and heaved an inward sigh of relief. The knife incisions could not possibly have caused death. They were barely visible but a close inspection but would undoubtedly raise questions — as would that long thin weal across the temple. He rolled the body back to its original position, pulled the shirt back down and stood up.

‘Nothing much on the rest of the body,’ he said to the old man. ‘Rigor Mortis has set in so I can’t tell if he broke his neck but I imagine hitting the rock would have been fatal. No doubt the police doctor will tell us more. Have you any idea what he could have been doing here?’

The old man shook his head.

‘You live nearby. You didn’t hear the horse? See it?’ Had he heard the other rider?

‘Nothing.’

The European sighed. ‘Well, he must have been thrown because the horse clearly didn’t fall. It’s alive, obviously, or the vultures wouldn’t be waiting here.’

The Swazi nodded. ‘He was no horseman.’

‘No, but obviously stubborn enough to try. I suppose the family will know the reasons. There’s nothing more we can do here, is there?’

‘I will go home now and send an umfane (boy) back with a blanket. It is not fitting to leave him here for the vultures.’

‘No, it is not,’ the young man said, relieved that the man was going but surprised at the hint to remove the body.

As soon as the Swazi was out of sight, he searched the storm debris, found a small branch and rubbed it across the weal of the head wound until bits of bark were embedded in the flesh, then tossed it into the stream below and removed his camera. He rewound the spool, removed it and inserted a new spool. Photographing a human corpse was more disturbing than the animal carcasses he normally did.

Photographs taken, he replaced his camera, fighting nausea.

One of his trackers was moving slowly toward the rocks, examining the ground as he walked, and the young man sat back and waited patiently. If there was anything to be seen, his tracker would see it. His trackers were the best in the business, he’d back them against any of the police trackers any day, and he needed to know what, if anything, would be found. The likelihood of finding anything that had not been washed away in the heavy downpour during the night was almost zero but it paid to be certain.

A small Swazi boy appeared on the path below, carrying the requested blanket.

As he approached, the young European man stood up, shielding the corpse from the boy’s horrified gaze as best he could, and hailed his chief tracker who was still diligently searching the area below the rock.

‘Come and wrap the body— and bring ropes to lift it up.’

‘Yebo, mnumzane!’ Yes, sir.

The tracker nodded, put his fingers to his lips and sent a piercing whistle ringing out across the valley. Within seconds, two answering whistles occurred from the surrounding bush.

The blanket was roped around the corpse, lifted up the cliff and tied to one of the horses. Spared the gruesome sight, the tension in the group eased slightly. The young man nodded to two of the trackers to get going, one leading the burdened horse, and paused before mounting his own horse.

‘Siyabonga, umfane.’ We thank you, boy.

The youngster nodded, silently, his black face grey in the early morning light.

Nodding to his chief tracker, the European spurred his horse forward.

‘Asambeni!’ Let’s go.

The small boy watched the grisly procession until they were out of sight, then ran swiftly back down the path and across the river. By the time he crested the hill on the other side, he had to pause to catch his breath. Just over the hill was the cluster of huts of his grandfather’s home. The old man awaited him at the camp fire in the middle of the clearing, beside the largest of four huts.

‘Hlala phansi,’ the old man ordered, and the boy obediently sat down on the ground and stretched his legs out before him. ‘Death comes to us all. What must the living do?’

‘Remember and tell their children,’ the boy replied, reviving in the calm presence of his grandfather.

‘Correct. And what will you do? What is your special task?’

‘Learn well at school and write the memories down.’

The old man smiled. The normality of the planned history lesson would be good for the child, but he would shorten it, given the circumstances. ‘Good. And how will you start?’

‘In the beginning, a long time ago, the Nguni people came down from the north,’ the boy recited, promptly. ‘Some went south towards the Eastern Cape, becoming the Xhosa people. Our ancestors, the Tekela-Nguni went east, then split. Those that continued east became the Tsonga. But our people went south-east, and in the 16th Century were known as the eMbo-Nguni.’

‘Yes. And then? Do you remember what I told you last week?’

‘Over a long time, the eMbo-Nguni split many times and into many chiefdoms. The Nyaka lived to the East of the Maputo River in Mozambique, the Tembe west of it. The Tembe spread west to the plateaux of the Lubombo Mountains and southwards to the Lusutfu River. They were also called the emaLangeni, who were the eMbo-Dlamini and the Thonga-Nguni. The Nyawo came here. After crossing the Pongola River, they went as far as the Umfolozi River in Kwa-Zulu (the South African province of Natal), but the groups split. The emaNgwane first, then the Ndwandwe, more south, then the Hlubi. The Dlamini went further South before joining with the emaNgwane and others and returning here, finally becoming the Swazi nation.’

The old man nodded, hiding his pride in this very special grandson. The original tribal migrations were complex, hard to grasp. ‘Good.’

He rose, stretched and sighed heavily. ‘Now go and tell your mother of the mnumzane’s death. She must stay at work there to look after the young inkhosane. Also, she must send me word when the inkhosatana is to come home.’ Inkhosatana meant young mistress.

He watched his grandson run off, then called up to his youngest son who was busy replacing the thatch on the roof of one of the huts.

‘My son, we must speak.’

When his son joined him at the camp fire, it was a while before the old man spoke.

‘Death creates change.’

‘Yebo, Baba,’ the man responded. Yes, Father.

‘Every ending is a new beginning.’

His son nodded respectfully, nudging the two logs of the fire further apart and removing the three-legged cast-iron cooking pot containing the breakfast remains from the fire altogether. He settled himself on his haunches and waited silently.

‘The young inkhosane (young sir) will need help and protection. This will be your task. When the inkhosatana returns, you will become the new indvuna (headman) at Umfulatini and you will take with you all those who left at the time of the walk out.’

‘NgiyaVuma, baba.’ I agree, father.

‘You will, of course, send those of questionable loyalty back to their homes.’

The man nodded and when his father remained silent, spoke thoughtfully. ‘The inkhosikati will hire a new White manager now that her husband is dead.’

‘Yes. You will watch this new manager. Hopefully, he will be good. If not, we will deal with that, too. But we will talk more, and often, on these affairs in the future.’

‘It is good,’ his son nodded.

‘We must make sure it is good — for all,’ the old man responded and closed his eyes wearily.

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CHAPTER 1

Trapped Between Rivers

October 1975

South East of the African continent, surrounded from the north, west and south by the Republic of South Africa, lies the small kingdom of Swaziland. Some way beyond the northern borders, is the famous Kruger National Park, the largest game reserve in the Republic of South Africa, hugging the Mozambique border. The Lebombo mountain range to the east of Swaziland forms a natural boundary with Mozambique and about two thirds down the Eastern border, the muddy waters of the Usutfu River loop around the small village of Big Bend before cutting almost due east along the border between Mozambique and the South African province of Natal, joining several rivers before flowing into the warm, sub-tropical waters of the Indian Ocean.

Some 15 kilometres along from the loop of the Usutfu River, a large cotton ranch sprawled along its southern bank, sandwiched between two smaller, parallel rivers, the Mtindzekwa and the Mzinpofu. The ranch was named Umfulatini — the place of the rivers. In the rainy season, the waters thundered down these narrow rivers, making the crossings impassable.

The Mtindzekwa, narrower and deeper, flooded first. Many an unwary tourist or city dweller had managed the crossing of the Mzinpofu and been forced to turn back by the Mtindzekwa, only to find themselves unable to cross back over the Mzinpofu. Accustomed to this phenomenon, the family on Umfulatini Ranch, alerted by the locals, would rescue the trapped travellers and accommodate them at the homestead where they would be forced to remain until the rivers subsided.

One hot October afternoon, a large, dusty Mercedes-Benz, travelling along the main road from Manzini, the commercial centre of the kingdom, reached the banks of the Mzinpofu and paused. For several minutes the two occupants of the car stared wordlessly at the dark muddy waters streaming across the causeway. Marco, the younger of the two, stepped out, stretched and walked down for a closer look. His brother cut the engine and joined him.

‘Merde!’ Although older by three years, Pierre was the shorter of the two, with a slight paunch that spoke of a desk job.

He had the same colouring and features as his brother, the same dark, glossy hair cut short and neatly trimmed at back and sides, but there the similarity ended. His brother was in perfect physical condition, not an ounce of spare fat visible, a tribute to his passion for sport of all kinds. Where his eyes were serious and brown, Marco’s were lively, a deep azure blue, glinting silver when amused, which he frequently was. Pierre was conventional, cautious, methodical and orderly; a worrier, whereas Marco was adventurous and resourceful, embracing change and game for any challenge.

‘I think the Merc will make it; the water’s not running that fast,’ Marco remarked, his eyes on the debris being carried along on the current. ‘If it’s not too deep.’

‘Exactly,’ Pierre muttered. ‘And how do we know?’

‘We walk out into it and check.’ He glanced at his brother’s immaculately tailored, lightweight suit and grinned. ‘Correction. I’ll walk out.’

‘You could be washed away or get that disease, bilharzia!’

‘It only breeds in stagnant water,’ Marco replied, straightening as a muddy Landrover approached.

It overtook the Mercedes and stopped at the water’s edge. The driver, a big beefy Afrikaner, descendant of the original Dutch settlers of the Cape in 1652, emerged from the vehicle, lifting a hand in greeting before ambling down to the water’s edge. He lit a cigarette and stood judging the speed of the flow for several minutes before turning to the Frenchmen silently watching him.

‘Goeie middag!’ he said, shaking hands with first Marco, then Pierre.

The Afrikaans language bore just enough resemblance to the original Dutch to be vaguely comprehensible in The Netherlands, having been simplified into three tenses. Several decades previously, the dialect had been formalised, standardised dictionaries drawn up and grammar books introduced into the schools in South Africa. Langenhoven, the man commonly accredited with transforming Afrikaans from a dialect into a language, became a volk hero and later a monument would be erected to the Afrikaans language: the Taal Monument.

Pierre responded in English and the man switched immediately, his English guttural but perfectly understandable.

‘You’ll make it across, but the other river may be a problem – it’s faster and deeper.’

‘We turn off before the other river,’ Pierre said.

‘You going to Pratt’s plaas— er, farm, then?’

‘That’s right, yes.’

The Afrikaaner observed them for a few moments in silence, then smiled. ‘You’re French? From Mauritius?’

Marco nodded, returning the smile.

‘You have a meeting with the Chairman of the Livestock Association, perhaps?’

‘Indeed,’ Pierre answered, surprised, and the man’s attention switched to him.

‘Ja, well then, geen probleem. Pratt will look after you,’ he said, cryptically. ‘As I say, you’ll make it in the Merc. if you keep her slow but steady. Tell Pratt that Jannie Coetzee says hi.’

With another smile, he returned to his Landrover and edged into the water, then slowly forged it. It took less than five minutes to reach the opposite bank where it halted. A hand extended from the open window and gave them a thumbs up sign before revving the engine and disappearing over the rise.

‘Easy for him to say in a Landrover,’ Pierre muttered.

‘The water didn’t go higher than mid wheel,’ Marco pointed out. ‘It’ll come to just below the engine level. As long as you go slowly, the engine won’t get wet and cut out. But keep it steady, no big splash going through—.’

‘It’s all yours. This is your kind of fun, not mine.’ Pierre walked back to the car and got in the passenger side.

They crossed without incident and continued until the entrance to the ranch, a wide cattle grid, flanked on both sides by a five-metre high wall supporting a large imposing stone arch into which was chiselled, Umfulatini 1875. The wall curved outward from the grid, tapering down to a height of two metres where it joined the boundary fence. On one side, a steel gate was set into the fence, chained and padlocked.

Marco followed the dirt track through the surrounding bushveld for a kilometre before reaching the cleared, arable fields which stretched out kilometre upon kilometre, down to the banks of the Usutfu River. The track forked and, with no sign to indicate the route to the homestead, Marco chose the wider, more worn track.

‘If that second river is unfordable, it’s going to add hours to our trip. We’ll have to cross back over this river and go round via Manzini and Siteki to get to Ndotseni tonight,’ Pierre said, replacing a map he had been studying. ‘Maybe we should find a hotel in Manzini and carry on in the morning if this meeting with Pratt goes on too long.’

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’

Pierre snorted. ‘What bridge?’

Some five kilometres from the main road, Marco saw a cloud of dust being raised by a tractor at work in the fields and turned in that direction.

‘Don’t park too close,’ Pierre said, fastidiously. ‘Look at that dust!’

Marco grinned, pulled up at the edge of the field, way short of the newly tilled row and cut the engine.

‘These guys don’t speak English,’ Pierre sighed.

‘Never mind, I’ve got by on sign language and drawings in the sand before.’

Pierre squinted at the slowly approaching tractor, eyeing the diminutive driver. ‘Either this Pratt character employs dwarves or he’s into child labour.’

A tall, elderly Swazi man was perched on the cover above the large wheel, leaning towards the diminutive driver and nodding. Seconds later, he jumped from the moving tractor and ran to the end of the field where several bags of seed had been placed at the edge of the road. He hoisted up a bag and carried it towards the row along which the tractor was steadily approaching. It came to the end of the row and continued across it till the planter behind was right at the edge of the field, whereupon the driver pulled a lever, lifting the planter into the air, then swung the tractor expertly round 180 degrees to line up exactly alongside the newly planted row.

The tractor continued along the new row and the planter descended precisely at the beginning of the field, then stopped and the engine died. The whole manoeuvre had been conducted without a change in speed and in the ensuing silence, as the dust settled, the two men watched as a bare, shapely leg arced across the seat and the small figure stood upright on the huge machine and stretched, acknowledging their presence with a wave.

The brothers glanced at each other.

‘Female!’ said Marco, appreciatively.

She was wearing a soft, cotton shirt, once-white but now thoroughly coated in dust, and brief denim shorts, frayed at the ends. Both men’s eyes fastened on the taut, rounded buttocks as she turned her back, and climbed down from the machine.

Chafing inwardly at even this small delay, seventeen-year-old Shanna Langley quickly lifted the lid of one of the seed bins on the planter and peered inside. The bins were still half full, which meant that she was on track with the quantity of seed being used. They didn’t need refilling yet, but if she refilled the planter now it would save some of the time wasted while she talked to the visitors. Thunder rumbled to the right and she glanced up at the darkening skies, then pointed to a pile of used plastic fertiliser bags held down against the wind by a stone. The empty plastic bags that had once contained fertiliser were left there deliberately for use in the advent of rain, to prevent the Frumin, the purple coating of insecticide that protected the seeds from being eaten by worms before germination, being wiped off.

‘Liyeta itulu — the rain is coming,’ she said, and the old man nodded vigorously, not needing to be told to cover the seed bags in plastic against the pending storm.

As he began filling the bins, she turned and hastened towards the waiting men.

The heat shimmered in the air, scorching the bushveld, the air crackling with electricity as the storm built. It stretched the nerves taut and Shanna was torn between longing for the sweet release of the storm and the hope that it would hold off long enough for her to finish the planting. The rumble of thunder rolled across the nearby hills, heralding its approach and Shanna lengthened her stride, schooling her features to hide her irritation at the delay.

At her approach, Pierre lifted an eyebrow at his brother. ‘Ready with the sign language?’

‘Not necessary,’ Marco responded, his eyes fixed on Shanna’s face. ‘That’s no Swazi maiden, mon frère.’

She had lifted the ends of the dusty red bandanna wound tightly around her head and wiped the fine brown dust from her face, revealing unmistakably European skin beneath.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

‘Good afternoon,’ Pierre said, hastily. ‘We’re looking for Mr Pratt’s place, but seem to have lost our way.’

‘You must be the representatives from the Mauritian delegation,’ she said, correctly identifying his accent. ‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience. The sign for the house came down in a storm some months ago. You needed to turn first right after the entrance. Can you find your own way back? I would escort you, but I have to get these fields finished before the rain stops the planting. However, if you can’t...’

‘It’s no problem. Thank you and good luck,’ he said, turning hastily back to the car as the first random drops of rain came splattering down.

Marco, who had not said a word, remained rooted to the spot, his eyes riveted on her, and she gave him a quick, polite smile before turning and walking swiftly back to the tractor. He watched as she stooped over one of the newly planted rows and scraped away some soil, then replaced it.

Siphiwe was covering the seed bags at the edge of the field and she lifted a thumb in the air to him as she hoisted herself back into the driver’s seat. She was a third of the way down the field before he caught up with her and jumped back onto his perch on the wheel guard.

Marco recovered himself and climbed in beside his patiently waiting brother.

‘La Petite has the proportions most alluring,’ Pierre commented, eyeing him sideways.

‘About perfect, I’d say,’ his brother agreed.

The two Frenchmen looked at each other and grinned.

They found the homestead road without difficulty and crossed over a second grid on the crest of a hill.

‘This is more like it,’ Pierre muttered, as they turned onto an avenue of flaming flamboyant trees, spreading their canopies to shade the track. The road dipped gently down to a plateau of green lawns broken by lush, colourful beds of red cannas, flowering shrubs, a variety of palm trees and strelitzia. Rampant bougainvillea in reds, mauves, violet and gold abounded.

To the left of the wide, circular driveway, was the homestead; to the right, an orchard teeming with tropical fruit; papaya, banana, granadilla and mango grew alongside the winter citrus trees and deciduous fruit trees. Nearby a vegetable garden flourished in the hot, humid climate and rich, fertile black soil.

Almost dazzled by the array of colour, Marco parked under an enormous jacaranda and stepped out onto the carpet of fallen lilac flowers. Rounding the side of the house, they saw a young boy in a large swimming pool beyond which the plateau fell away abruptly, the untamed bush hugging the steep decline to the Mzinpofu River.

On the opposite side of the river, the bushveld continued as far as the eye could see, broken by the occasional round thatched hut and freshly cultivated fields. Dark storm clouds hid the horizon to the left, broken from time to time by flashes of lightning and distant rumbling of thunder, heralding the approaching storm. To the right, the sun still burned bright, low on the horizon, but here the clouds were lit by streaks of pink, lilac and gold, as if an artist had carelessly run a brush across the skies.

Marco savoured the magnificent view for a few moments, awed as always by the rugged beauty of the land, and the boy, sensing their presence, looked up, a friendly smile dispersing the serious expression on his young face.

‘Hello, are you here about the beef contract?’ he asked, his blond hair plastered wetly on his scalp.

He hoisted himself from the pool as Pierre nodded, bemused. It was not that there was anything secret about his government’s negotiations to import beef to Mauritius, but he doubted his own thirteen-year-old twin sons were much older than this youngster, and nothing could have been further from their interests than their father’s business dealings. He wasn’t even sure they knew what their father did for a living.

‘Mum! Dad! The Mauritians are here!’ the boy yelled.

When there was no immediate response, he ushered them through the open sliding doors onto a large patio that ran the length of the building. In one corner, several leather couches and reclining armchairs were arranged around a large mahogany coffee table.

‘They’ll be here somewhere,’ he said. ‘Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee? Or something cold, perhaps — juice, beer? We only have Castle Lager, at the moment, I’m afraid.’

‘A couple of Castles will do nicely, thanks,’ Marco said, easily. ‘But we don’t want to interrupt your swim.’

The boy dismissed this with a wave of his hand. ‘I was just cooling off. Anyway, the lightning is getting too close to be in the water now. I’m Jono Pratt, by the way.’ He raised his voice. ‘Zanele!’

A young Swazi maiden appeared in the doorway. ‘Yebo, inkhosane?’

‘Letsa tjwala lobubili.’ Bring two beers.

‘Yebo,’ she replied, dropping a curtsy and disappearing as silently as she’d appeared, returning shortly with a silver tray, laden with frosted cans and tall beer glasses. Placing it on a table, she curtsied again and backed away.

‘Ngiyabonga. Oh, Zanele!’ His voice halted her at the door.

‘Yebo?’

‘Landza Babe.’ Fetch my father.

‘Yebo.’

The boy turned back to the guests. ‘She’ll fetch Dad,’ he said. ‘He’s probably in the dairy. I’ve been trying for a week to calibrate the butter urn properly and he promised to look at it for me.’

Marco, grinning at his brother’s astounded face, took a seat. ‘You have a dairy?’

‘Just a small one for our own use. We separate cream and make cottage cheese as well. My sister, Shanna, makes yoghurt when she’s home for the holidays.’

Pierre choked. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m eleven,’ he replied. ‘Why?’

‘Well, er… ‘ Under the inquiring gaze, Pierre’s voice faltered.

‘My brother has twin sons about your age,’ Marco intervened, smoothly. ‘Fathers are always curious about these things. What’s wrong with the butter?’

‘It won’t set.’

‘As self-sufficient as the rest of this ranch, it seems,’ Marco murmured, in French. ‘I like it!’

‘You like everything about Africa,’ his brother responded. ‘Me, I prefer the island where rivers have bridges and children are children, not miniature adults!’

Marco laughed. ‘You’re too set in your ways, mon frère! Where’s your sense of adventure?’

Shanna smiled inwardly as she recalled the incredulous expressions on the faces of the visitors. City slickers, she thought, scornfully. Their kids probably spent their days playing sport or lying on their beds listening to music, totally oblivious to the world outside and the very planet they lived on.

And as for the taller, tongue-tied one, someone should tell him that his bad manners detracted heavily from his admittedly stunning good looks! So what if she was scruffy and covered in dust? Clearly his mother hadn’t taught him it was rude to stare!

The rains had come late in the season and many of the Swazi labourers had left their work to go home to plant their own crops, essential for feeding their families, among them three tractor drivers, leaving only two to plough and plant the Umfulatini fields. The livelihood of the family depended on getting the seed into the ground timeously, so it was all hands on deck in the race against time, nothing being more important than keeping the three tractors going, twenty-four hours a day.

Kevin and Trevor, two young men from the nearby towns, on holiday from Cedara, the agricultural college across the border in Natal, had eagerly accepted the holiday job. However, they were still one pair of hands short so seventeen-year-old Shanna, the oldest child in the family, had been drafted in to help.

By night, Shanna’s stepfather, Bart Pratt, and the senior of the Swazi drivers ploughed and fertilised the fields and the remaining Swazi driver disked them flat. By day, the two Cedara students took over the ploughing and Shanna disked. After three days, the day shift changed, and Shanna began the planting. At night, the driver would unhitch the planter and hitch up the disking implement, preparing the ground for Shanna to plant the next day. The first rain had loosened the ground sufficiently to allow it to be ploughed, but it was still hardened by lying fallow during the hot, dry, winter season and it took longer to plough than to disk or plant. Around midnight, Shanna’s mother would rise, drive down to the fields to take food and fresh flasks of strong coffee to her husband and the drivers.

On the eleventh day, the two Cedara students had finished the ploughing and disking by two o’clock and were preparing to return to the homestead to shower and change before leaving to go back to their homes in the country’s capital city, Mbabane.

‘There is a monster storm building up,’ Kevin, the older of the two, had said. ‘No way are we getting stuck this side of the Mzinpofu for the weekend! That’s one hell of a storm building up, Shanna. You should go home, too, or you’ll be caught in it.’

Shanna nodded, not bothering to reply. No way was she going home before the job was done. There were another two fields left, freshly disked by Pratt the previous night, and she thought of how hard everyone had worked to get the planting done before the rainy season really began, when the ground would be just too wet for the tractors to go into the fields without getting stuck in the mud.

Rain straight after planting, provided it didn’t come down hard enough to wash the seed away, was ideal for germination. Leaving the fields unplanted would mean missing the opportunity. She wasn’t going to waste time arguing about it. She glanced at the Swazi riding pillion on Kevin’s tractor, and spoke in SiSwati, knowing that the Europeans wouldn’t understand.

‘Tell my mother I am finishing it all and will come later,’ she ordered. He would tell the housekeeper, Zanele, who would pass the message on to her mother.

The youngster touched his cap and nodded, his teeth flashing white in his dark face and she swung the tractor into the next row. She glanced again at the build-up of dark, threatening clouds and shrugged inwardly. The big rubber tyres of the tractor would provide sufficient insulation against lightning.

‘How long before the rain gets here, Siphiwe?’ Shanna shouted above the roar of the engine to the old man who perched on the metal hub above the rear wheel.

‘About two hours, inkhosatana.’

‘Then we should be able to finish.’

Siphiwe Zwane had pointed to the Mercedes making its way along the road alongside the field.

‘Someone’s lost their way.’

‘Damn it! Spoke too soon! If we finish today, you and I are going to put that road sign back up first thing tomorrow!’ Shanna, visibly impatient and intolerant of any time lost, threw an anxious glance at the rapidly darkening sky.

‘I will tell Dlamini,’ Siphiwe had nodded.

A clap of thunder directly overhead almost deafened her and the rain began to fall more heavily. After ten minutes, Shanna jerked her head backward towards the planter, and Siphiwe clambered across to perch on the planter itself, peering down where the seed left the chute. It was his task to check that the wet earth did not clog up the chute, preventing the flow of seed.

A small plough, angled outward, raked a trough ahead of each of the chutes which ran directly from the four seed bins. At the bottom of the seed bins, carefully calibrated cogs turned, allowing the seed out at pre-set intervals. Directly behind each chute, another small plough, angled inward, raked the earth back to refill the trough and cover the seed. Beyond that, small rollers pressed the earth firmly into the ground above the seed.

Siphiwe gave a shout and Shanna braked immediately. While Siphiwe cleared the chutes of mud, she walked back along the lines, stooping from time to time to dig up the lines with a finger until she found the spot where the seed had stopped falling. Having cleared the mud from the chutes, Siphiwe leapt down from the planter and loped back to where she had stopped, marking the spot.

Shanna raised the planter and reversed carefully, keeping within the lines. When the planter was in line with his body, Shanna lowered it and as she started forward, Siphiwe resumed his perch. The process was repeated several times before they came to the end of the last field. It had delayed them considerably, but not enough to stop planting.

The thunder was moving away, the force of the rain lightening and Shanna gave a satisfied sigh. It looked as if the storm would pass further up. Perhaps the homestead would catch the heavy lash of it but here it was not heavy enough to wash away the seed, soft enough to soak into the soil.

They finished the last row in darkness and the rain held steady until they neared the homestead. A kilometre from home, the heavens opened and each crack of thunder was followed almost immediately by sheet lightning flashing the length and breadth of the horizon, its deadly beauty lifting her spirits further, the cleansing rain washing the earth and their bodies, rinsing the electric tension from the air and drenching the lowveld in eerie light.

The sound, sight and smell of the storm were a distinctive part of the African bush that she had grown up with and never failed to thrill her.

By the time she arrived at the homestead, she was drenched from head to toe, but felt happy and triumphant, the rain a sweet relief after the burning heat of the day.

Dlamini, the indvuna — headman /manager — was waiting.

‘Sanibonani,’ he greeted them. Translated, the Swazi greeting meant I see you all.

‘Yebo, mkhulu,’ she replied, grinning. She used the Siswati word for Grandfather. ‘Isn’t the storm great? It will make the seed germinate fast! It won’t get too strong down there, will it?’

As she chatted to Dlamini, Siphiwe quickly unhitched the planter and drained the seed from the bins into seed bags then placed them in the storeroom.

The storm was increasing in violence and, as soon as he had finished, Dlamini closed the door firmly against the rain and waved Shanna off.

‘Hamba manje — gijima!’ Go now — run!

Shanna obeyed and ran, cutting through the garden alongside the pool. She reached the house just as a loud thunderclap rent the air and a fork of lightning ripped downward. As she leapt the steps onto the veranda, she heard the crack as it struck a pole behind her.

That was close, she thought, shaken despite herself, and cannoned into something large, solid and decidedly masculine.

Long, lean fingers curled around her cold, wet upper arms, steadying her.

‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting…’ she said, breathlessly, looking up.

There was no light on the veranda but she caught glimpses of his face in the flashes erupting from the heavens, the gleaming black hair, high cheekbones and firm jaw line seemed cast in silver in the surreal light. She was suddenly aware of the clean, manly scent of him, a hint of spice.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ Her voice died and she focussed on the hands that held her with such easy confidence, feeling their strength and warmth, instantly infused with a strange and unfamiliar exhilaration.

The storm raged around them, a wild, magnificent display of nature that never failed to rouse Shanna’s spirit. Acutely attuned to the elements, his raw, unabashed masculinity unleashed the feminine deep within her.

She felt an urgent need to move closer, to feel those hands on the rest of her body, and she held perfectly still, savouring the feeling. Earlier, preoccupied with the pending storm and the need to complete the planting, she had barely glanced at him. At a subliminal level, she had noted the beautifully built body and rather shocking good looks but dismissed him without more than a passing thought. This close, however, he was impossible to ignore.

‘I was watching the storm,’ Marco said, after a momentary pause.

The timbre of his deep, well-modulated voice stirred something in the depths of her soul and she fought the astonishing urge to lay her head on those broad, powerful shoulders and feel the source deep within his chest.

‘The lightning! Are you all right?’ As if he felt her need, his hands moved, almost caressingly, up her arms to cup her shoulders, holding her slightly away, trying to read her expression in the intermittent light.

‘It hit the pole. Thank God for rubber soles.’ The unsteadiness of her voice had nothing to do with the violence of the storm and everything to do with his proximity. ‘Sorry! I didn’t — see you standing here.’

He did not let her go and she felt herself swaying into him as if drawn by a magnet, heard his intake of breath above the pounding of her heart. Prolonged sheet lightning lit the air. He caught a glimpse of half closed lids, noted the lacy shapes through the soaked, clinging fabric of her now transparent white blouse and his body sprang to life.

A thunderclap cracked directly above them, so loudly that Shanna jerked forward and his arms tightened involuntarily around her. She was dripping wet but soft and deliciously feminine.

His body tautened and he grimaced, releasing her and stepping back reluctantly.

‘You’re drenched.’

Disconcerted by her instant, unprecedented reaction to him, she propped a foot on a stool. ‘Rinsed in rain,’ she agreed, keeping her voice casual.

He watched as she bent to tug at the laces and remove sodden boots and socks. The towel Jono had used earlier lay discarded over a chair and he handed it to her.

‘Thanks.’ She rubbed it across her face and mopped the wet headscarf.

A door opened and Zanele Dlamini appeared with an oil lamp, spilling dim light in a swathe across her and his eyes fastened on the rigid tips so clearly outlined beneath the wet cotton fabric.

His loins on fire, Marco retreated, leaving her to Zanele’s ministrations.

‘You’re back!’ Shanna’s mother crossed the veranda to the French windows and slid them shut, muffling the sounds of the storm. ‘I do wish you people would learn to close doors behind you.’

Shanna dropped the sodden towel to her feet and wrapped herself in the fresh one. Removing the bandanna and shaking out long hair of deep copper, she smiled gleefully at her mother.

‘The planting is finished, Mum! All in!’

‘Cause for celebration, then. The Mauritians will have to stay the night, of course. From their descriptions, they barely made it across the Mzinpofu. Dinner’s delayed by the power outage. You won’t have to hurry your bath so make yourself respectable for our international guests,’ Janice told her daughter’s departing back.

Half an hour later, Shanna stood before her wardrobe, flushed from a hot herbal bath, gleaming copper tresses washed and drying fast. Black pants or her one and only evening dress? She tossed her head and slipped the violet dress from its hanger.

The soft silk, cut in a deep V-neck, moulded her body to the waist and fell in soft, flowing folds to her knees. She pressed amethysts into the tiny holes in her earlobes and, slipping on her only high-heeled sandals, considered her reflection in the full-length mirror. The added height leant grace and dignity to her slender flame, but still she felt vaguely dissatisfied.

You’re a fool, my girl, she told herself. Especially stupid as you’ll never see him again when he goes. Her pep talk notwithstanding, his manly scent lingered in her nostrils, the feel of those strong, muscled arms imprinted on her flesh.

On her way to the main living room, she stopped off in the kitchen to check that Zanele was coping with the extra load caused by unexpected guests in the middle of a power failure.

Zanele was. She eyed her young mistress and whistled beneath her breath as she took in her attire. ‘Hmm, so the bird begins to fly,’ she remarked. ‘You like that young man, hmm?’

‘The inkhosikati told me to dress up,’ Shanna said, defensively.

Zanele’s grin broadened and Shanna took herself and her red cheeks from the kitchen, shutting the door behind her with just a little more force than was necessary. Despite this, Zanele’s chuckles followed her down the passage.

‘I suppose the rain stopped the planting?’ Bart Pratt demanded, immediately she entered the lamp-lit sitting room. He focussed on her attire with a jaundiced eye.

‘Nope. All done, including Field 17.’ Her eyes turned to the men who had risen from their chairs.

Pratt followed her eyes with a frown. ‘Pierre, Marco, I believe you’ve met my daughter, Shanna,’ he said, brusquely.

‘I don’t think...’ Pierre began.

‘Yes, indeed, though we were not properly introduced at the time,’ Marco interrupted, hastily, his eyes drawn to the deep copper locks previously hidden beneath the bandanna. Nothing in her flawless, lightly tanned complexion had led him to guess she was a red head.

‘Mais—.’

‘Sur le tracteur,’ Marco murmured, under his breath, stepping forward to take Shanna’s hand and raise it to his lips. ‘Pleased to see you again, mademoiselle.‘

He noted the faint whiff of perfume, a hint of gloss to her lips. For him? His blood quickened.

Eyes the colour of the Atlantic ocean in a storm met his gaze and flickered.

‘Cette belle dame?’ Pierre muttered, incredulously, then, recovering himself, took her hand and bowed low. ‘Mademoiselle, it is my pleasure to speak with you a second time!’

‘C’est moi, m’sieur, je vous assure, mais merci du compliment,’ responded Shanna, the gravity in her voice belied by the twinkle in the storm grey eyes.

‘Mademoiselle, you must forgive me for not recognising you.’ He made a comical face and gave a very Gallic shrug. ‘Clearly, I am confused in this African bush with the rains that come down and the rivers that come up and trap us unsuspecting islanders! But where did you learn the French?’

Charm spread out from him though the eyes that met Shanna’s sceptical blue-grey gaze were rueful.

‘At school, but it is very bad, as you see,’ she said, smoothly.

‘But no,’ he replied, instantly. ‘You have the accent parfait.’

‘You are very kind to say so,’ Shanna murmured, politely.

He grinned. ‘Mademoiselle, you wound me. You are cruel, in fact. You doubt my sincerity!’

‘True. But I admire your charm, m’sieur,’ she riposted, giving him an impish grin.

‘How much seed is left over? Bags of it, I suppose!’ Pratt interrupted, impatient of social niceties, especially since the conversation had been conducted in French, which he did not understand. His eyes ran over the dress and the irritation he had felt when the brother had kissed her hand increased exponentially.

‘No. The right amount,’ she said, evenly.

Their eyes clashed briefly before she relented. ‘The chutes weren’t clogging until right near the end so we didn’t have to retrace much. There was only half a bag left and the bins are about a quarter full.’

‘Probably have to replant,’ Pratt tossed the challenge at her, ice-blue eyes fierce, hating the cool, remote expression that she used on him with increasing frequency these days. No doubt the influence of that snooty school she attended. That bloody trust fund her great uncle controlled! If not for that he could have chosen where she schooled and it would have been right here in Swaziland where she would be home every weekend!

‘Wanna bet?’ she retorted, allowing Marco to hand her to the nearest chair. It was just the lightest of touches at her elbow, yet once again she felt the electricity sizzling along her arm and she focussed on her stepfather with difficulty. ‘With this soaking, we’ll get a full stand.’

‘Oh, you think so, do you?’ It was becoming harder to get under her skin every day, Pratt reflected irritably.

‘I do. Unless the planter wasn’t properly calibrated, of course.’ Giving him the small victory of thinking he had provoked her could avert an unpleasant scene the presence of guests would not deter.

‘I calibrated it myself this morning!’

‘Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’ Shanna, who had known this perfectly well, turned her head to hide a smile.

Marco, observing this small exchange with interest, caught a fleeting glimmer of amusement behind Pratt’s fierceness.

‘This downpour isn’t good,’ Pratt growled, restlessly.

‘It wasn’t coming down so hard down there,’ Shanna said, comfortingly, ‘and it was passing, already moving this way. Siphiwe thinks the rain will stop in the night.’

‘So the rivers will be fordable tomorrow?’ Marco asked, with exaggerated dismay, as he took the seat beside her. ‘But I was looking forward to repairing the bad impression we have made on you, Mademoiselle.’

‘You’ll be trapped yet a while, I’m afraid. But what bad impression?’ Janice Pratt asked, surprised.

‘They’re having difficulty with the transition from dirty tractor driver to respectable daughter,’ Shanna explained, blandly.

‘Well, never mind that,’ Pratt said, with a forced laugh. A practical man, he was ill at ease with social chit-chat. His interests were firmly rooted in agriculture and he found small talk a waste of time. He especially did not like the attention the younger frog was paying his stepdaughter.

Marco glanced up and caught his stare. For long seconds the two males’ eyes met, then Marco’s brows lifted and Pratt turned away. ‘Now, about that contract, Pierre...‘ he continued.

‘I’m afraid that nothing outside of cotton and cattle will hold my husband’s attention for long,’ Janice Pratt remarked.

‘So let’s drink to the end of planting season and the success of the Mauritian deal,’ Shanna interposed, brightly, turning to Marco with an easy smile. ‘Perhaps you would pour us a glass of wine?’

Oh, please, God, don’t let Mum provoke him tonight, she prayed silently. He’s so clearly spoiling for it!

‘With pleasure, Mademoiselle, but it is Marco!’

‘Marco,’ she repeated, inclining her head.

He turned to the cocktail cabinet against the far wall and she studied him surreptitiously. He moved with a panther-like grace that bespoke peak