Kiwi Strong (New Zealand Ever After Book 3) Page 7

  I’d heard it could feel good. I’d have loved to believe it.

  This time, he had the dog with him, and my confused spirit settled some at the sight of the animal, her chocolate-brown fur a bit scruffy, her otter’s tail waving gently. When Gray pulled open my door, the dog barked once, wagged her tail so energetically that it moved her entire backside, and smiled at me with her whole face. I slid straight down from the seat, got both arms around the dog’s neck, and gave her a cuddle, and for the first time, the hot tears pricked behind my eyelids.

  I said, trying not to let my voice shake, “I should be so angry at you, you terrible creature, sending me into the river like that.”

  “To be fair,” Gray said, “she pulled you out as well. Restitution, eh. A bit like me, maybe.” He opened the girls’ door and put out a hand, and nothing happened. They didn’t get out. When I looked, they were just sitting there, frozen.

  I said, “Come on, girls. Let’s go inside.”

  “He’s trying to touch Fruitful, though,” Obedience said.

  I sighed. “Outside, men can touch women, and women can touch men. It’s allowed.”

  “Well, somewhat,” Gray had to put in. “Consent, and all that.”

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” I said. “Time and place?” There I went with the sarcasm again. It was the hunger, maybe. Or that unsettled thing.

  He looked startled, then grinned, stood back, swept a big arm out wide, and said, “Come in and meet my mum, ladies. And let me be the first to say—welcome to the start of the rest of your life.”

  I was lost. I could feel it happening. I was a lost woman.

  10

  Male Behavior

  Gray

  I wanted to do something else for Daisy. To be honest, I wanted to carry her inside. She looked that knackered, and her sisters didn’t look much better, especially Fruitful, who was still limping badly, wincing with every step. Daisy had climbed down from the truck without a word, though, for whatever it was—the fifth? sixth? time tonight, and her sisters trudged into the house behind us with the kind of exhausted resignation you associate with refugees. When we got inside, they huddled together and looked around exactly like those refugees, too, as if they’d just crossed the border and didn’t speak the language or understand the signs.

  There my mum was, though, standing by the dining table and beckoning them onward with the kind of smile that any Islander would recognize as the meaning of home. She already had the gas fire burning cheerfully, and now, she finished putting mugs of tea on the table, then went to the fridge and hauled out a platter of sandwiches.

  All of that would get through, surely. That language was universal.

  And, yes, that had been the reason for those sandwiches. I’d come in during the wee hours of the night with a scruffy dog and a half-drowned woman dressed in a blanket, my mum had heard that we were off to attempt a rescue, and she’d started making sandwiches and beds. Pretty much par for the course. It was fortunate, though, because I was starved, and the migraine was trying to reappear despite the earlier tablet. Migraines were like the more annoying type of personal trainer, nagging you about your sleep, your fluid intake, your stress level, and your diet.

  I told the girls, who were still standing beside the door, “Come in. Take off your shoes and get comfortable,” and got my own boots off.

  They did nothing but glance for one horrified moment in my direction, then look downward again, and I wondered what I’d said wrong. Was a man not supposed to notice them at all? Not talk to them? What?

  “Shoes off in the house,” Daisy told them, slipping her own still-soaked trainers off and leaving them on the rubber mat by the door. Her feet had to be frozen. She needed socks.

  “That’s getting undressed, though,” Obedience said in a near-whisper.

  Fruitful said, a snap to her voice, “Don’t argue. Just do it.” She was already sitting on the floor, trying to keep her long skirt tucked around her ankles as she untied her enormous white trainers with jerking movements. She encountered a knot and yanked at it, then flinched as the motion jarred her ankle, but kept on struggling, and I crouched down to help.

  She jerked back like I’d hit her.

  Daisy said, “Fruitful. No. It’s all right.” She was down there beside me now, working on the shoelace, her fingers deft despite her own fatigue. Fruitful’s face was twisted away from me, either so I wouldn’t see her cry or so I wouldn’t see her at all, and Daisy got the shoes off, then held the ankle, moving it in a way I was all too familiar with while her sister gasped and tried to grab the sound back.

  I thought I might know where Daisy got her own stoicism. It was bred in the bone, it seemed.

  Daisy set her sister’s stockinged foot gently down and said, “You’ve got a good strain here. We’ll look after that in a bit, get you some Panadol, find something to wrap it with. It’ll keep for now, though. Food first, I think.”

  “Too right,” my mum said. “No worries, love. You’re among friends.” She was on her knees herself beside Obedience, helping her slip her shoes off, putting a quick arm around her shoulder and giving her a squeeze while she was at it, then standing with a laugh and saying, “What a lot of bother over a few shoes, eh. Never mind. It’s nothing that a cup of tea and a good night’s sleep won’t put right. When did you last eat?”

  Obedience said, after a moment, “I had dinner, but Fruitful was in the Punishment Hut, so she didn’t get any. It was her first night there. You don’t eat the first night.”

  “So you’ll recognize the error of your ways,” Daisy said drily.

  My mum got a look on her face I recognized. The one that would’ve had her charging out and rescuing a kid from his bullies, or telling the oblivious young bloke on the bus to get up and give the pregnant woman his seat. Nothing more terrifying than a well-built Samoan mum in the full power of her righteousness. All she said, though, was, “That doesn’t sound pleasant. We can fix that, anyway. Come wash your hands, all of you, and sit down to eat.” She told Daisy, “Those clothes can’t be comfortable, though, love, and you’re muddy as well. Come with me and put on a dressing gown. We’ll get that Panadol for your sister while we’re upstairs, too. I washed your clothes, but you won’t want to put on those tiny jeans again. Nothing relaxing about tight jeans. You’ll need a bath and a good long sleep before you think about getting dressed again.”

  That left me and the two girls, who were still standing there, carefully not staring at me. I thought about it, then said, “You can wash your hands at the kitchen sink,” turned my back, went into the kitchen and washed my own, then sat down at the head of the table, put a sandwich on my plate, and took a bite, starting straight in on my belated dinner like a man with no manners at all. Presumably a situation they’d be more comfortable with. The dog plopped down beside me, laying her muzzle on her paws with a sigh, and the girls filed past without a word, washed their own hands, and sat quietly at the foot of the table, as far from me as they could get. I considered getting up to hand them the sandwich platter, but decided I was better off shoving it down the table without speaking, so I did. They were going to get an odd idea of proper male behavior, but as far as I was concerned, they already had an odd idea of proper male behavior. I wasn’t going to be able to teach them better at five in the morning.

  Mum and Daisy came downstairs after a couple minutes, fortunately. Daisy had my mum’s fuzzy blue dressing gown wrapped about twice around her, and fuzzy socks on, too. When I smiled, she lifted her chin at me and said, “Don’t laugh. I’m cold.”

  “I’m not laughing.” I pulled out the chair beside me, and she sat down and took hold of her own sandwich like she was very glad to make its acquaintance.

  I told Mum, “You could sit down yourself.”

  She said, “Nah. Got to go to work, don’t I. No rest for the wicked.” The girls looked up, startled, and she laughed. “Or so they say. I’ve looked out nightdresses, Gray, but now that I see these girls, they’ll be s
treets too big. Find them a few of your T-shirts instead to wear to bed, once they’ve had a lovely long wash. That’ll do.”

  Daisy

  Fruitful and Obedience looked like they wanted to drop through the floor. Wearing a man’s T-shirt. A strange man’s. To bed. When they’d be all but naked. Talking about it in front of him, not to mention the “lovely long wash.” They stared intently at their plates and chewed in mortified silence, and I thought about Orientation to Outside lessons and abandoned the thought. None of us had the energy.

  As for Gray, he finished his own dinner-for-breakfast, pushed his chair back, causing the dog, who clearly had a crush on him and had in fact been lying with her head on his stockinged foot, to get up in a hurry. He picked up the last half-sandwich on the platter after an inquiring look at the three of us that only I responded to, then handed it to the dog, who downed it in two quick gulps. After that, he stood there looking solid and tough, like I might not have got the picture before, and said, “I’ll look out those T-shirts and put them on my bed, along with an elastic bandage to tape Fruitful’s ankle. No undies to fit, I’m afraid, because even mine would fall straight off, but your clothes are just there on the bench, Daisy, and Mum’s got the master bedroom made up for you and the girls. Same one you were in before. We thought that’d be more comfortable, though you’ll have to cuddle a bit. One bed, eh. You’ll have the flash bath, anyway. I’m guessing that bath’ll feel choice after all this.”

  The girls had forgotten about keeping their eyes cast down. They were staring at him as if he were Satan risen from Hell, and I had to laugh.

  “Gray,” I told him, “you realize that every word out of your mouth has been more improper than the last.”

  He looked confused. “It has? What did I say?”

  “Never mind.” I was still smiling foolishly, punch-drunk with physical fatigue and emotional release. “It’s funny, that’s all. Cheers for the loan of all of it, though I can’t believe we’re putting you out of your own bed.”

  “Nah,” he said. “No worries. I’ll kip for a few hours, and then I’ve got a meeting. See you sometime in the afternoon. Sleep as long as you like, and eat what you like, too.” He hesitated, then put a palm on the table beside me, so I could see those scars on his knuckles again, not to mention the size of his hand. I wondered distractedly how he got gloves to fit that, and then I forgot to wonder, because he bent down, brushed my temple with his lips, and said, his voice low, “Enjoy that bath. You’ve earned it. I’ve never seen a stronger woman.” After which he whistled to the dog and headed upstairs with her trotting at his heels.

  I felt so light, I could hardly breathe. I could’ve said it was the sandwich, and the sandwich didn’t hurt. Maybe, though, it was more than that. It wasn’t love words, obviously, because having a man tell you that you’re strong isn’t exactly, “Oh, baby, do it like that, oh yeh, turn me on some more,” even if he has kissed you.

  Sort of kissed you.

  Like he’d kiss his sister.

  All right, I got it. It was having somebody to share this with, that was all. And maybe somebody to lean on. Somebody tough enough to be that kind of prop.

  Just for a day. A day couldn’t hurt.

  Surely.

  11

  Team Meeting

  Gray

  Four hours later, I wasn’t exactly at my best. I’d taken a second migraine tablet, but it wasn’t doing the business yet, and when you’re meeting with your investors, the former teammates who’ve taken a flyer on you once again, risking their money instead of their bodies this time, you could want all your faculties intact. Especially if that meeting is nothing you’re relishing.

  When I walked into the cheerful, noisy space of the Federal Diner, though, I stumbled on the threshold, because my wonky brain had informed me that there was a step there. Which was the vertigo, that was all. I’d held my head rigid on the short drive down the hill, and parked in the public lot by the lake so as not to have to slot the oversized ute into a too-small parallel space, but now, even walking was getting tough.

  The others were at the table in the back. Getting plenty of discreet looks from the Kiwis amongst the customers—which was only about half of them, in this world-famous destination—but Kiwis know how to leave a fella alone when he’s out and about, too.

  There was somebody else with them. Somebody I hadn’t met before. What was that about? My antennae were well and truly up, because that bloke was on no rugby team in the world.

  A financial expert, something like that? They knew, then. I set it aside with an effort and told the ginger fella behind the counter, “Make a large long black for me, would you, Colin, with an extra shot, and have them bring it over? I’m a wee bit desperate for caffeine this morning. A kedgeree as well.” Smoked trevally, Indian-spiced rice, and a poached egg. That would fill the empty spaces and help with the sickness, I hoped.

  “No worries,” Colin said, his hands not stopping, tamping ground espresso into the filter basket, then slotting it into place. “Coming up.”

  Caffeine was good. Something about constricting the blood vessels in the brain. Though between the “desperate” part and the way I was walking, he’d think I had a hangover.

  Never mind. Couldn’t be helped. I’d overslept and had run out of the house without coffee or another shower, and my head was full of that muzziness again, like it was stuffed with cotton wool. I set it aside, concentrated on placing my feet perfectly, twisted my way amongst the crowded tables to reach the back, and prepared to front up. Exactly like going into an overseas match after a bout with a stomach bug, your stomach still wonky and your legs like lead, and knowing you had to gin up some energy and perform anyway.

  No choice, because it wasn’t about you. It was about the team.

  They had their breakfasts already, because I was late. The first man to half-rise from his seat and clasp my hand was the newest to the venture. Luke Armstrong, with whom I’d played for the briefest of periods at the Highlanders, but whose father, Grant Armstrong, had been my coach for a decade. Luke hadn’t played for his dad long, decamping for the Crusaders after only a season or two. No surprise, really, because Grant Armstrong was a hard man at the best of times, and hardest of all on his sons. Luke had gone even farther away than that, eventually, moving to Paris Racing at the height of his career, giving up the coveted black jersey with a decade of rugby left in him in a way few players did, and had only returned to New Zealand on his retirement a few months earlier. Retired with a pretty hefty bank account, too, judging by the amount he’d put into the firm. French rugby paid in a way New Zealand could only dream of.

  Otago was a world distant from Paris in every possible way, but I wasn’t all that surprised Luke had settled here. He’d grown up in Dunedin, and anyway, Luke wasn’t a flash fella. He was a prop—battered nose, cauliflower ears, and all—and if there’d ever been a flash prop, I hadn’t met him. All the guts and none of the glory, props. Besides, Otago was pretty unspoiled, bar the madness that was Queenstown, and once you got out of the Wanaka town center, you had the mountains and the lake at your doorstep and all the room a man could want to run the hills or ride a bike or take a rod out for trout, and in the winter, to do some backcountry skiing and combine your adrenaline sport with silence.

  You could breathe here, that was all. In the mountains, out on the sea, and in the wide-open spaces between.

  I lived in Dunedin because that was where the work was, and I liked it. Small for a major city, friendly, unpretentious, scenic as hell, with its hills and beaches, and full of young-person energy, what with the University and all. My spirit opened up, though, when I came home, on the doorstep of a wilder world. When I walked downstairs in the morning and saw the jagged profile of the mountains out the huge windows of my lounge, or when I lay in bed at night without closing the blinds and looked out into the darkness that hid those brooding peaks, forgot the crowded shops and lakeside tour buses, and planned tomorrow’s adventure.

>   Just now, though, this was my adventure, and I disciplined my misbehaving brain and shook hands with the second man at the table. Luke’s brother, Kane Armstrong, the only man amongst the group who was still playing. A huge lock, his big, broken nose, extra-prominent brow ridges, and hulking frame unmistakable, Kane played for the Crusaders now, but I’d spent a few seasons, my last and his first, playing with him on the All Blacks. Nobody jumped more fearlessly in the lineout, took on a tackler more directly, or cleared big bodies out of a ruck more efficiently than Kane, the red bruises on his forehead and cheekbone this morning offering a silent testimonial to his willingness to get stuck in with the All Blacks on the five-week Northern Tour from which he’d just returned. Fearsome, you’d think, but off the pitch, he was as quiet as his brother and just as solid. A good teammate, and a good man.

  Then there was the third investor. I hadn’t played with him on the Highlanders. I’d played against him enough times, though, when he’d been with the Blues, and he’d brought me crashing to the turf more times even than the Armstrong brothers. Fast as hell to the breakdown, and I didn’t want to think about how many times he’d managed to rip the ball from my hands. A superhuman will, and enough discipline for three.

  I’d played with him for a decade on the All Blacks as well. Much more comforting to have him on your side of the ball. A longtime captain who’d never truly be replaced, because he was a living legend. The greatest skipper and probably the greatest All Black ever, full stop, and he always would be.

  Drew Callahan was coaching the Highlanders now, having taken over from Armstrong last season, and living in Dunedin. The season was over, though, and he was up at his Wanaka bach with the family for the Labour Day holiday. Hence the meeting here.