His livestock continued to scurry in all directions, and now his sheepdog was out and barking at them. It was as if Liam had fired off his shotgun. In moments, Mark would probably be out here.
“The cab dropped me off at the address, where there should be a front door.”
“The cab dropped you at the edge of my field.”
“You need to talk to Google Maps. The GPS in this area is all fucked up.” The man took a drag of his cigarette.
“Could you not smoke on the premises?”
“I just went through a life-threatening, traumatic experience. I deserve some nicotine.” He took another defiant puff.
“That was your fault. What were you doing sneaking through my field?”
“I do not appreciate the tone.” The man eyed Liam up and down, blatantly checking him out and reminding Liam that he was only in boxers. “I see farmers’ uniforms have changed since the days of Old McDonald.”
Liam crossed his arms over his chest.
“Is this eleven Puriri Street?” the man asked.
“It’s nine.” Many people made that mistake. Liam had only established a residence on the land when he decided to move back, and online maps hadn’t caught up yet. Mark lived at eleven Puriri Street, and a spark of worry ignited in his kid brother.
“Is it that house?” The man pointed with his cigarette at Mark’s house across the field. The light of the living room glowed in the darkness.
“You’re a bit sus. Who are you looking for?”
“Mark Foster.”
“What for?”
The man stared at Liam for an extra second. Whatever his reason, he wasn’t saying.
“Right. I take it that’s his house over there. Thank you for your help.” The man wheeled his suitcase across the field. Liam didn’t trust him for a second and followed right behind him, not caring how little clothing he was wearing.
Nathan
Ah, New Zealand, the land where half-naked farmers followed you through dark fields at night.
At least this farmer was easy on the eyes, with his thick chest and ropey arms.
Not like Nathan was looking. He was focused on the house in front of him. It beckoned to him like a lighthouse in this sea of farm darkness. Nathan’s head was still reeling from the combination of jet lag, Ambien, and mimosas he had on the plane. He didn’t know what day it was, not because he was drunk but that whole international dateline business.
“What is your business with Mark Foster?” the farmer asked. Still following him. Still half-naked.
“It’s personal,” Nathan said.
“What do you mean personal?”
“I mean none of your bloody business.” Nathan whipped his head around. “Either you’re stalking me or blatantly checking out my bum. Whichever it is, please stop.”
That left the farmer gasping for words. The tips of his ears turned red, something that brought the twist of a smile to Nathan’s lips.
“What—I—no, I am not checking out anything, just this potential maniac going to see my brother for some mysterious reason.”
“Brother?” Nathan’s suitcase got caught on a rock. He packed way too much, but he didn’t know how long he would be here, and he wanted to make sure he had appropriate outfits depending on how this all played out. He tugged on the handle, but the wheel was wedged and would not budge.
The farmer came around and lifted the full suitcase as if it were no heavier than a paperback novel. Nathan might’ve glimpsed his biceps at work.
“Thank you.” Nathan took back the luggage handle. He looked into the milky grey-blue eyes of this farmer, which reminded him of the cloudy London sky he’d left behind this morning, or yesterday, or whatever time it was. “I come in peace. I promise.”
