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Back The Ringmaster Save as PDF
Chapters (73)
  1. Cover
  2. The Ringmaster
  3. Contents
  4. Prologue
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. Epilogue
  72. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  73. Copyright

Like that thought hadn’t occurred to me. But Shephards aren’t quitters, and I was damned if I was going to be cowed into hiding by some idiot. I might be tired and tearful, and even – if I admitted to the fluttery feeling in my tummy – mildly scared. But I wasn’t going to be defeatist. Still, it didn’t mean I was going to be dumb about it. There was no way in hell I’d be plugging music into my ears, so my iPod would be staying at home and my ears otherwise occupied, straining for the sound of approaching footsteps.

‘Shouldn’t you wait until Maggie gets home? She might go with you, keep you company.’

I laughed, for what felt the first time in ages. Maggie? Running? She who had an aversion to breaking a sweat other than for pleasurable reasons? I didn’t think so. Uncle must have realised the unlikeliness of his suggestion and joined me in a chuckle. ‘Well, maybe not,’ he said. ‘What was I thinking?’

‘Indeed. Anyway, I need the exercise. I’ll be fine, I’ll watch over my shoulder. Don’t worry, I can look after myself.’

I hoped.

60

The beat of feet meeting tarmac was working its magic and I could feel the tension that had muscled its way into my shoulders and neck retreating. I closed my mind to thoughts of work and home, and instead focused on the details before me: the crunch of gravel underfoot as I paced the roadside path, the mosses and grasses infiltrating its edges. The moist smell of lush bush mixed with the rich aroma of warm earth and the sweetness of rotting leaves. The native trees adding to the soothing hues of the green belt: five finger, pittosporum, kowhai, the large flat leaves of rangiora – or loo-paper tree, as we called it in my family – the lovely fringe of tatty bark draping the tree fuchsia. But what struck me the most was the bird call. It was gorgeous, and I found a spontaneous smile forming on my face with every warble. I could make out the call of a bellbird, and a couple of fantails or piwakawaka were making a happy racket while they performed their aerodynamics-defying flitting nearby. Maybe I should ditch the iPod more often, I thought. I’d had no idea what I was missing out on.