The Age of Water Lilies by Theresa Kishkan Page A

the river. Gus knew a route that was shorter than going by road and took them through a small gap in the red hills by the Deadman River.
    â€œThere’s a place on this trail where I almost always see snakes. Tell me, Flora, have you ever seen a rattlesnake?” There was a twinkle in his blue eyes.
    Flora shivered a little. “No, not really. I’ve seen their tracks in the dirt and I found a skin once, and of course I imagine I hear them every time I go walking alone, but I haven’t actually seen one. I’d like to, though. At least, I think I would.”
    â€œWe’ll leave the horses on the trail and just walk up into the rocks. Agate is the most reliable horse on earth—until he smells a rattlesnake.”
    They dismounted, and Gus produced a rope, tying both horses to a single pine tree with a little shade. Then he took Flora by the hand and led her up the talus slope, taking each step carefully.
    â€œThere,” he pointed. “Look. Three of them, all asleep. That one on the far left is a young one. It doesn’t even have rattles yet, just that little button at the tip of its tail. I think they’re beautiful.”
    And they were, Flora decided. Two of them were olive coloured and the young one was more tan. They all had dark brown blotches on their back, with lighter edges. There was something peaceful about the way they slept on the rocks. There was a smell, not unpleasant, like leaves or mushrooms. Gus murmured that it would be best to let sleeping snakes lie, and they quietly returned to their horses.
    It seemed to Flora that Gus kept his hand on her back a little longer than necessary when he helped her to mount; the place where it had rested was very warm. For a moment she felt short of breath. When the young men in England had danced with her, their hands encircling her waist for the waltz, she had felt trapped. There was everything in the action, and nothing—a negotiation that had everything to do with land and the certainties of money and nothing to do with this feeling: a response the earth might make to wind, or sun. A little shudder, the passing of a shadow over the light skin of water.
    It took a further hour to reach the ranch where George’s parcel was waiting for him—books the rancher was lending him about soil health and grafting—and after a welcome glass of lemonade on the shady porch, they continued to the bench above Kamloops Lake where Flora wanted to sketch. They found a grove of pines, surrounded by a profusion of brown-eyed Susans, a fringe of aspens leading to the lake. Gus led the horses down for a drink and then found a place to tie them in shade with a long rope so they could graze on the sporadic bunchgrass. Flora took out the lunch she had stowed in her rucksack—cucumber sandwiches, a pot of Gentleman’s Relish, a few of Mary’s biscuits spread with anchovy paste—and they ate in the shade of a pine, Gus spreading his overshirt first for Flora to sit on. The view up the lake was spectacular, the long blue water still under the sun.
    Flora dipped her pen into ink and began to draw the lake and its aspens. The sky in this country always gave her trouble. How to imply its enormity—you felt you could see forever!—and its changing moods made possible only by a drift of cloud or the thunderheads that frequently appeared in late afternoon only to disappear again almost immediately. Thicker lines for cloud, hatching for pines, a place where she used a pencil to indicate possible colours for the wash.
    She realized Gus was watching her. She turned to him and began sketching his face on a fresh sheet of paper. It was beautiful, she thought—the strong nose, the well-spaced eyes, and his mouth. She examined it with her pen, the curve and the slight droop of the bottom lip. She paused at the chin, wanting to get the sense of how it jut forward, like a challenge. Before she knew it, he was kissing her. She had