1890, New Zealand, jungle. Carrynne leaned back, wearily grateful, as the dark muscular bushman treated her badly scratched leg. With honey — how odd! But everything, now, was unlike anything she knew before. Before the preacher paid her passage (sight unseen) from the old country, expecting a proper mission wife. Before she fled the mission village, casting off propriety like the corset she refused to wear! Because here, freedom was at hand. Ancient peoples lived here, off the land, and so could she. The warmth, the abundance of this place! If only she’d first shed her long woolen skirts and delicate boots, before entangling, falling. But then, here she was, kindly tended by a much less ... encumbered man, who obviously knew healing ways. The only language they shared was physical. He looked up, and gently smiled, as he dabbed a bit of honey on Carrynne’s parched lips. Sweet.
Ready to trek the jungles of NZ, wild and free? Or simply supply $25. We’ll kindly tend the details. You taste the dream.
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