Stranded With Ella

by Shelley Munro

  Soon the birds ignored his silent, still presence. A fantail flitted to and fro, catching insects on the wing and maneuvering with its fanlike tail. The tui ceased their squabbling and settled to gather nectar from the treetop flowers.

  Dillon used his binoculars to scan his vicinity and to get a closer view of the feeding tui. For a second, he didn’t register the object, and he continued with his slow sweep of the trees. Then, he froze and retraced the visual path.

  Son of a bitch.

  That was a camera. He wouldn’t have noticed it if he’d walked past but because he was stationery looking in the right direction, he’d spied it. What the devil was it doing here? And what was it for?

  Puzzled, Dillon studied the angle of the lens. The camera was a light green and blended well with the treetops. No one watching the footage would spot him right now. The reasons for placing cameras on his property…

  Nope, he couldn’t decide on the rationale behind putting a camera there. If it was over the boundary fence on Pukaha Mt. Bruce property, he’d assume they were doing a tally of bird numbers or watching a particular nest for predators.

  Did someone have a drug plot here in the bush? If that was the case, cameras made sense. Dillon did another sweep with his binoculars, this time searching for cameras. Then, he studied the ground in front of him. Yep, footprints. He hadn’t noticed them earlier, hadn’t been looking for them. He and Ella hadn’t come this way yesterday, and he hadn’t walked in this area for a few days.

  The helicopter coming and going made more sense now if he factored in the assumption of drugs.

  Dillon eyed the camera and slowly rose to his full height. A tui flew past and a faint light flickered. Not a flash, but more a sign that the camera was functioning. Ah, motion activated.

  The tui hopped along a branch and flew away. The tiny green light flicked off. With his gaze on the camera, Dillon inched along the path. He wasn’t certain of the range of the camera, and if someone walking caused it to click on, he didn’t want his face recorded while gawking straight at the lens.

  When nothing happened, he moved with more confidence. Chances were that he’d fail to spot all the cameras, so he paused now and then and peered through his binoculars. Twice, he pulled out his cell phone and took a photo.

  If someone was growing drugs, why had the camera pointed at the trees? That made little sense. Of course, the storm might have blown the camera from its original position.

  Even more curious now, Dillon continued to his boundary fence. He followed the fence line toward his neighbor’s property, pausing frequently to scan the vicinity for further cameras and footprints.

  He halted, frowning at the number of prints on the ground here. Crisp and defined, they didn’t belong to him. He spotted another camera, this one pointing to the track he usually used when he checked the fences. Someone keeping a record of his whereabouts?

  Dillon wasn’t sure what to think.

  He sank to the ground and waited, his mind busily calculating. If he had cameras on his land, what about the Mt. Bruce reserve? Dillon retreated. He’d enter the reserve at the far end of his property, rather than from this track where he’d spotted the camera.

  But first, he needed better preparation. He sneaked past the camera, returned to his house and let out Rufus for a run while he grabbed a cup of tea and made a toasted sandwich.

  Half an hour later, after eating and a change of clothes—something that blended better than his jeans and red-and-black Swanndri jacket—he put Rufus back in his run and set out armed with his binoculars and the camera Hana used to cart around with her everywhere. He’d charged it in case he wanted to take photos of whatever he discovered. If he missed a hidden camera and it filmed him, he wanted anyone viewing the footage to assume he was doing a spot of bird-watching.

  Anticipation fueled him as he set out to the opposite end of his property. Once he entered the native bush, he dawdled, his binoculars tucked in his jacket pocket. Although he’d never bird-watched in his life—not the feathered variety at any rate—he settled in a likely spot and waited for activity.

  Birds. People. Cameras. Anything out of the ordinary.

  His interest had spiked after finding the camera, and now he wanted answers.

  A fantail hopped along a branch above his head and took to the wing, its path erratic as it chased a bug. Dillon lifted his camera, aimed and took two photos. It didn’t matter if his shots turned out blurry. Rather, he needed to look the part and blend.

  When no other birds ventured near, he stood and headed deeper into the bush. Punga ferns with their silvery underside mixed in with towering rimu and matai trees. Beneath the canopy, smaller trees jostled for space. Dillon breathed in the green scents and the rich loamy aroma of the fallen leaves beneath his feet. Somewhere overhead, a bird sang in bell-like tones. He glanced up, trying to locate the songbird, but it blended well with the foliage.

  In the distance, an engine of some sort fired to life, and he cocked his head, attempting to place the sound with the mental map he had of the area. The neighbor again. From memory, most of his property—at least the part bordering Dillon’s land—was too steep for vehicles. A chainsaw perhaps.

  Dillon ghosted between the trees, moving silently with careful foot placement. It never hurt to hone his soldiering skills. He reached his boundary with the reserve twenty minutes later. The fence was post and wire. Nothing fancy, but enough to keep stock out of Pukaha Mt. Bruce land. The fence had been there for long enough that weeds—blackberry and gorse, flannel weed and other plants—grew on the cleared space. He’d bring a slasher with him next time.

  He climbed over the fence. A group of massive kauri trees grew at the spot where he’d entered the reserve land. A bird shrieked, and he froze. A green parrot peered at him before continuing to crack the hard cones on the kauri trees. A second kaka flapped its wings, giving Dillon a glimpse of the red underside. He took a photo, grinning when the two parrots squabbled over food rights.

  A small box sat in a tree, the color blending. When Dillon investigated, he noted the wooden steps cut into the tree trunk to enable someone to climb to retrieve the box. He set his camera and binoculars aside and made easy work of scaling the tree. When he went to open the box something rustled inside, and he started.

  Hadn’t expected that. With more caution, he climbed high enough to peer inside. A bird. Dillon frowned, not sure what to do. Was the reserve trapping birds? They’d called for local people to help with population counts, but they never captured the birds. He opened the trap and the bird huddled at the far end, terrified. He gave a soft tap and the bird scuttled away and literally fell to freedom. A kaka, he noted as the bird regained its sense and flew to a nearby branch.

  Thoughtful, Dillon climbed back down the tree and reclaimed his binoculars and camera. He took a photo of the trap and continued with more caution.

  Voices had him freezing in place. They were still a distance away. Could be people trekking through the forest, although from what Ella had told him, most visitors to the center stayed close and didn’t attempt the more ambitious walks through the reserve.

  Dillon edged away and took cover near the kauri trees. He ducked behind a mix of punga and other ferns and waited.

  Two men appeared, each carrying a bag. One was a slight, skinny man wearing black jeans and a muddy black coat. The other man stood taller, around Dillon’s height of six foot two. He had the look of a burly rugby player. Both were strangers to him.

  The skinny dude planted his hands on his hips and stared at the trap. “Damn, I thought Jack said there was a bird in this one.”

  “We’ll reset it,” the other said. “It’s your turn to climb.”

  The skinny man was a natural climber and scampered up the tree with the ease of a monkey. He pulled something out of his pocket—probably an enticement for a bird—and reset the trap. A few minutes later, the pair was on their way.

  Dillon waited before following the men at a distance. They moved
at speed, giving him the idea that they traveled a preset path. At each trap, they stopped. Most were empty and required resetting, but one held a bird. Its anxious squawks carried to him. The skinny man took away the entire trap and replaced it with another.

  Wary of getting too close, Dillon missed most of what they said. Instead, he followed at a distance, making a mental note of the trap locations. When it was clear they’d finished their rounds, Dillon expected them to head down the hill. They didn’t. They crossed over to his land and continued with their collection routine.

  Right. These two men weren’t from Pukaha Mt. Bruce then. Besides, he doubted the remit for the reserve included trapping birds in this manner.

  Who the hell were these blokes?

  Dillon didn’t confront them. He needed more information. He needed to reconnoiter and plan. Once they finished on his land, they crossed to the reserve and disappeared deeper into the bush. He’d track them later, but first, he’d do some research.

  8 – Home Again To Face The Gossip

  Ella rang her boss and confirmed she’d be back at work in the morning. Although her body ached and her head pounded, she didn’t attempt to sleep now. If she did that, she’d never sleep tonight.

  To ease the throb in her face, she took two more painkillers with a cup of mint tea, then attacked her laundry pile.

  Disappointment sat like a sack of concrete on her shoulders, her weighty thoughts bearing down on her. She’d liked Dillon so much, and for him to turn away in the manner he had, irked her. She couldn’t decide whether to heed his unsubtle warning and move on with her life or square her shoulders, lift her chin and wade into battle.

  Dillon Williams was a decent man. A worthy one. While he was also grumpy and bossy and slotted into alpha man territory, his desirable traits far outweighed the bad. No wimpish lover for her. She’d hate a man who jumped at her every order. Her ideal lover was one who stood shoulder to shoulder with her, someone who embraced the word team. A man who held similar beliefs. A lover who argued with passion and fairness to sway her to his point of view.

  A loud groan echoed through her miniscule laundry.

  Dillon Williams was the one she craved.

  A problem.

  One: he intended to continue life as a soldier, which meant he jumped into dangerous situations.

  Two: his emotions were all over the place, and she suspected he held a wheelbarrow full of guilt at Hana’s death.

  Three: he’d ordered her to move on and forget him.

  Her phone rang, and pleased at the interruption, she hustled to the kitchen where she’d left her cell phone to answer the call.

  “Hey, Ella,” her friend Suzie warbled down the line. “You’re home. Gossip mill says you got yourself stranded with Dillon Williams. Is that true?”

  Ella laughed. “Depends on what you’ve gleaned from the rumors.”

  “Why don’t we meet for a coffee in town? You can give me the lowdown, and I’ll give you details of the rumors,” Suzie said.

  “You’ll have to drive. My car is buried under the landslide.”

  “Oh my god! That part is true? Are you okay? I was certain the story had grown and taken on a life of its own.”

  Ella waited until her friend’s verbal batteries ran down before she said, “I have a fat lip and a sore jaw to prove it.”

  “Oh, Ella. It sounds as if it could’ve been much worse.” Sympathy coated her friend’s words. “Do you prefer to stay at home?”

  Ella considered and decided she’d set the story straight with Suzie and her other acquaintances. And, she’d get out of the house and away from her busy thoughts. Two birds. One stone. “Can you pick me up?”

  “Sure.”

  “Give me half an hour before you leave home. That will give me a chance to have a shower and change my clothes. I haven’t been home for long.”

  By the time Suzie arrived, Ella had showered and applied makeup to cover the worst of the damage on her face. Her top lip appeared fuller than normal, but apart from that, she didn’t look much different.

  “Your face isn’t too bad. I thought it would be worse.” Suzie had confined her black hair in a braid and donned light makeup to enhance the light brown skin from her part-Maori heritage.

  Ella smiled with caution and barely flinched at the pull of facial muscles. “Makeup.”

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “Sure.” Ella followed Suzie out to her car.

  “It sounds as if you had a lucky escape. How are you going to get around without a car? Have you rung the insurance company?”

  “Not yet. I’ll do that after our coffee.”

  Suzie filled the five-minute drive into Eketahuna with her normal scatter-gun chatter. “Jenny broke up with Daniel. They’ve been going out together forever! No one has the deets and neither of them is talking.”

  “That’s a shame. Jenny told me they were getting engaged soon.” Ella was glad the spotlight had left her for the moment. She didn’t like lying to her friend, but if she shared the events with Suzie, the story would race through Eketahuna before Ella reached her cottage again.

  Their favorite café was still busy with the lunch time tail of customers. A flyer in the café window snared her attention.

  “Oh, look. It must be kismet. They’re doing spinning classes. I promised myself I’d learn since I have the spinning wheel.”

  Suzie snapped a photo to record the details. “They have a knitting class too. We can drive to the classes together.”

  “Deal,” Ella said as she followed Suzie inside.

  The chatter died a fraction after they entered, and Ella’s spine stiffened. This was the part about small country town living that drove her batty. Everyone liked to share their opinion about everything.

  “Do you want your usual, Suzie? It’s my turn to buy.”

  “I’m in a hot chocolate mood today. Plead for extra marshmallows. I’ll grab a table.”

  A group of four women stood as Ella walked past. Their lined faces shone with nosy curiosity.

  “Ella.” The elderly lady’s gnarled right hand curled around the head of a black walking stick and she knocked it twice on the tiled floor as if demanding attention. “Rumor says you stayed at Dillon Williams’s place. Are you going out with him now?”

  “What? No! He owns alpacas, and I wanted to buy fleece from him. A landslide blocked the road when I was leaving and almost covered my car.”

  “A slip? Right on your car? Oh, my,” another of the elderly ladies commented, this one tall and rail thin in her straight burgundy skirt, pink twinset, and pearls. She patted her flat chest in horror.

  “Someone told me your car was buried,” a third woman declared. She wore muffin crumbs on her ample bosom and grasped the handlebars of a walker to keep herself upright.

  “Oh, it was,” Ella said, thrilled that not one of them had noticed her face. “I climbed out and walked back to Dillon’s place since it was obvious I wouldn’t be driving anywhere. When we checked the next day, more of the hill had slipped away and buried my little car.”

  “And you stayed with Dillon Williams all that time?” the fourth woman asked, her eyes glinting behind her horn-rimmed spectacles. Her flaring nostrils and close attention brought to mind a drug-sniffer dog.

  “Yes, I slept on the couch and have a sore neck to prove it. I’m glad I’ll be in my bed tonight.”

  “Of course, dear.” The lady with the walker gave her a hard stare but Ella never flinched.

  “I must order our coffee,” Ella said. “It was nice chatting to you.” She stood back to allow the quartet to pass before she approached the counter.

  The young employee—a school leaver the previous year—plied her own nosy questions and giggled at the mention of Dillon. “Now getting trapped with Josh, his younger brother, would work for me,” she said with another high-pitch giggle and a hair twirl.

  After Ella repeated her story and placed her order, she wove through the tables and sank onto a seat at the t
able Suzie had chosen.

  Suzie glanced around the café and leaned closer. “Now tell me what really happened.”

  “I told them the truth. The landslide almost buried me. I walked back to Dillon’s house and slept on his couch.”

  “What about your reason for visiting him in the first place?”

  “I have my mother’s spinning wheel. You know I’ve wanted to try my hand at spinning for ages, and I need raw materials. Dillon has alpacas, therefore it’s a match made in heaven.”

  Suzie wrinkled her nose. “Not exactly what I meant. Besides, you can’t spin yet.”

  “I’ve learned enough! Honestly, there is nothing of note to tell you.” Ella leaned back when the waitress arrived with their hot drinks and two cheese scones. “The worst part is getting hold of that fleece now that the road is blocked. I’ll have to find another source. I’m sold on the idea of alpaca rather than sheep’s wool. Washing the wool to get rid of the oil is a pain.” There! She hadn’t committed too many large lies.

  “Spinning is difficult. My sister tried it and her yarn was full of lumps.”

  “I’m sure mine will be too, but they say practice makes perfect for a reason.”

  “Is he still cute? He and his younger brother used to stop traffic. Gina Attcastle ran into the back of Mrs. Heritage’s car because she was gawking at their backsides. That would be Dillon’s and Josh’s rear ends, in case I wasn’t clear.”

  “Well, his body is all muscle and he has an exceptional arse—from what I saw, but he has a huge black bushy beard. You remember that television reality show about mountain men and ducks?” Ella shook her head at Suzie’s vacant stare. “Never mind. Imagine Santa Claus with a bushy black beard and you’ll start to get the picture.”

  Again, her lies weren’t too big, and the last thing she needed was for Suzie to decide she was hiding something.

  “To be honest, I’m glad to be home. My only regret is the alpaca fleece. I might have to resort to practicing on sheep’s wool, despite my reservations.”

  * * * * *