He opened the door in the early morning to let Gabe outside as usual. Glancing up at the sky, he thought it looked like it might turn out to be a fine day. He sat on the porch for a few moments, quietly listening to the birds up in the trees.

Soon, she said.

But when?

Had she meant it, or was it only designed to put him off?

The last time he saw her, when she had fallen back against the doorframe and to the floor in her determination to stay, or so it had seemed, he caught an accidental glimpse of her stockings. It wasn't just the sight of her skin above her ribbon garters that intrigued him, but also the small tear in one of them, a run. A small hole in the armour of perfection that she usually put up around herself. He had resisted the urge to touch. He thought it was charming, and beautiful. Creamy skin and black silk. He would picture her in his mind.

Own her? He would never try to do that, not now. He would not try to control or crush the soul of her, stifle the spirit of her, like a cage bird. He must make her see that.

The old Marston might have done, though. Indeed, he had considered it initially, to use the piano to get what he wanted. A bargaining arrangement whereby she could get her beloved piano back; escalating her favors in exchange for the piano, key by key, visit by visit.

But now he felt shame, a twinge of conscience, not because of his raw desire for her which was just as strong as before, even stronger, but sorrow for having considered bargaining over her with Winfield as if she were an object, something to be possessed.

Now, he was changed, not only from his own brush with death and life again, but by her too. He realized now that the empty gestures were disrespectful to both of them, and no substitute for real love. Because he has fallen in love - deeply, impossibly, in love with her - and if she doesn't love him back, if she doesn't feel the same, it isn't worth having.

He even intends to marry her if she will have him, help her raise the wee one as his own daughter, and maybe have another child one day.

He also was considering pulling up stakes entirely and moving to Nelson, where most of his business was now anyway. There didn't seem to be much of a reason to stay anymore, if it all came to naught and she married Winfield. Let the land take his house back again.

Soon. He sighed. He'd just have to be patient, wait until she was ready, and she came to him of her own free will. If she even came at all.

He picked up a small stone and tossed it across the yard, then rose and went back into the house.

She'd nearly changed her mind, quailing; she felt nervous, not knowing if she could go through with it. What if they were discovered?

Gracie was going to be spending the day with Aunt Mòrag, after she returned from school. This had happened without any plan. An opportunity.

"Why don't you have an afternoon to yourself, dear?" Mòrag had said. Before the wedding. Edward was away in Otago.

She could do some errands, catch up on some correspondence, ending with an afternoon walk. To John's cabin, to see him, that is the main reason, do not deny it, she chided herself. She felt her face grow hot. But she did want him so. She realized she had not thought of the piano, but of John. She smiled; her hand went to cover her mouth in pleasant surprise. It was the first time that had happened since she'd been here. Aunt Mòrag and Gracie got along so well, she'd hate to do anything to spoil that. But she must take this leap. She wanted to be in his arms again, if only for a while.

How could she marry, anyone, until she had all of this clear in her mind?