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next Maori rascal who’ll act like his slave.’ How was I supposed to respond to that? Let Andy go? For doing nothing but telling the truth?”
    Andy McAran was among the oldest workers on Kiward Station. Like James, Andy had been there even before Gwyneira was sent to New Zealand as a bride for the farm’s heir, Lucas Warden. Indeed, there were no secrets between Andy, James, and Gwyneira.
    Gwyneira did not keep up her agitated tone. Instead, she lowered herself listlessly onto a corner of the bed. Monday rubbed herself against Gwyneira’s leg, hoping to be petted.
    “What should we do then?” she asked, stroking the dog. “‘Bring her under control’ sounds easy enough, but Kura is not a dog or a horse. I can’t just order her around.”
    “Gwyn, your dogs and horses have always been happy to listen to you, even without the use of force. Because you raised them properly from the beginning. Lovingly, but firmly. You let Kura get away with everything. And Marama didn’t help.” James wanted to take his wife into his arms to take the edge off his words, but then he changed his mind. It was time to talk seriously about the situation.
    Gwyneira bit her lip. She couldn’t deny it. No one had ever set boundaries for Kura-maro-tini, the heiress of Kiward Station and symbol of hope for the local Maori tribe and the farm’s white founders. Neither the Maori—who never raised their children strictly, instead confidently leaving their discipline to the land in which they would have to survive—nor Gwyneira, who really should have known better. She had loosened the reins too much on her son Paul, Kura’s father, also. But that had been different. Paul was borne of a rape, and Gwyneira had simply never really been able to love him. As a result, he had been a difficult child who’d grown into an angry, belligerent young man, and his feud with the Maori chieftain Tonga had ultimately led to his death. Tonga, who was both intelligent and cultivated, had triumphed in the end by way of a governor’s decree: the purchase of the land for Kiward Station had not been entirely in accordance with the law. If Gwyneira wanted to keep the farm, she would have to reimburse the natives. But Tonga’s demands had been unacceptable. Marama had been the one to effect a peace agreement. Her child, of both
pakeha
and Maori blood, would inherit Kiward Station, and thus the land would belong to everyone. On the one hand, no one would question the Maori’s right to reside there, and on the other, Tonga would make no claims to the farm’s heartland.
    Gwyneira and most of the members of the Maori tribe were more than happy with this arrangement—it was only in the young chief’s breast that anger for the
pakeha
, the hated white settlers, continued to swell. Paul Warden had been his rival while he was alive, not only with regard to possession of the land but also when it came to Marama. No doubt Tonga had hoped that after Paul’s death and an appropriate mourning period, the beautiful young woman would come to him. But Marama did not seek a new spouse at all at first, instead moving into the manor with her child. And later, she had not chosen Tonga or any other man from his tribe but had fallen head over heels in love with a sheepshearer who had come to Kiward Station with his company one spring. The young man, Rihari, had felt the same way about her, and they too were soon joined in matrimony. Rihari was Maori but belonged to a different tribe. He was approachable and friendly, andhe understood Marama’s situation at once: they could not take Kura away from Kiward Station, nor could Marama follow him alone to join his tribe in Otago. So he asked to be taken in by her people, to which Tonga, gritting his teeth, had agreed. The couple now lived in the Maori village; Kura remained in the manor by her own request.
    Yet she took the path to the village by the lake with ever greater frequency these days. Though visiting her mother was the