And No Regrets by Rosalind Brett Page B

black, then made her way to her room and after a wash in water sickeningly redolent of disinfectant she changed into a shirt and slacks. Anything could have happened in the night, she thought painfully. The sun was getting up and still there was no sign of Ross.
    She went and questioned Johnny. Did he think the men had killed the big cat? Was there any chance that Mr. Brennan had been hurt in the hunt?
    The boy shook his head fiercely. The big boss-man too good a shot to get hurt. Little missus not to worry about her husband, him plenty fine, happy to go hunting. Have skin of big leo for carpet in a week or so.
    Another hour dragged by. The other two boys had gone with Ross, and Clare determinedly kneaded dough in the kitchen and made a batch of rolls and a couple of loaves ... she was taking the trays from the oven, the smell of cooked bread pervading the kitchen, when she heard a sudden commotion in the compound. She slammed a hot tray recklessly on the wooden table and went running along the passage to the living-room. There was a cluster of people out in the compound, with Ross’s tall figure towering in the centre of them. Through the windows Clare saw the smile slashing lines down his tanned cheeks. He was splashed with mud, his bush hat pushed to the back of his dark head. The coloured boys were clacking away nineteen to the dozen, and women and children had followed the hunting party to the bungalow ... relief at seeing Ross safe and sound was a choking lump in Clare’s throat. She wanted to run outside to him, and had to dig sharp spurs into the impulse. As he took the steps in a couple of strides and entered the room, she said in a calm voice that sounded horribly cold: “Well, did you get your cat?”
    “I’ll say!” He ran a hand that rasped over his unshaven chin and jaws. “A brute, tall as me stretched out dead.”
    The words hit her over the heart. She turned in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll make you some coffee and get you something to eat,” she threw back over her shoulder.
    “Bring it to my room, Clare,” he spoke through a hearty yawn. “I’m whacked to the wide—say, did Johnny come up to keep you company.”
    “Yes—thanks,” she said shortly, and left him.
    In the kitchen she made a big omelette, sliced cold chicken, and buttered several hot rolls. She placed the coffee pot on the bamboo tray, added a bowl of sugar and a large cup, then she carried the tray to his room and set it down on the table beside his bed. He was sprawled out on the clean linen in his muddy clothes, inhaling luxuriously the smoke of a cigarette.
    “I’ll run you a bath.” Clare turned to go.
    “What’s up?” he demanded. “You look squeezed out —been worrying yourself all night long?”
    “I’m only a woman,” she said sharply. She wouldn’t look round at him. There were sudden tears in her eyes that would tell him how much misery she had gone through.
    “Clare.”
    “Yes?” She stood stiffly, a hand on the doorknob.
    “You didn’t have to worry about this tough nut, sweetie.” He spoke half-jeeringly behind her. “Were you scared I’d get gobbled up and you’d have to make that trek back to Ridgley?”
    “Credit me with a bit more unselfishness than that!’’ She was suffering the aftermath of anxiety, and his casualness was almost unendurable. “The leopard had to be shot, I know that, but you went after the beast as though you were going to a ball.”
    “I’m only a man,” he said lazily. “I warned you long ago that the finer feelings are missing from my make-up, and I might add that to take everything too seriously is the way to get hurt.”
    Having said this, he gave a careless laugh that whipped her heart. Her tears dried to flashes of fury as she whirled to face him. “Go on, laugh!” she flared. “It’s a great big joke that I was fool enough to feel anxious about you!”
    “I’m not laughing at your anxiety,” he denied, bending sideways to pour coffee.