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 OWNING HIS GIRL
A Hot Enemies to Lovers Instalove

STELLA BANKS
Copyright © 2024 by Stella Banks
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written
permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
V.01
 CONTENTS

1. Wes
2. Fiona
3. Wes
4. Fiona
5. Wes
6. Fiona
7. Wes
8. Fiona
About the Author
Also by Stella Banks
 Chapter One

WES

“YOU CAN ’ T BE SERIOUS , ANDREWS .”

Harold Parker stares down at the numbers on the check in front of him and back up at me. “You’re offering to double
Riley’s offer?”
I bite back a smirk. “Triple, actually. But yes, sir. I am serious.”
Harold leans back in his chair, studying me like I’m some interesting specimen under a microscope. His fingers twitch
restlessly on the check, a mirror to his internal debate.
It’s not every day that you manage to surprise a man like Harold Parker.
But then again, this wasn’t exactly my plan either.
When I heard Harold Parker was stepping down from his family business, selling his majority shares, I thought I had it in
the bag. After all, I’m practically family. I may not carry the Parker name, but I’ve got its oil in my veins, its grit in my bones.
My first ever job was at Parker & Sons. Before college swept me up in its current, I was just like every other kid in
Cooper Hills with calloused hands and big dreams.
And now that I’ve moved back home to start my own private equity firm, acquiring Harold’s shares felt like the natural next
step.
But then Patrick Riley put in an offer at the last minute. So, I decided to raise the stakes. I told Harold I would triple
whatever Riley offers.
Overkill? Maybe.
And there’s no way in hell I’m letting that asshole take what’s mine.
Harold’s gruff voice pulls me back to the moment.
“Be honest, Wes.” His eyes narrow as he gives me a pointed look. “Why are you doing this?”
My gaze slides behind Harold to a framed photo on the credenza. It’s a photo of his oldest daughter.
Fiona.
Her eyes are a storm, wild and untamed. They seem to reach out from the photograph, pulling at something deep within me.
My breath catches every damn time.
Quickly, I shake myself out of my thoughts. Then I meet Harold’s gaze head-on and decide to answer honestly.
“Because I owe you, sir.”
Harold’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Owe me for what?”
I steal another glance at the photo. “For giving me everything I’ve ever wanted.” Then I clear my throat. “If it weren’t for
you, I wouldn’t be the successful businessman that I am today.”
That gets a reaction. A flicker of surprise. Then a smile that’s as rare as a desert rain.
Harold knows me. Knows I’m not just some Wall Street hotshot. And even though it’s been years since we worked together,
I know the old man still has a soft spot for me.
The silence stretches between us, only broken by the ticking of the antique clock on the wall.
“So, do we have a deal, then?” I ask.
The old man rubs his chin, lost in thought.
“I’ll think about it, Wes,” he says after a moment.
I nod, pushing back my chair and rising to my feet. My gaze drifts back to Fiona’s photo one last time. Her image is seared
into my mind, her spirit fueling my determination.
As I step out of the office, I let a slow grin spread across my face. The game is on. And I’m all in. For the company. For
Harold.
But most importantly, for Fiona.
F OUR HOURS LATER, I push open the door to my brother’s bar, the Pitcher’s Brew, The place is alive, pulsing with the kind of
energy that only a Friday night can offer.
Or maybe it’s just the sweet taste of victory on my tongue.
An hour after our meeting, Harold called me back and accepted my offer to buy his shares in Parker & Son’s trucking - and
officially offer me the role of CEO.
I can still hardly believe it.
As I weave my way through the crowded bay, my brother Jake spots me and waves me over. “Sup, Wes?” he says. “You’re
in an awfully good mood.”
I can’t help the smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Let’s just say I’ve had a productive day.” I hop onto a barstool, drawing a few glances from the regulars. I ignore them, all
too eager to see Jake’s reaction to my news.
“Productive how?” he asks, leaning forward on his elbows, interest piqued.
“Harold Parker sold me his majority shares in Parker & Sons,” I announce casually, but my eyes gleam with the magnitude
of the statement. I watch as Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, his surprise making my grin widen.
“Seriously? That’s—wow, man. That’s huge,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’ve got to have some serious
balls to pull off a move like that.”
“Always have, always will,” I reply, accepting the glass and raising it in a silent toast to my own cunning. The cold beer
goes down smooth, but it’s no match for the adrenaline still coursing through me.
Jake chuckles, polishing a glass with a white cloth, his movements practiced and smooth. “How’s Fiona taking the news?”
I clear my throat and nod towards Jake. “Honestly, I haven’t talked to her yet. I wanted to celebrate with you first before
facing that storm.” I chuckle dryly and take another swig of beer.
“I’m surprised her old man didn’t sell her the shares. Fiona’s been gunning for CEO since she could talk.”
There it is. The question that’s been gnawing at the edges of my conscience ever since Harold signed on the dotted line.
Why me and not Fiona? The pang hits harder than I expect, an unease that doesn’t sit well with my usual confidence. I
shrug, but the gesture feels too forced, even to me.
“Harold’s always had a sharp eye for business. Maybe he saw something in me.” My voice has that edge, the one that
comes out when I’m on uncertain ground, and I hate it.
“Or maybe he’s playing a longer game.” Jake’s tone is lighter now, teasing, but the weight of his words hangs in the air.
Before I can muster a comeback, the door to the bar opens, and a gust of evening air rushes in. The familiar jingle of the
bell above the door greets us, and we turn to see Fiona Parker striding into the bar.
She looks just as stunning as ever, with her dark hair swept up in a sophisticated bun and an expensive-looking dress that
hugs her curves just right. The sight knocks the breath from my lungs, and a possessive twinge tightens in my chest.
I watch her like a hawk, her every move sharp in my line of sight as she claims her spot at the bar. I can’t help but wonder
if there’s a reason she’s here tonight, other than the usual drink after work. My mind churns with the possibility of her waiting
for someone—someone who isn’t me.
“Got your eyes on the prize, huh?” Jake quips from beside me, but I barely register his words.
My focus is locked on Fiona, taking in the way she flips her hair over her shoulder, the curve of her lips as she smiles
politely at the bartender.
A smile that should be mine.
From the moment I first laid eyes on Fiona as a scrawny, pigtailed girl on the playground, I knew she’d be trouble. Fiery,
stubborn, and sharp-tongued even then. We clashed from day one. She pushed me during recess and I pushed back harder.
We’ve been enemies ever since.
But somewhere along the way, that burning resentment twisted into something far more dangerous. I still get fired up
whenever she’s around, but now for an entirely different reason. I crave her quick wit, her teasing remarks. I want to push her
up against a wall and kiss that smirk right off her lips.
She doesn’t see me yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I’ve spent years sparring with her, hating her, wanting her—wanting
her in ways that would ruin the careful animosity we’ve curated. But tonight, there’s something different. A charge in the air I
can’t ignore.
The bartender leans in a little too close, his hand casually brushing hers as he hands over her a glass of water. It’s nothing
overt, but it’s enough to ignite the fuse of jealousy inside me. My jaw clenches as I watch him toss out a joke, trying to charm
her, and then she laughs—a sound I’ve fought tooth and nail to draw out of her myself.
It’s wrong, how much I want to vault over the bar and mark my territory, make it crystal clear that she’s off-limits.
“Looks like the competition’s heating up,” Jake observes, amusement lacing his tone.
“Shut it,” I snap without looking at him, my gaze still fixated on the scene unfolding before me.
 The bartender is all smiles, confidence oozing from him as he chats up Fiona. The sight stokes a possessive streak I never
knew I had.
“Careful, Wes,” Jake warns lightly, sensing the shift in my mood. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I’ll be back,” I snap, placing my glass on the bar with a click that’s louder than I intend.
There’s a magnetic pull, an impulse urging me forward, and I can’t resist it. Not tonight.
 Chapter Two

FIONA

I LEAN AGAINST THE SLEEK WOODEN BAR AT THE P ITCHER’ S BREW, SCANNING THE CHALKBOARD MENU ABOVE THE ROW OF TAPS .
“We’ve got a pale ale that’s pretty good if you’re into those,” the bartender offers with a friendly smile. “And we just
tapped a new stout that’s been getting rave reviews.”
I tap my chin, contemplating my options. Finally, I say, “Actually, I think I’ll try a whiskey on the rocks.”
The bartender’s eyebrows shoot up briefly at my selection. But then he gives me a friendly smile and nods, reaching for a
bottle of Jameson. “Good choice,” he says as he pours the amber liquid into a glass filled with ice.
I take a sip of my drink and let out a contented sigh.
On any other Friday night, I would probably go for something light and bubbly like Prosecco. But after the bombshell my
dad just dropped on me, it feels like a whiskey night.
As I twirl a coaster between my fingers, a sudden shift in the air prickles my skin.
Wes Andrews is standing behind me.
I don’t have to look to know. The laughter spikes, the room buzzes. Wes has always had a knack for being the center of
attention without even trying.
My eyes slide over my shoulder, and yep, there he is. Approaching me with that confident swagger that says he always gets
what he wants.
He throws me that trademark grin - all bright teeth and bad-boy charm. My heart does a crazy little leap in my chest. His
disheveled dark hair, those knowing blue eyes...they’re too good-looking for their own good.
“Evening, gorgeous,” he says, leaning next to me. His cologne, something earthy and slightly spicy, teases my senses.
“Weston,” I reply, using his full name like armor. I try to ignore the butterflies he stirs up. But annoyance quickly replaces
the warmth.
He chuckles. “Damn, I don’t even get a congratulations?”
I can’t help but roll my eyes.
Sure, Wes has charm. But it’s paired with an ego that drives me nuts. The same ego that had him taunting me from tree tops
as kids. The same ego that brings him to my side now, our past rivalry tagging along.
“Must be a nice feeling, sitting on top of the Parker empire now,” I say, my words edged with enough sarcasm to cut steel.
Wes’s smirk widens as he takes the bait, leaning in with a confidence that grates on my every nerve.
“Can’t complain,” he drawls. “It’s good to be king.”
“King of a castle built by someone else,” I shoot back, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into my tone. The playful
spark in his eyes doesn’t diminish though, he thrives on this—the verbal sparring that has become our twisted form of
communication over the years.
“Come on, Fiona,” he says, teasingly. “You know I’ve always had a knack for business. It was only a matter of time before
I got my hands on the wheel of Parker & Sons.”
I take a sip of my whiskey to avoid lashing out. The cold liquid does nothing to quell the burning irritation inside me.
Parker & Sons has always been a boy’s club. It was my granddad who set that precedent nearly eight decades ago. Even
though the company carries our family name, it felt like an impenetrable fortress that I had to infiltrate bit by bit. I put in the
hours, showed them my worth, and earned my place as vice president. My uncle gave me his 49% stake in the company before
he died. But the controlling share, the one that truly mattered, has always been out of my reach.
And hearing Wes talk about it so casually feels like a slap in the face—my face, specifically—the one that should have
been at the helm all along.
“Knack for swooping in, you mean,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. But Wes hears it, of course, and his eyes narrow
slightly, a glint of something sharp lurking within their depths. Is it satisfaction? Or perhaps a challenge?
 “Is that what you think?” He asks quietly. “That I just swooped in and took what should’ve been yours?”
“Isn’t that what happened?”
The question escapes me before I can stop it, laced with all the pent-up frustration I’ve felt since Dad announced his
retirement and subsequent decision to sell his shares—not to his dedicated daughter, but to Wes Andrews, the one person
who’d made it his life’s mission to one-up me at every turn.
Wes doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he studies me, as if trying to read between the lines of our lifelong competition. And there’s so much to read, too
much history, too much left unsaid.
“Let’s just say I saw an opportunity, and I took it,” he replies finally.
I snort. “An opportunity for what?”
Before Wes can reply, the bartender returns and eyes my empty glass. “Would you like another?”
“Sure,” I reply glumly.
“Make that two,” Wes chimes in from beside me. His proximity sends a wave of awareness through me as our elbows
brush against each other on the bar top.
“I’ve been thinking about scheduling a retreat for the leadership team next week,” he says nonchalantly. “It might help ease
the transition.”
“An executive retreat, Fiona,” he adds, elongating my name as if he’s got all the time in the world. “It could do us some
good.”
“Us?” I scoff, turning to face him. “Since when did we become an ‘us,’ Wes?”
“Since I became a part of Parker and Sons,” he shoots back, his grin maddeningly confident.
“Right,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Because every family company needs a snake in their midst.”
“Come on, Fi. It’s just a weekend. Team building, fresh air... You might enjoy it,” he teases. A flutter dances in my chest at
the challenge gleaming in his eyes.
“Fine,” I concede reluctantly, eager to end this exasperating exchange. “One retreat. But don’t think this changes anything
between us.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies smoothly. Then, leaning closer, he whispers, “And for the record, I meant what I said
earlier. You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
His words hang in the air between us, an intimate secret shared amidst the bustling bar. Then, in a move that leaves me
breathless, he presses a gentle kiss to my cheek. The warmth of his lips lingers even as he strides away, leaving me in a state of
stunned silence and undeniable anticipation.
As the bartender sets our drinks down, I grab mine and take a long sip, letting the burn of the whiskey settle my nerves.
When I glance over, Wes is already heading to another part of the bar, the crowd parting for him as if he’s royalty.
I turn away, gripping my glass tighter.
My head is a mess of contradicting thoughts—resentment bubbles up at the idea of him intruding on my family business,
taking what I worked so hard for. Yet there’s an undeniable pull, an attraction that’s been simmering beneath the surface since...
well, since forever.
The lingering warmth from where Wes’s arm brushed against mine still pulses, marking me with confusion as potent as a
brand. This is the same Wes who used to torment me in the playground by pulling my pigtails, and now he’s upending my world
in an entirely different way.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking my train of thought. It’s a text from Eliza, my sister, letting me know she has
arrived. Once a month we meet for drinks to catch up and the timing of tonight’s meeting couldn’t be more perfect.
Rejuvenated, I navigate my way through the bustling crowd of the bar. The loud chatter and clinking glasses gradually
recede as I spot Eliza in our usual corner. Her welcoming smile and open arms are the perfect antidote to my frayed nerves. As
I slide into the booth next to her, she scoots over, inaugurating our ritual with a knowing smirk.
“Spotted you playing verbal ping-pong with Wes Andrews,” she teases, sipping on her mojito.
“Playing implies it’s a game I enjoy,” I quip back, but there’s no real heat behind the words.
“Come on, Fiona, that man has had his eyes glued to you since you walked in.” Eliza nudges me, her grin impish. “Admit it,
his attention isn’t entirely unwelcome.”
A sigh escapes me before I can help it. I’ve always been transparent with Eliza, unable to keep the truth from her probing
gaze. “I don’t know what to make of him,” I confess, twisting a napkin between my fingers. “He’s infuriating, but...”
“But?” Eliza prompts, leaning in like we’re back in high school sharing secrets about crushes.
“But I can’t ignore this... pull. It’s ridiculous. He’s the last person I should feel anything for.” I let the napkin go, watching it
slowly unfurl.
“Attraction doesn’t follow the rules of logic, sister dear,” Eliza replies with a laugh.
I rake a hand through my hair, the strands catching on my fingers in a tangle of frustration. “I still can’t believe Dad sold his
shares to Wes. And that Wes just took them without even talking to me about it first.”
 “Did Wes even know you wanted them?” Eliza’s question is soft but pointed, and it slices through the noise of the bar,
cutting straight to the heart of my fears.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I have no clue if Wes is aware of
how much those shares meant to me—how much taking over the family business has always been my dream. I’ve never said it
aloud to him, always too caught up in our battles of wills and one-upmanship.
“Well?” Eliza nudges my arm, her eyes searching mine with concern.
I blink back to the present, shaking my head slightly. “I don’t know, Eliza. I don’t know if he knows.” The admission feels
heavy, adding another layer to the already complex tapestry of emotions Wes weaves inside me.
Resentment, attraction, confusion—they all swirl together, making it hard to find solid ground. And now this, the possibility
that Wes might be oblivious to my deepest ambition, it leaves me feeling... vulnerable.
Eliza’s playful voice cuts through my thoughts, offering a much-needed change of pace. “So, what were you and Wes
chatting about?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
I scoff, the sound coming out harsher than I intended. “He’s planning a leadership retreat for the executive team next week,”
I reveal, my fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the cool surface of our secluded booth.
“A leadership retreat? That’s his grand plan?” The incredulity in my voice is unmistakable, my frustration barely concealed
by my sardonic laughter.
“Maybe it’s not as absurd as you think,” Eliza replies, her tone light but insistent. She leans forward, tucking a strand of
hair behind her ear, an earnest look in her eyes. “An executive retreat could be a chance to show what you’re capable of.”
“Capable? You mean playing nice with the man who stole my dream right from under me?”
Eliza laughs. “Not playing nice. Outsmarting him. You’ve always been two steps ahead. Don’t let your guard down now
because of... whatever is happening with you two.”
I want to argue, to tell her it’s all a mess of tangled wires, too complicated to navigate. But deep down, I know she has a
point. Showing weakness isn’t an option, not when so much is at stake.
I take a breath, trying to still the storm inside me. It’s just a retreat. A couple of days of corporate games and trust falls.
How bad could it be?
“Fine,” I relent, folding my arms across my chest. “I’ll go. I’ll keep an open mind. But I’m not making any promises.”
Eliza gives me a knowing smile, one that says she’s already won this round. We fall into silence, and I can’t help but let my
gaze drift toward the door Wes disappeared through earlier. My heart does that stupid fluttering thing again, and I scold it
silently.
It’s ridiculous, this push and pull inside me. Wes Andrews, the boy who used to pull my pigtails on the playground, is now
the man who stands in the way of everything I’ve worked for.
Yet, there’s heat there—a fire I can’t put out, no matter how hard I try.
 Chapter Three

WES

I PULL UP TO THE CURB, THE BUNGALOW SITTING LIKE A CROWN JEWEL AMIDST THE ROW OF QUAINT HOUSES .
It's Fiona's place, and it looks just as I expected—sharp edges, white paint so bright it could blind you on a sunny day.
Every detail screams Fiona Parker, perfect to a fault and as impenetrable as Fort Knox.
I kill the engine and sit back, taking a moment.
The entire weekend, instead of kicking back, I was hustling, working the phones and pulling strings to set up this retreat. A
retreat she didn't even want, but one she needed whether she admits it or not.
My buddy Colt Walker's face flashes in my mind as I reach for the door handle. He's always been a lifesaver, but this
weekend he pulled off a miracle. Colt is one of the owners of the Fit Mountain Resort. We spent hours on the phone, tossing
plans back and forth until the pieces fell into place.
With the memory still fresh, I push the car door open and step out into the crisp air. My boots hit the ground with purpose,
gravel crunching underfoot. I straighten my jacket, taking in a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. All this effort—the
calls, the planning, hell, even the arguing—it's all been for her.
Appreciation might be a long shot given our history, but I'm betting on surprise being my ally. She's got this way of getting
under my skin, making me want to push harder, do better. If this retreat cracks that perfect exterior even a little, it'll be a win in
my book.
I stride up to Fiona's front door, my hand poised to knock. The door swings open before my knuckles can land, and there
she stands. Fiona. Not in her power suits, not with that no-nonsense bun she favors for board meetings.
No, today it's all soft curves wrapped in a loose cotton shirt that hints more than it reveals, paired with faded jeans hugging
her like they're grateful.
"Wow," slips out before I can rein it in. I'm staring; I know I am. She arches an eyebrow, that familiar challenge flaring in
her eyes, but there's something else—a flicker of vulnerability.
"Let's just get this over with," Fiona says, stepping aside to grab her bags, which sit lined up near the hallway like soldiers
ready for inspection.
"Sure." My voice is gruffer than intended. I step inside, maneuvering past her without making contact. A feat, considering
every nerve ending is on high alert. I gather her luggage, one by one, muscles flexing under the load. She's packed enough for a
month, not a week. Typical Fiona—always prepared for every scenario.
The drive to Fit Mountain Resort has us enclosed in my truck, a space too intimate for two people who've spent years
building walls between them.
"Seatbelt," I grunt, nodding toward her still unbuckled strap. It's not concern, I tell myself. It's... liability.
Fiona clicks the belt into place without a word, her gaze fixed outside the window.
The engine purrs to life, and we pull away from the curb. Trees blur past, green smears against a blue canvas. I steal a
glance, catch the softening of her profile, the way the sunlight plays in her hair.
"Nice day for a drive," I say, because silence is not how I'll win this game. But as the miles roll under us, it's all I seem
capable of managing.
The road unfurls before us, a ribbon of possibilities, and I can't shake the chill of Fiona's silence next to me. Her arms are
folded tight, her gaze locked on the terrain rushing by, lips pressed into a line that screams annoyance. She's here in body, sure,
but in spirit? She might as well be back at that pristine bungalow of hers, miles from this forced proximity.
"Thought you'd be all over this," I say, throwing a casual glance her way. "Nature, fresh air, chance to show up everyone
with your survival skills."
Her eyes flicker to me, quick as a spark. "I didn't realize my personal plans were open for discussion, Wes."
"Everything is business with you, isn't it?" I can't help the edge in my voice.
 She turns away, a dismissal if I've ever seen one. My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
"Hey," I start, an idea forming—a risk, but what have I got to lose? "Remember that summer when the carnival came to
town, and you dared me to win you a prize at that impossible ring toss game?"
Surprise softens the sharp angles of her face, and she actually turns to look at me properly. "You remember that?"
"Hard to forget." I let out a chuckle, the memory bright as day in my mind. "You said you'd eat dirt if I managed it."
"And you did," she says, a reluctant smile breaking through. "You won that ugly stuffed bear after spending..." Her smile
falters, "What was it, twenty bucks?"
"Thirty," I correct, and we share a laugh, brief but real. "But who's counting?"
"Apparently you are," she teases, and just like that, the ice between us starts to crack. I catch that smile of hers, full and
genuine, and something in me eases.
"Still got that bear?" I ask, half-joking.
"Maybe," she replies, and there's a twinkle in her eye that wasn't there before.
"Damn, Parker. You're full of surprises."
And so is she, I realize. Maybe this retreat will unearth a few more.

THE TIRES CRUNCH OVER GRAVEL, and the Fit Mountain Resort sign looms ahead, but we don't stop at the main building. Instead,
I guide the car down a winding path, flanked by towering pines that open onto a secluded campground. No marble foyers or
crystal chandeliers here—just the rugged beauty of nature and the scent of pine and earth.
The campground is an oasis in the wilderness, a cluster of "tiny home" style cabins arranged like chess pieces on a grand
board. The centerpiece is a main cabin built from logs, its windows winking in the sunlight. Smaller cabins dot the landscape,
their cozy interiors inviting and warm. Each one is unique, reflecting the natural elements around it, from the stone fireplace in
one to the pinecone chandelier in another.
"Didn't figure you for the camping type," Fiona says, her voice tinged with reluctant curiosity as she peers out the window
at the surroundings.
"Life's full of surprises." I smirk, killing the engine and stepping out into the crisp mountain air. "Besides, the other board
members are arriving later in the day. I thought it would be nice for us to get here early, get a feel for the place."
It's chillier than I anticipated, and I can tell by the way Fiona wraps her arms around herself that she feels it too. Before I
can offer my jacket, the main cabin door swings open, and Colt Walker steps out onto the porch, his arm wrapped protectively
around Sophia, his wife, who’s sporting a baby bump that wasn't there last time I saw her. Fiona's eyes soften at the sight—a
rare crack in her armor.
"You guys are here early!" Colt booms, his voice carrying easily across the distance. Sophia waves, her smile warm and
welcoming.
"We wanted to soak in the atmosphere before everyone else arrives," I respond, my gaze meeting Colt's.
Colt, a billionaire just like his brothers, had always been different. He and Sophia had chosen a life up in the mountains,
away from the glitz and glamour. It suited their personality perfectly, and I admired them for it.
We reach them, and Colt clasps my hand in a firm shake, the kind that speaks of mutual respect and old bonds. His gaze
shifts to Fiona, and I introduce her. "This is my business partner, Fiona."
He takes in her stunned expression and chuckles. "Didn't expect to rough it, did you?" he teases, reading her like an open
book.
"Guess it's good to get out of my comfort zone," she replies, and I can hear the genuine effort in her voice. Maybe this
weekend will peel back some layers, show us a different side to each other.
Sophia leads the way with an ease that suggests she's done this dozens of times. "Come on, we'll show you around."
As I watch Colt and Sophia, I can't help but think about how this could be us someday—content, connected, building
something together. But for now, it's just a weekend retreat. A start.
"Most folks think of Fit Mountain Resort and picture the luxury suites up top," Colt says, casting a look over his shoulder.
"But Sophia and I, we keep this place running like a well-oiled machine."
Sophia nods, her hands resting on the swell of her belly. "It's our little slice of heaven. We live just over that ridge." She
points toward a gentle incline where a cozy-looking cabin peeks through the trees.
"Nice setup." I can't help but admire their dedication; it takes a certain kind to carve out life in the wild.
Colt grins, pride lighting up his features. "Let's show you the main cabin first." He ushers us into an open space that smells
of pine and earth—a sharp contrast to the sterile office air I'm used to.
"Here's the heart of the campsite," he explains as we step inside. The main room is spacious, with a large stone fireplace
dominating one wall. The furniture looks handcrafted, sturdy and inviting.
"Got a fully equipped kitchen through there," Colt continues, pointing to a door on the right. "And the washrooms are back
that way."
"Guest cabins are spread out for privacy. Yours is this one." He stops at a cabin that mirrors the main one in design but
smaller, more intimate.
"Queen bed, linens included, and a front porch with a hell of a view." Colt's hand sweeps across the horizon where the sun
is starting to dip low, painting the sky with strokes of orange and pink.
"Thanks, Colt," I respond, a sense of peace settling over me. "The queen bed is a nice touch."
Colt chuckles. "Well, we try to make it comfortable. Anyway, if you guys don't need anything else, Sophia and I will get out
of your hair." His handshake is firm, the warmth radiating from his palm. "Oh, and congrats again on the new gig. Majority
shareholder and CEO of Parker & Sons Trucking. That's big news."
I can't resist a cocky grin. "Well, someone has to keep the industry on its toes." Colt laughs, slapping me on the shoulder.
"Just don’t bring that up in your toast at Harold's retirement party. The old man might have a heart attack.”
Suddenly, Fiona's sharp intake of breath cuts through the jovial atmosphere. "My dad asked you to give the toast?" she asks,
her voice barely more than a whisper. "Yes, he did," I reply, taken aback by her reaction. Something flickers across her face -
disappointment? Anger? It's hard to tell.
Colt and Sophia exchange glances, sensing the tension.
Fiona, usually so composed, is radiating unease.
She stands rigid, her back straight as a board. "Excuse me," she says abruptly, her voice colder than I've ever heard it. "I
need some air."
Without another word, she strides out of the cabin, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.
"What was that about?" Colt asks, breaking the silence.
I shrug nonchalantly, though inside my emotions are churning.
"Fiona's just... Fiona."
Colt nods, his gaze thoughtful, and I'm left standing there, my own thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and concern.
The weight of my new role at Parker & Sons Trucking, the unexpected tension with Fiona, it all presses down on me, a
heavy burden that I must carry. But I can't think about that now. Fiona is out there somewhere, and I need to find her, to figure
out what just happened between us. Because no matter what, I want to be there for her, even if the road ahead is uncertain.
 Chapter Four

FIONA

THE RAIN IS COMING DOWN HARD , TURNING THE FOREST PATH INTO A MUD PIT .
My ATV is stuck, as dead as a doornail, under the trees. I give it a frustrated kick, my boots squishing in the mud.
I should have never come on this stupid retreat.
After Wes dropped the bombshell that my dad chose him to speak at his retirement party instead of me, I decided to go for a
ride on one of the resort's ATVs to clear my head.
Being out in nature always helps me think. The wooded trails are gorgeous this time of year.
But as usual, things never go according to plan.
Halfway through my ride it started to rain. And then my ATV got stuck in the mud. So now I'm stuck, literally and
figuratively.
I pull my jacket closer around me, but it's already soaked through. I think about what to do next, but none of the options look
good. I could try to fix the ATV, but I don't know the first thing about engines.
The idea of walking back doesn't seem like a good idea, either. It's at least a two-mile walk back to the campground, and
the thought of battling the rain and my own thoughts doesn't appeal.
"Give me a break," I say out loud, hoping the universe - or at least the ATV - might hear me.
Then I hear the sound of an engine.
I look up, and Wes is riding toward me on his ATV like a knight in shining armor.
"Hey gorgeous," he calls out. "Need a ride?"
I feel a rush of relief, but then I remember that I’m still mad at him.
"Thanks, but no thanks," I shout back as I pull my wet jacket tighter around me. "I'll wait it out."
Wes maneuvers closer until his ATV comes to a sudden halt a few feet away from me. Then he hops down, and I catch
myself staring.
With his wet hair plastered to his forehead and his shirt clinging to his toned body, Wes somehow looks even more
handsome. He stalks over to me, his boots squishing in the mud.
But the moment he's close enough, his expression shifts from amusement to concern.
"Jesus, Fiona.” Wes frowns as he takes in my soaked appearance. Then he brushes his thumb gently across my cheek.
"Baby, how long have you been out here like this?”
I fold my arms, trying to ignore how the raindrops feel like icy pinpricks against my skin.
"I'm fine."
His frown deepens as he looks down and sees the phone in my hand. “You’re not fine. Why didn't you call me?"
"Because I don't want your help. I can handle things on my own."
He chuckles. “If this is what you call handling things, then I’m glad I bought my shares when I did.”
I roll my eyes. "I'm fine. The storm will pass soon, and I'll head back then. Thanks for your concern, but you can go."
Something flares in his eyes. "I'm not leaving you out here in the rain,” he snaps.
I can tell I've pissed him off. There’s something different in his gaze now, a smoldering intensity that wasn't there before.
It's disarming.
And also a little sexy.
"Well, figure something else out because I'm not getting on that ATV with you."
Even as I say it, I know my words sound more petulant than powerful. But there's no way I'm backing down now.
"Fine," he grumbles.
Before I have a chance to react, he picks me up. I squeal, but the sound is lost in the noise of the rain.
"Let me go!" I try to push him away, but he's too strong.
 "No."
I can feel his heartbeat against my hands, steady and warm. I'm so surprised, I stop struggling. Up close, his eyes look even
darker, like he's made up his mind about something.
"Hold on to me. I'm taking you back, whether you like it or not."
I wrap my arms around him, my hands resting against his stomach. His ATV roars back to life and I lean against him, the
smell of rain and Wes filling my nose.
It's weird being this close to him, and part of me—the part that's been arguing with Wes since we were kids—doesn't like
it.
But another part, the one that's sick of fighting, thinks it might be nice to let someone else take charge for once. Even if it is
Wes.

THE ATV GRUMBLES to a halt in front of my cabin, the engine's echo fading into the surrounding wilderness.
I glance down at myself, mud splattered up to my knees and caked into my clothes. My hair feels heavy and tangled with
grime, and there's an uncomfortable sensation of dirt covering every inch of me.
I cast a sidelong glance at Wes. He's equally covered in mud, but somehow it seems purposeful on him, like a badge of
honor earned from a victorious battle with nature.
Wes dismounts the ATV with an easy grace, a stark contrast to the tight set of his jaw and the rigid line of his shoulders.
"Keys," he demands, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
There's something about the way he's looking at me that sends a shiver down my spine.
It's not entirely unpleasant.
Suspicion wars with the burgeoning heat spreading through my veins.
"Why?" I ask, even as I dig into my pocket, fingers closing around the cool metal.
“Just give me the fucking keys, Fiona,” he snaps, and I bristle at the tone, but there's this edge in his voice, something that
sounds almost like... care?
"Fine," I relent, flipping the keys through the air toward him. They land with a smack in his open palm, and he doesn't even
flinch.
"Stay here," he instructs, before turning and striding towards my cabin door. His tall figure disappears inside, leaving me
alone with the pulsing silence and the erratic beating of my heart.
Pissed or not, there's something about Wes's commanding presence that has always sparked a fire in me—a fire I've spent
years trying to douse with disdain. But now, left alone with the thrumming silence and the fading scent of rain, desire coils tight
in my belly.
"Stay there," he'd said, like he had any right to order me around. I roll my eyes, but I don't move.
Partly because I'm curious—what is he doing in there?—and partly because I'm suddenly, acutely aware of how much I
want him to come back and look at me with those fierce, hungry eyes again.
The door swings open, and Wes is back before I can even consider making an escape. He's got this look in his eye, one that
says he's not up for any of my usual antics. He scoops me right off the ATV as if I weigh nothing, his arms secure around me.
I squirm, trying to break free, but it's no use. Wes holds me tighter, a silent reprimand for my feeble attempt at
independence.
He doesn't say a word as he carries me through the cabin. My gaze flits across the cozy living room, past the kitchenette,
down the narrow hallway. There's a determination in his stride that has my heart racing for reasons I'm still trying to pretend
don't exist.
We enter the bedroom, and then we're in the bathroom, steam clouding around us like a misty veil.
That’s when I realize the shower is running.
Finally, Wes gently places me on my feet, and the sudden loss of his warmth makes me shiver despite the heat enveloping
us.
"Strip," he orders.
I blink up at him, my mind scrambling for footing. "Why?"
That familiar grin finally breaks across Wes's face, the one that used to infuriate me to no end—and now ignites something
far more dangerous.
"Because you're taking a shower with me," he says.
I stand frozen, my eyes tracing the defined lines of his figure as steam curls around him. The heat in the room is nothing
compared to the fire he ignites within me.
"Get in here, baby," his voice cuts through the haze, rough and commanding. It's an order laced with an unspoken promise
that sends a tremor of anticipation down my spine. My feet move of their own accord, shedding clothes piece by piece until I'm
as bare as he is.
I step into the shower, the warm water enveloping me. I catch Wes staring, nostrils flaring, his gaze intense enough to make
my heart skip.
"Goddamn, Fiona," he growls, and there's a raw edge to his voice that's purely primal.
Water cascades down Wes's chiseled body, the droplets riveting like tiny spotlights against his taut skin. He's a sight,
muscles rippling, abs contracted into a hard, washboard terrain.
In two strides, he closes the gap between us. His hands find my waist, and suddenly my back presses against the cool tiles.
His lips crash onto mine, and I taste the wildness on him—a flavor that screams freedom and recklessness.
Without thinking, I bite down on his bottom lip, tasting the tang of desire.
He groans, a deep sound that vibrates through me.
“That’s it, baby. Bite me, fight me, claw me, do whatever you want," he breathes out, his words wrapping around me tighter
than the steam. "I love how feisty you are."
And just like that, any lingering doubts evaporate.
There's no turning back now, not with Wes looking at me like I'm the only thing in this world that matters. Not when every
touch from him wipes clean the slate of our past animosities, replacing them with something much more dangerous and
addictive.
Heat surges between us, the kiss igniting a fire that consumes any lingering hesitation. My breath catches as I hitch my leg
around Wes's hip, an invitation he accepts without a moment's pause.
His finger slides into me. "You're a virgin, aren't you?"
The truth tumbles from my lips without a second thought. "Yes."
A feral grin spreads across his face, and his voice drops to a husky whisper.
"That's so damn hot. I can't wait to make this virgin pussy come for me." The words are a promise, a vow that sends shivers
racing down my spine.
Wes lowers his mouth to my neck, his lips and teeth marking me in a way that feels like claiming.
He's rough with his fingers, yet it's exactly what I crave—a relentless pursuit of pleasure that borders on desperation. I
moan, loud and unrestrained, driven by the sensation that eclipses everything else.
"You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do this," Wes murmurs against my skin, his voice thick with need. It's a
confession that feeds the growing storm within me.
I grind against his hand shamelessly, chasing the high that's building with every precise stroke. He knows exactly where to
touch, sending jolts of electricity through me, each one more intense than the last.
Stars burst behind my closed eyelids, and then I'm there—shattering, coming apart at the seams under the onslaught of his
relentless ministrations.
As I gasp for air, clinging to him, Wes doesn't slow down. He leans close, his breath hot on my ear. "That was just the
beginning."
 Chapter Five

WES

THE CABIN BEDROOM IS A RUSTIC HAVEN , ALL WARM WOODS AND SOFT SHADOWS .
But none of that registers right now.
All I can focus on is the fact that the girl of my dreams is splayed out on the bed in front of me like a decadent dessert.
One I'm about to fucking devour.
Fiona’s legs are spread so invitingly wide there's no hiding how ready she is for me. Her pussy glistens with her desire,
and I can see her clit peeking out from its hood, engorged and begging for attention.
The sight alone is about to make me come.
“Goddamn, Fiona,” I groan as I fist my rock-hard length. “See what you do to me, baby? I swear you’re so fucking perfect.”
She gives a little moan at my words, and I feel my cock twitch in response. A little bead of precum forms at the tip, and I
give it two rough tugs. It's all I can do not to plunge into her right this second.
But I won't rush this.
I want to sear every moan, every cry into my memory. To learn the symphony of sounds that is Fiona coming apart under
me.
And I'll play her over and over until she's hoarse from screaming my name.
“Y-you really think I’m perfect?” she whispers, those wide doe eyes seeking mine.
The question nearly kills me.
Although Fiona likes to pretend that she’s tough all the time, I can also tell that she’s also incredibly shy. I know that being
open with me like this is a huge step for her right now. I never want her to doubt how much I want her.
“You’re more than perfect, baby.” I lean down and give her a deep kiss. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Then my voice dips lower as I lick the outer shell of her ear. “And I can’t fucking wait to be inside you.”
Her chest rises sharply, and I watch, captivated, as a blush blooms over her cheeks.
I swear, this woman is vulnerability and sin wrapped in one devastating package.
And it's all mine to unwrap.
Positioning myself between her legs, I dip the head of my cock into her wetness and rub it against her swollen clit.
Instantly, she arches beneath me, another moan slipping from her lips.
“Look at you,” I groan as I watch her squirm. “My greedy, perfect girl. I love how responsive you are, baby.” Then I place
the tip of my dick at her entrance. “You want more, don’t you?”
She nods, eagerness flickering in her gaze, but I shake my head.
"Use your words, gorgeous. Tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it."
Fiona bites her lip, and I can see the shyness battling with the lust in her eyes.
"Come on, baby,” I coax. "Break free. Ask for it."
A moment stretches, a silent battle of wills, before she finally breaks, her voice small but laced with desire.
"Wes... please, fuck me."
Hearing her say it, my name on her lips, mixed with that plea—it's a bolt of pure triumph.
Without another word, I push in slowly, sinking deep until I’m buried to the hilt.
Her inner walls clasp around me like a velvet vice, and it takes every shred of self-control not to start moving immediately.
But I force myself to stay completely still, giving her body time to adjust to my size.
“How does it feel, gorgeous?” I murmur.
“I feel so full,” she pants. “I want you to move now.”
Instantly, my control shatters.
I draw back and thrust into her with a force that has us both groaning. Each movement is raw, powerful, driven by a hunger
that's been simmering between us for as long as I can remember.
“Goddamn baby, your pussy feels like a fucking dream,” I pant, my hips setting a relentless pace. “So fucking wet and
tight.”
She meets each of my drives with a roll of her hips, her hands clawing at the sheets, at my back, anywhere she can reach.
The sight of her beneath me—flushed, wild, undone—it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
But I still need more.
"Say it, Fiona,” I growl, needing to hear the words from her lips. "Tell me how much you love it."
"Y-Yes!" she cries out, her voice breaking on the word. "I love it, Wes! I love being yours!"
Her admission fans the flames inside me, and I lose myself in the rhythm, in the sound of our bodies slapping together, in
the sweet friction that builds with every thrust.
She's close, I can tell by the way her breath hitches, by the desperate arch of her body against mine.
“Then let go,” I command, my voice rough with desire. “Come for me.”
And she does.
Her orgasm crashes over her, her entire body tensing before she shatters, her scream filling the room as she clamps down
around me. It triggers my own release, a hot rush that has me seeing stars as I spill into her with a hoarse shout of her name.
Slowly, I collapse beside her, pulling her into my arms, our limbs entangling naturally. Her head rests against my chest, her
breathing gradually calming, and I can't help but marvel at the turn of events.
The fight and the lust between us finally been replaced with something tender, something that feels dangerously like more.
“That was amazing,” she says with a sleepy giggle.
“It was,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her hair. She hums in response, snuggling closer, and contentment fills me, warm and
deep.
In this quiet afterglow, with her in my arms, I realize I'm happier than I've ever been. And I know, without a doubt, that I'll
do whatever it takes to keep her here with me.

I WAKE up the next morning to a faint light seeping through the edges of the curtains.
After our rendezvous yesterday, the rest of the board arrived at the campground. Our team spent the rest of the day in
meetings, discussing strategies and planning for the upcoming transition. Fiona and I were able to keep things professional for
appearance's sake, but I still snuck over to her cabin after everyone went to sleep.
Instinctively, my hand reaches out, searching for the familiar curve of Fiona's body. But there's an unexpected chill on one
side of the bed.
My eyes flick to the digital clock perched on the nightstand—5:47 AM.
Does she really get up this early?
With a reluctant groan, I push myself upright, the mattress creaking under my weight. Then I pull on a pair of sweatpants
and pad out to the living room.
As I suspected, Fiona is sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes glued to the laptop in front of her. She's already dressed for the
day and her long hair is pulled into a high ponytail. A cup of coffee sits next to her, steam rising from it in thin tendrils.
“Morning, gorgeous,” I murmur as I approach her. “You’re up awfully early.”
"Hey, sorry," she replies absently without looking up. "Did I wake you up?"
"Nah, I tend to be an early riser." My gaze lingers on the way her lips are pressed together in concentration. “Everything
okay?”
I hate the worry that creeps into my voice, but I can't help it. Everything about her screams 'distant'. It feels like she's miles
away from me, and the thought stabs at something vulnerable inside me.
"Everything's fine."
I quirk an eyebrow at her. "You sure?"
"Yeah, I was just looking at the email invite for my dad's retirement party."
"You seem awfully upset over a party invitation." There's a teasing lilt to my voice, hoping to coax a smile or even a half-
hearted eye roll out of her. "What, did they pick Comic Sans for the font?"
She sighs.
"First, my dad refuses to sell me his shares. Then he asks you to speak at his party instead of me. And now he's sending me
an invitation to watch." She gives another deep sigh. "It's all just so... insulting."
My stomach drops. "You placed a bid for the shares?"
Fiona snorts. "Of course, I placed a bid to own the family company. It's my legacy too, isn't it?" She pauses. "But Dad
immediately said no."
Shit.
 “Did he say why?"
"He said being a CEO was too much responsibility for a woman." Then her voice breaks. "He wanted me to focus on
starting a family instead, as if that's all I should aspire to."
I can see her shoulders start to shake, and she breaks down into sobs. In one fluid motion, my arms are around her, pulling
her into the fortress of my body.
“Baby, I swear I had no idea about any of this,” I murmur, my lips brushing the crown of her head. "Is that why you were
mad at me this whole time?”
She nods, and my chest tightens, a mix of anger and an unexpected pang of guilt gnawing at me.
"He never thinks I'm enough," she chokes out, her voice barely above a whisper. "No matter what I do, it'll never be good
enough for him."
I pull back just enough to see Fiona's face. "You are more than enough," I tell her fiercely. "For me, for anyone who truly
knows you."
The absolute wrongness of it all stirs up this protective rage in me.
Harold Parker has always been pretty old school, but I didn't think he was this bad. To deny his own daughter the chance to
lead the very company she grew up in? And for what? Because she's a woman?
He's her father, for fuck's sake. He should be proud of her accomplishments and support her dreams, not tear them down.
And it makes me sick to my stomach that Fiona has been carrying this weight all on her own.
I tighten my grip around her. "I'm going to fix this, Fiona."
Fiona lets out another sigh. "There's nothing to fix, Wes. What's done is done. My dad made up his mind, and there’s no
changing it."
"Trust me, baby," I reply firmly. "There's always a way."
 Chapter Six

FIONA

A SOFT BREEZE FLOATS THROUGH THE BATHROOM WINDOW AS I FINISH APPLYING MY MAKEUP , TAKING EXTRA CARE WITH THE
mascara.
Wes stands behind me, watching me in the mirror with a playful grin.
"That dress could start a scandal," he teases, his eyes drinking in every inch of me. "You look amazing."
I can't help but blush and playfully roll my eyes. "Thanks, but I was hoping for 'classy' not 'femme fatale.'"
Wes laughs, sending shivers down my spine. Every time he looks at me like this, like I'm the only girl in the world, it still
catches me off guard.
Ever since our whirlwind retreat together, he's been relentless - texts, calls, and nights spent tangled up in each other. It's
moving fast, maybe too fast, but I can't deny how special he makes me feel.
And here we are on a Saturday night, getting ready for my dad's retirement party.
I'm still mad at my Dad for...well, everything, really. We haven't even spoken since the retreat. But somehow, Wes
convinced me to come tonight. He has a way of making me believe that everything will turn out okay.
"Hey gorgeous," Wes’s deep voice breaks through my thoughts. "What's on your mind?"
I force a smile and meet his gaze in the mirror. "Just nervous about seeing my dad at the party," I admit, twirling a strand of
hair nervously.
“In that case,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes. "I've got just the thing to calm you down.”
He takes my hand, and we leave the chaotic bathroom behind and make our way down the hallway into the kitchen.
Once we step inside, Wes lets go of my hand and sits down at the kitchen table. Then he looks up at me expectantly.
“Lay down on the table, baby.”
I laugh nervously. “Why?”
He gives me a devious smirk. “I want a snack before we leave.”
My eyes pop wide as I realize what he’s about to do. “A-are you sure?”
He chuckles. “Get on the table, Fiona.”
It's the look in his eyes—the raw, undisguised desire—that has me obeying.
Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined Wes could make me feel this way—desired, cherished, and a little bit reckless.
Slowly, I lay back on the cool surface of the table with my knees bent.
“Good girl. Now lift your dress and spread the beautiful legs for me.”
I lift the hem of my silky blue dress, the fabric sliding up over my thighs as I spread them slowly.
“Like this?” I whisper.
“Wider.”
I watch him through half-lidded eyes as I spread my legs wider.
Wes grabs me by the thighs and yanks me to the edge of the table until my pussy is right in front of his face.
“Perfect,” he murmurs.
And then his mouth is on me.
I gasp, my fingers gripping the edges of the table as his tongue finds my clit, circling with a precision that sends sparks of
pleasure coursing through my veins.
“That’s it, baby.” His voice is a rough whisper between my thighs. “Soak my tongue. Show me how good it feels.”
"Please..." I whimper, unable to form any coherent words under the onslaught of pleasure.
Wes's tongue ventures lower, teasing over the tight ring of muscle at my back entrance.
“Fuck, I’ve always wanted to taste you here," he purrs, before flicking his tongue against the sensitive flesh again.
I can't help the moan that escapes from deep within me. It's filthy, it's forbidden, and it's absolutely intoxicating.
 This is something new, something we've never done before. But I trust Wes completely, and I know he would never do
anything to hurt me.
He flips me onto my stomach without warning, and suddenly I'm face down on the cool surface of the table, my skirt pushed
up around my waist.
His hands grip my hips firmly, holding me in place as he continues to explore this new territory while his fingers work their
magic elsewhere. It's too much and not enough all at once – a maddening combination that has me writhing on the table, begging
for release.
“My dirty girl,” Wes teases, his words vibrating against me. "You love it just as much as I do, don’t you?”
And oh God, do I ever.
My response spills out in gasps and moans, confirming what we both already know. His dirty talk only turns me on more,
making everything feel raw and intense. With each stroke of his tongue, I can feel myself reaching new heights.
"Please, Wes, don't stop," I beg, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice—breathy and desperate.
He doesn't stop. Instead, he intensifies his movements, driving me closer to the edge.
And then it happens—the most mind-blowing orgasm of my life. The world blurs as it takes over every inch of my body,
pulsing and radiating pure pleasure.
As I come back to reality, Wes's lips press tenderly against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
"That was so fucking hot," he whispers, his tone a mix of awe and satisfaction. "You're amazing, Fiona."
Still catching my breath, I feel a rush of heat to my cheeks, a mixture of pleasure and a shy realization that we just broke a
taboo.
"I can't believe...I've never..." I stutter, trying to process the intensity of what just happened.
Wes's voice is gentle and reassuring. "Don't be embarrassed. This is just between us. No one else needs to know."
Wes confidently strides to the sink, his movements fluid and unfazed. I watch him wet a cloth, still buzzing from the thrill of
what we just shared in the quiet comfort of my kitchen. I push myself up, wanting to help but he stops me with a smile.
"Let me take care of you," he says softly, a tender gesture that makes my heart swell. It's more than just physical intimacy,
it's him taking care of my needs in all ways.
I settle back, feeling safe and cherished as he cleans us both with gentle strokes. The cool cloth soothes my skin, and every
touch sends shivers through me.
"All good now?" he asks, his voice vulnerable and earnest as if my well-being is tied to his own.
"Yes," I respond, barely above a whisper, but it's the truth.
Wes helps me off the table, his hands steady and reverent as if I'm something precious. My dress falls back into place,
concealing the evidence of our passion but not the lingering heat between my thighs.
Then he leans in for a tender kiss. "I love you so much, Fiona," he whispers.
His words reverberate through me, shaking me to the core. My heart skips a beat and I can't help but gaze up into his eyes. I
smile softly, my chest blooming with the same love that he's just confessed.
"I love you too, Wes," I admit softly.
Before I can respond further, he captures my lips in his for another kiss; slow and sweet and unlike any we've shared
before. It's a promise I'm ready to explore with him – all the hopes, dreams and little moments that come with loving someone.
As the kiss breaks, Wes takes my hand again, his thumb stroking patterns onto my skin. "We should probably go. We still
have a party to get to.”

THE GRANDEUR of the Fit Mountain Resort's Grand Ballroom hits me the moment we step inside, the crystal chandeliers casting
a warm glow over the opulent space.
Wes holds my hand as we navigate through the bustling party. Normally, I avoid these glitzy events, but with him next to me,
I feel invincible.
That is until I see my parents weaving through the crowd towards us.
My heart flutters with annoyance. I've been dreading this confrontation all week and now it's finally happening. But I take a
deep breath, squeeze Wes's hand for support, and plaster on a fake smile that would make any Instagram influencer proud.
As I approach my parents, they welcome me with open arms. I hug them tightly, trying to bridge the emotional gap that has
grown between us.
My mom is the first to pull away, her eyes searching my face for any sign of trouble. "Fiona," she breathes out, her voice
filled with worry. "How are you doing, darling?"
I try to keep my smile in place, but it's getting harder by the second. "Doing just fine, Mom," I reassure her. There's a pause
as a new song starts playing in the background and I decide to change the subject. "Isn't this a wonderful party?"
Her eyes flicker over to Wes who's standing next to me, his hand still firmly holding onto mine. She gives him a small nod
before turning back to me. "Yes, it is," she agrees, sounding anything but convinced.
It's Dad who steps in then, saving me from further questioning. "Nice suit, Wes." His voice is measured, giving nothing
away.
"Thank you, sir," Wes answers politely, maintaining his cool even under my father's sharp gaze.
Then my father's eyes flick between Wes and me, as if trying to decipher our relationship. "You two are perfect together,"
he beams, "I always knew you'd find what truly matters in life."
I feel Wes stiffen beside me. Before I can respond, he interjects with a charm that could disarm even the prickliest guest.
"It's all about finding the right time, sir," he says smoothly, giving my father a polite nod.
There's no trace of the man who just moments ago had me unraveling with desire back at the house—now he's the picture of
decorum.
"Indeed," my father replies, oblivious to the tension coiling in my gut.
With a final pat on my shoulder, my parents drift back into the sea of well-dressed attendees, disappearing as quickly as
they came. I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding and turn to Wes.
"Thank you," I murmur, grateful for his ability to navigate these choppy social waters.
"Anything for you," he whispers back, squeezing my hand once more before we venture deeper into the party.
Laughter echoes through the opulent ballroom, but it's the familiar voice that catches my attention. I turn to see Jake
Andrews strolling towards us with his trademark charming smile from our childhood adventures.
"Hey, Fiona," he greets me warmly, taking my hand in a gentle shake. "Long time no see."
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face when I see Jake. His presence is like a burst of energy in the stiff
atmosphere of the event.
"It's good to see you," I say, giving him a hug.
"You too," he responds with a smile, before turning to catch up with Wes.
They share a quick hug like brothers, and it's clear their bond is as unbreakable as ever.
But before we can catch up further, Eliza bustles over with her infectious energy. "Fiona, Wes, you made it!"
"Wouldn't have missed it for anything," I reply, hugging my sister tightly. She pulls back and introduces us to her roommate
with a mischievous glint in her eye.
"Guys, this is Melanie Watts," Eliza gestures towards the stunning blonde beside her, who gives us an endearing yet shy
smile.
"Nice to meet you, Melanie," I say, flashing a warm smile. "I'm Fiona Parker."
She returns my handshake with a firm grip and a polished smile. "Melanie Watts," she introduces herself. "It's so nice to
finally meet you, Fiona. I've heard great things about you."
I laugh at her teasing tone, feeling instantly at ease with this woman who exudes effortless charm.
"Only good things, I hope," I playfully reply, noticing the way Jake's eyes linger on Melanie for just a moment too long
before shifting back to me.
The four of us make our way to the dinner table, the mahogany surface reflecting the soft glow of candlelight. As we take
our seats, I find myself next to Wes and surrounded by an eclectic mix of personalities.
"Melanie," Wes says, his voice pulling me back from my private reverie, "how's your brother doing with his new role as
fire chief? Must be quite an adjustment for him."
She beams, pride evident in her eyes.
"Dean's taking it all in stride, but yeah, he's definitely got his hands full. Between the job and the newborn, he's juggling
more than ever. Lily and the baby are keeping him grounded, though."
As they continue chatting, I can't help but notice Jake stealing glances at Melanie. There's a tenderness in his normally stoic
gaze that intrigues me. It's the same kind of vulnerability that I often see in Wes when we're alone together.
But before I can dwell on it further, Wes squeezes my hand under the table and stands up to address the group.
His lips brush my temple in a fleeting kiss that sends ripples through me, and then he's moving away, stepping up onto the
stage to give his speech with a confidence that draws every eye, including mine.
 Chapter Seven

WES

I MOUNT THE STEPS TO THE STAGE, A SINGLE BEAM OF LIGHT PIERCES THE DIM EXPANSE OF THE BANQUET HALL.
The murmur of countless conversations fades into a hush. My eyes sweep across the sea of faces, but they're just blurred
figures in fancy suits and glittering dresses.
All except one.
There she is—Fiona, with her long black hair cascading over her sharp shoulder blades, eyes that have challenged me
since we were kids. She sits tall, confident as ever, unaware she's at the center of this brewing chaos. I give her a subtle nod, a
smirk forming on my lips.
Her brow furrows, curiosity igniting in those ocean-deep eyes. Then, I clear my throat—a subtle prelude to the upheaval
I'm about to unleash.
"Good evening," I begin, voice steady despite the adrenaline tap-dancing through my veins. "I stand before you tonight fully
aware of the weight this moment carries."
The microphone suddenly feels like a lifeline and a grenade all at once as I grip it tighter. "Tonight is about honoring a
legacy—a legacy built on the sweat, ambition, and vision of every person in this room." I pause, allowing my words to echo in
the silence.
"Harold Parker is a man who needs no introduction.” A ripple of warmth spreads through the crowd, faces lighting up with
respect for the man who's been at the helm for decades.
"His leadership has not only guided Parker & Sons to where we are today, but his influence has shaped the industry."
I sweep a confident hand through the air. "Harold is more than just the founder of this company. His dedication was the fuel
that propelled Parker & Son's from a modest venture to the freight behemoth it stands today."
I watch the heads nod, the old-timers who knew Harold personally reflecting on the truth in my words. There’s reverence
there, a collective respect for a titan of industry, and it thrums through the room like electricity.
"Harold's grit carved out a legacy," I continue, "one that transformed every challenge into a milestone, every setback into a
comeback."
I turn to face the man himself, seated at the table in front of the stage.
"Harold, you've led this company with wisdom and strength for decades," I raise my glass, the amber liquid catching the
light. "Thank you for your dedication and passion, for your unwavering commitment to excellence. You have left an indelible
mark on this company and its people."
I wait as the applause breaks out, thunderous and genuine. Harold stands, his smile gracious as he acknowledges the room.
"But every titan must pass the torch," I say, the words hanging in the air, heavy with meaning.
"Change is inevitable and often necessary. As we look toward the future of Parker & Sons, it is clear that the road ahead
demands a leader who not only understands our past but also has a vision for our tomorrow."
I take a deep breath before continuing.
"When I bought Harold's shares last week, I thought I was the leader that Parker & Sons needed," I say, my voice laced
with a hint of regret. "I believed that I could carry on the legacy that Harold had built. That my experience and expertise would
be enough to lead this company into the future."
I pause and look out in the crowd to Fiona. "But I was wrong."
A murmur ripples through the crowd, eyebrows raised in curiosity and surprise. No one saw this coming.
"I thought I was the right person to lead this company. But there is someone far more deserving, someone who encapsulates
the spirit of Parker & Sons better than I ever could." The words hang in the air, a silent promise of revelation.
“Which is why tonight," I say, stepping away from the podium to ensure that every single eye in the room is on me. "As the
majority shareholder of Parker & Sons, my first act is to appoint a new CEO."
 The room falls quiet, a sea of uncertainty staring back at me.
"Many of you know her," I start again as my pulse hammers beneath my skin. "You've seen her dedication, her intelligence,
and how she pours her soul into this place. Even when she was underestimated, she never faltered, proving time and again
she's more than capable."
I scan the crowd, making sure they're with me. I need them to understand, to see what I see every day.
"Her brilliance isn't just in her head for numbers or logistics—it's in her ability to see through problems, to find solutions
where others hit dead ends."
"Harold has built an empire here," I continue, my words carefully chosen, "but the world is changing, and so must we." In
my peripheral vision, I catch Fiona's profile, her expression a canvas of disbelief and dawning realization. "I believe in a
future where a leader doesn't have to choose between family and success—that one can fuel the other."
The buzz is palpable now, a static charge of anticipation. They want to know who will step into Harold's shoes, who will
grab the wheel and steer this juggernaut into uncharted territory.
Little do they know, the answer to their silent question is right in front of them. She's been here all along, hidden in plain
sight.
"So tonight," I announce, my voice echoing in the room, "I'm proud to introduce the new CEO of Parker & Son's Trucking:
Fiona Parker."
A gasp ripples through the crowd, the sound sharp and sweet. Silence falls over the room as shock paints itself across
every face.
But none are more stunned than Fiona herself.
My heart swells as I watch her, processing this revelation.
"But that's not all," I continue, my pulse racing with anticipation. "To ensure she has the control she needs to steer this
company into the future, I'm making Fiona the sole shareholder of Parker & Sons Trucking."
Chaos ensues, a wave of noise washing over the room.
But Fiona is my anchor amidst the storm. I stride towards her, the din of the crowd fading into the background. Her eyes,
wide with shock, meet mine and my heart clenches. I've turned her world upside down, but I know it's for the best. It's for her.
"Congratulations, love," I say, reaching her side, my voice just above a whisper.
She blinks, struggling to find words. "But Wes...are you sure? I can't afford to buy your shares."
I shake my head, a smirk tugging at my lips. "I don't want anything from you, baby.”
Her eyebrows furrow, confusion marring her beautiful face.
I lean in closer, my smirk widening. "Well, maybe that's not entirely accurate."
Before she can respond, I capture her lips with mine. The world around us disappears, replaced by the warmth of her lips
and the taste of her surprise.
Pulling away slightly, my gaze locked on hers, I admit, "I want your love."
Her eyes soften, a smile playing on her lips. "I love you so much, Wes," she whispers, her voice shaky with emotion.
Before I can respond, her sister cuts in, a wide grin splitting her face.
"I knew it!" she exclaims, grabbing Fiona's hand and squeezing it. "I told you he loved you!"
Fiona laughs, her smile radiant, and turns back to me. "I love you too, Wes."
And as I pull her into my arms, laughter bubbling from us both, I can't help but feel hopeful.
We've been through hell and back, but here we are, stronger than ever. And as the cheers and applause fill the room, I know
we're ready to face whatever comes next, together.
 Chapter Eight

FIONA

One Year Later

THE WIND WHIPS THROUGH MY HAIR AS WES AND I ROAR DOWN THE TRAILS OF THE F IT MOUNTAIN RESORT ON OUR ATVS .
The adrenaline rush, the cool breeze against my skin, and the powerful engine rumbling beneath me fill me with a sense of
exhilaration that's hard to put into words.
As we ride side by side, I can't help but reflect on the past year.
It was around this time, one year ago, when I was named the CEO and Sole Shareholder of Parker & Son's Trucking. I still
remember the weight of the responsibility settling on my shoulders, the thrill of achievement coursing through my veins, and the
whirlwind of changes that followed.
Wes's heartfelt speech endorsing me for the position flashes in my mind. His unwavering faith in me had been met with
resistance from my father, resulting in tension-filled arguments and uncertainty that marked those early days. But as I proved
myself time and again, my father's resistance slowly morphed into acceptance.
Now, a year later, we're here, celebrating my first anniversary as CEO. When Wes suggested this weekend getaway to Fit
Mountain Resort, I couldn't have agreed more. It felt symbolic, a full circle moment.
The forest trails are familiar, each turn and landmark reminding me of the shared laughter, the intimate conversations, and
the unspoken understanding that has only deepened over the year.
We pull up next to a particular tree. It's the tree Wes rescued me under one year ago. A wave of emotions crash over me as I
remember the undeniable spark between us that day. Wes dismounts from his ATV and walks over to me.
"Remember this spot?" he asks with a grin.
"How could I forget," I respond, feeling a wave of emotions wash over me.
We sit down on the soft grass beneath the tree, leaning against its trunk. "I never would've guessed that day would lead to
this," Wes says, looking into my eyes. "Me neither," I admit, feeling overwhelmed by the memories flooding back.
"Thank you for believing in me and supporting me through it all," I say, squeezing his hand. "You didn't need anyone else's
belief or support," Wes responds with a smile. "You had it in you all along."
I lean my head against his shoulder as we sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, taking in the beauty of our
surroundings and the significance of this moment.
"I have something for you," Wes suddenly says, breaking the silence. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box.
Then he gets down on one knee.
"Fiona Parker, I've been in love with you since the day I met you," Wes declares, his voice thick with emotion. "You've
taken on this new role as CEO with grace and determination, and it has only made me fall more in love with you."
Tears are streaming down my face now as Wes continues to pour his heart out to me. Memories of our time together over
this past year flash through my mind - the late nights working together, the silly inside jokes we share, the way he supports and
encourages me.
"I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life by your side," Wes says, taking hold of my hand. "Fiona Parker, will
you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
I can barely choke out a response as tears continue to flow down my face.
"I can't believe this," I stammer, my voice trembling with excitement. "Are you serious?"
Wes looks up at me with a mix of anticipation and vulnerability in his eyes. "Absolutely," he replies, his voice steady.
"You've changed my life in ways I never thought possible, and I want to spend the rest of my days by your side."
Tears well up in my eyes as I gaze down at him, feeling an overwhelming surge of love for this man who has been my rock
throughout this incredible journey. Without hesitation, I nod vigorously. "Yes! A thousand times, yes!"
 A wide grin spreads across Wes's face, matching the radiant joy bubbling inside me. He slides a delicate ring onto my
finger as we both rise to our feet, enveloping each other in a tight embrace.
As we stand there, locked in an embrace under the sheltering tree, time seems to stand still. The world around us fades into
the background, leaving only the two of us and our shared future.
Finally, we pull apart slightly, still holding onto each other's hands. Wes looks deeply into my eyes and whispers, "I
promise to love you fiercely, support you through thick and thin, and make every day an adventure."
A tender smile graces my lips as I respond earnestly, "And I promise to stand by your side, cherish you with all my heart,
and create a lifetime of beautiful memories together."
In that moment, surrounded by the serenity of nature and the warmth of our love, I know that this is just the beginning of an
extraordinary chapter in our lives.
As we continue our ATV ride through the breathtaking trails of Fit Mountain Resort, a newfound sense of contentment
washes over me. With each twist and turn on this exhilarating path, I am reminded that life is full of surprises and unexpected
blessings.
I take one last glance back at the tree that holds the memories of our love story, knowing that it will forever be a symbol of
our journey - the storms we weathered, the obstacles we overcame, and the love that blossomed against all odds.
With Wes by my side and a future full of possibilities ahead, I am ready to embrace this next phase of my life with open
arms - as CEO, as a partner, and as an adventurer in love.

The End

S IGN up for my newsletter to get exclusive bonus scenes and new release updates!
Curious about how Colt and Sophia met? Click here to read Charming Grump.
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stella Banks is a romance writer who loves nothing more than crafting a good happily ever after.
As a mother of three, she can often be found typing feverishly at her laptop while sipping on Prosecco (yep, that’s multitasking at its finest!). She's passionate about
writing stories that make her readers smile and creating romantic worlds filled with love.
When she isn't writing, Stella can be found admiring sunsets and plotting her next masterpiece.
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Frauentriller, die sonst den Einzug jeder Expedition begleiten, nur
dünn gesät. Stramm schwenken die Askari auf dem Bomaplatz ein,
steif vom langen Ritt steige ich vom Tier, da endlich naht der erste
Weiße. Die Begrüßung ist freundlich, die Freude ehrlich. Jetzt tritt
der zweite herzu: „Herrgott, sehen Sie schlecht aus! Und Ihr Maultier
erst, das geht doch noch heute ein; ums Bezahlen werden Sie wohl
nicht herumkommen!“ Weg sind alle Illusionen; ich wende mich ab
und lasse den Gefreiten, der in strammer Haltung abseits gestanden
hat, nähertreten. „Ihr seid gute Soldaten gewesen, und du, Hemedi
Maranga, bist der beste von allen; ich werde euch ein großes Fest
geben. Aber jetzt geht heim zu euren Frauen.“ Ein Händedruck, ein
paar kurze Kommandos, im nächsten Augenblick verschwinden die
zwölf in ihrem Kasernenhof; ich selbst aber steige in meine alte
Klause nach oben. Nils Knudsen hat recht: bei den Schensi ist es
doch besser!
Von meinen Trägern habe ich in den wenigen Tagen, die ihnen in
Lindi noch verblieben, nur wenig gesehen; um so mehr aber sind sie
zu hören gewesen. Jetzt ist ihre Stunde gekommen; frei schwingt
der „Kaiser Wilhelm“ draußen auf dem Strom um seine Ankerkette.
Morgen früh bei Tagesanbruch soll die Reise nordwärts gehen,
heute abend um Sonnenuntergang sollen meine Leute an Bord. Für
5½ Uhr habe ich sie vor das Posthaus, in dessen Oberstock ich ein
nüchternes Zimmer bewohne, bestellt; ich will sie doch lieber selbst
zum Hafen bringen. Die festgesetzte Zeit ist gekommen, aber kein
Träger ist da; es wird 5¾ Uhr, schon werde ich unruhig, da erschallt
immer näher ein so furchtbares Getöse, daß die Diagnose ohne
weiteres gegeben ist. Aber haben sich die zwei Dutzend auf das
Dreifache vermehrt? Ein dichtes Rudel tobt und wallt dort unten auf
dem Platz herum, Bässe grölen, Triller schwirren; Ausschreitungen
kommen nicht vor, wie ich das auch gar nicht anders erwartet habe.
Regellos zieht der Haufe hinter mir her, die wenigen hundert Schritte
zum Wasser hinunter; dort liegt schon der Fährmann bereit. „Bwana,
ich möchte doch lieber hier bleiben“, sagt Kasi uleia, der Hübsche,
und wirft einen zärtlichen Blick auf die dunkle Schönheit an seiner
Seite. „Tu’, wozu dein Herz dich treibt, mein Sohn“, antworte ich
milde. „Und das hier ist mein Boy, Herr“, sagt Pesa mbili II., der jetzt
wieder sehr rundliche Jüngling aus Manyema. Die Bibi, die sich
etwas verlegen hinter seinem breiten Rücken verbirgt, stellt er mir
aber nicht vor.

Der Verfasser im Porikostüm.

„Nun singt sie noch einmal, die schönen Lieder!“
In geschlossenem Kreis stehen die Mannen um mich herum.
„Kulya mapunda“ geht ganz gut, sonor klingt die gefällige Weise
über den rauschenden Lukuledi dahin. Auch bei „Dasige murumba“
zieht sich der Sängerkreis noch leidlich aus der Affäre; als nun aber
das Standardlied anhebt: „Yooh ndērule“, da erscheint mir der Kreis
recht verdünnt und lückenhaft; dafür erschaut mein Auge im
Dämmerlicht in den Nischen des Ufergebüsches einzelne Pärchen.
„Aha, Abschiedsszenen“, denke ich, stelle aber sofort fest, daß ich
mich gründlich geirrt; nichts von Zärtlichkeit, sondern wie die Wölfe
haben sich diese Materialisten über das letzte Liebesmahl
hergemacht, das ihnen eine zarte Hand für die Seereise zugedacht.
„Wohl bekomm’s“, sage ich halblaut und konstatiere zu meiner
Befriedigung, daß auch beim Neger die Liebe durch den Magen
geht.
Ungeduldig meldet sich der Fährmann; ich treibe den
hagestolzen Teil der Sänger ins flache Wasser hinein. Lustig
plätschernd waten sie von dannen; rasch ist es dunkel geworden,
kaum unterscheide ich noch die weißen Gestalten, als sie ins Boot
klettern. Yooh nderule, yooh nderule, wabwana mkubwa nderule —
lang und gedehnt klingen die vertrauten Laute aus Pesa mbilis Kehle
über die schweigende Flut — kubwa sumbana wogi nderulewa, yooh
nderule hallt der Chor verklingend nach. Das Boot ist im Dunkel der
Nacht verschwunden; ich wende mich der Messe zu, zur
Hauptmahlzeit des Tages; in diesen Räumen gehöre ich wieder ganz
zur Vollkultur — d i e E x p e d i t i o n W e u l e i s t z u E n d e .
 Am Eingang in das Rote Meer. Der Fels von Aden.

Zwanzigstes Kapitel.
Rückblick.
An Bord des Reichspostdampfers „König“.

Im Mittelmeer, vor den Nilmündungen,

20. Januar 1907.

Herrn Geheimrat K i r c h h o f f , Mockau bei Leipzig.

Vor wenigen Stunden haben uns die Palmen von Port Said den
letzten Gruß Afrikas herübergewinkt. Jetzt ist der flache, sandige
Strand des ägyptischen Deltagestades längst den Augen
entschwunden, und graue Wasserwüste liegt vor dem Schiff, das
immer mühseliger gegen den rasch aufkommenden Nordwestwind
ankämpft. Überhaupt das Mittelmeer zur Winterszeit! Wo ist der ewig
klare Himmel unserer Schulweisheit in Wirklichkeit! Kapitän Scharf,
der es doch wissen muß, sagt, daß er diese Meeresstrecke um
diese Jahreszeit gar nicht anders kennt als immer kalt, immer
stürmisch, kurz, als einen unangenehmen Übergang von der
herrlichen Temperatur des winterlichen Roten Meeres zu dem
nordischen Klima des Atlantischen Ozeans und der Nordsee. Wir
werden unmittelbar an Kreta entlang fahren müssen und werden so
dicht an Griechenland vorüberkommen, daß die schneeigen Gipfel
der Gebirge Spartas zu uns herüber grüßen, so schwer legt sich das
Wetter gegen den breiten Bug unseres etwas altmodischen
Dampfers, der für ein modernes Beförderungsmittel merkwürdig
wenig Fahrt macht. Um so mehr Muße hat der Reisende, im
behaglichen Rauchsalon in sich zu gehen und das Fazit zu ziehen
aus alledem, was er in den letzten dreiviertel Jahren gesehen,
gehört und gelernt hat.
War das ein vergnügter Abend am 2. Dezember an Bord des
„Kanzler“ auf der Reede von Lindi! Man begriff kaum, woher mit
einem Male die vielen weißgekleideten Europäer kamen. Ein
Witzbold meinte, das eisgekühlte Pilsner, das Ewerbeck und ich in
froher Abschiedslaune in unbegrenzten Mengen spendeten, sei der
Magnet; doch das ist ein schlechter Witz gewesen. Die Anwesenheit
eines deutschen Dampfers im Hafen ist in diesen Breiten immer ein
Fest, das männiglich feiert wie es fällt. Mit Recht, denn nichts ist
tötender als das Einerlei des Werktagslebens in Afrika.
Was den Dämpfling „Rufidyi“ mehr als drei Tage angestrengtester
Arbeit gekostet hatte, der schnellfahrende „Kanzler“ hat es in e i n e m
Tage gemacht. Schon am 4. Dezember früh stiegen Ewerbeck und
ich in Daressalam wohlgemut ans Land, Ewerbeck, um sich für
immer vom Schutzgebiet zu verabschieden, ich, um über den
verwaltungstechnischen Teil meiner Expedition höheren Orts
Rechenschaft abzulegen. Für einen Neuling wie mich ist jener
Aufenthaltswechsel belanglos gewesen, den Kaiserlichen
Bezirksamtmann hingegen bewegten sichtlich ernsthafte und
wehmütige Gedanken; er hatte den besten Teil seines Lebens, mehr
als fünfzehn Jahre, an die Entwicklung gerade des Südostens von
Deutsch-Ostafrika gesetzt; da geht man nicht gleichgültigen Herzens
von dannen.
 Daressalam war noch entzückender als im Juni; jetzt gab es
„Embe“ in Mengen, in jeder Größe und jeder Beschaffenheit. Embe?
Was ist Embe? Nun, für den Nordländer, der auf sein prächtiges
Obst stolz sein kann, auf unsern unvergleichlichen Apfel, die saftige
Birne, das große Heer unseres herrlichen Beerenobstes und was
unser Garten an Köstlichkeiten sonst alles zu bieten gewohnt ist, für
den ist Embe ein leerer Schall; wer aber dauernd in der
Tropenregion des Indischen Ozeans lebt, für den ist diese Frucht der
Inbegriff alles Herrlichen und Schönen. Die Mango ist es, jene
indische Frucht, die seit langer Zeit ihre zweite Heimat in Äquatorial-
Ostafrika gefunden hat. Der Baum ist gleichsam der Vorläufer jener
ungezählten menschlichen Bewohner der großen Halbinsel
zwischen dem Arabischen Meer und dem Bengalischen Golf
gewesen, die heute alle größeren Orte in Britisch- und Deutsch-
Ostafrika, im portugiesischen Gebiet und selbst auf der Südspitze
des Erdteils als mehr oder minder unwillkommene Eindringlinge
bevölkern. Angenehmer als der Inder niederer Kaste ist der
Mangobaum allerdings; er gleicht im Habitus einigermaßen unserer
Linde und verleiht jeder Siedelung etwas Anheimelndes und
Gemütliches.
Und seine Frucht erst! Wie sie schmeckt, wenn sie vom Baume
kommt, kann ich mit dem besten Willen nicht sagen; der weiße
Bewohner von Daressalam genießt den großen Vorzug, in einem
Kulturzentrum zu leben, wo man gewohnt ist, die fast
kindskopfgroße, saftige Frucht nur auf Eis gekühlt serviert zu
bekommen. In dieser Aufmachung ist die Embe allerdings ein
Genuß, den man dem der Ananas fast an die Seite setzen könnte.
„Embe“ ist denn auch das Schlagwort, das man vom Weißen beim
Frühstück, beim Mittag- und beim Abendessen zum Boy
hinüberrufen hört; ich glaube, die Weißen träumen in dieser Zeit
sogar von jener Frucht.
Wie ein Blitz aus heiterm Himmel ist in dieses Schlaraffenleben
die Kunde von den Ereignissen des 13. Dezember gefahren.
Unmittelbar vor meiner Rückkehr nach Daressalam war dort der
„Kaiserhof“ eröffnet worden, ein vortreffliches, erstklassiges Hotel,
unter dessen erste Gäste zu gehören ich das große Vergnügen
hatte. Man erstickte förmlich in Komfort: elektrisches Licht, vor jedem
Zimmer eine breite, schattige Barasa, neben jedem Wohnzimmer die
bequemste Badegelegenheit, eine mehr als üppige Verpflegung —
nach den mageren Monaten in Busch und Pori war das des Guten
eigentlich zuviel. Erfreulicherweise gewöhnt sich der Mensch jedoch
an alles, selbst an ein gutes Leben.
In diese Ruhe und Behaglichkeit, die über der ganzen großen,
beneidenswert behäbigen Beamtenstadt lagerte, schlug die Kunde
von der jähen Auflösung des Reichstags wie eine Bombe ein. Selten
habe ich so viele lange Gesichter gesehen wie in jenen Tagen; es
war, als ob jeder einzelne Europäer bis zum letzten kleinen
Unterbeamten hinunter persönlich von dem Geschehnis betroffen
worden sei; in allen Messen und an allen Stammtischen ertönten die
Unkenrufe über die schwarze Zukunft oder richtiger über den Mangel
jeder Zukunft der Kolonie, deren ruhmloses Ende jetzt auch schon
deshalb über jeden Zweifel erhaben schien, weil jeder von uns bei
den Neuwahlen im Januar mindestens hundert „Sozi“ in den
Reichstag einziehen sah. „Und mit dem Bahnbau ist es natürlich ein
für allemal zu Ende“, das war der stereotype Refrain aller dieser
Klagelieder, die man in gerechter Betrübnis in einem Meer von
Whisky-Soda ertränkte. Ich persönlich bin der Überzeugung, daß es
ganz so schlimm gar nicht werden wird, sondern daß auch der
nächste Reichstag zum mindesten das gleiche koloniale Verständnis
entwickeln wird wie sein Vorgänger; hoffentlich noch mehr. Am 25.
Januar soll unser guter „König“ in Genua ankommen; das ist der
Termin der Reichstagswahlen; am nächsten Tage wird man im
großen und ganzen schon ersehen können, wie diese Wahlen zu
einem Teil ausgefallen sind, zum anderen ausfallen werden, und wie
sich das Schicksal unserer Kolonien für die nächste Zukunft
gestalten wird.
Daressalam habe ich am 20. Dezember an Bord des „Admiral“
verlassen. Es ist ein herrliches, fast ganz neues Schiff, das noch
weit ruhiger fährt als der „Prinzregent“. Auch sein Komfort ist noch
größer; kein Wunder, wenn die Kabinen vollzählig besetzt waren. Es
war jetzt noch mehr Old England an Bord als im Frühjahr, viel
Kapstadt und noch mehr Witwatersrand; demgemäß herrschte auch
ein erheblicher Toilettenluxus. Diesmal habe ich auch Tanga
genießen können und sogar ein Stück Usambarabahn. Der
umsichtige Kapitän Doherr hatte, wohl noch in Erinnerung an seine
Managerdienste, die er erst vor wenigen Monaten den acht
Reichstagsabgeordneten hatte widmen dürfen, einen Extrazug für
die Schiffsgesellschaft oder doch für jeden, der sich beteiligen wollte,
bereitstellen lassen, und mit dem „Zügle“ sind wir ins Innere bis
Muhesa gefahren, bis riesige Schüsseln mit Sandwiches und große
Servierbretter mit viel Whisky und Soda der Expedition ein rasches
Halt geboten. Es geschieht wirklich etwas hier im Nordosten der
Kolonie, das sieht man auch von den Abteilfenstern aus; zwar steht
noch nicht alles Land unter Kultur, doch ist bereits jedes Stückchen
in festen Händen, sogar weit über den Endpunkt des „Bähnle“
hinaus.
Hoch ging es am Abend in Tanga her. Die Stadt hat eine ganze
Reihe von Vorzügen. Zunächst liegt sie von allen Küstenorten
Deutsch-Ostafrikas dem Mutterland am nächsten; sie bleibt also
auch schon dadurch gewissermaßen das Einfallstor in die Kolonie.
Sodann ist der Hafen nicht schlecht; die weite Bucht ist freilich nicht
ganz so abgeschlossen wie die von Daressalam, doch gewährt auch
sie ausreichendes Fahrwasser bis dicht unter Land. Das Wichtigste
ist jedoch die Nähe Usambaras, dieser Perle an Klima und
Fruchtbarkeit. Usambara hat nur einen Fehler: es ist nicht groß
genug, um alle die aufzunehmen, die sich dort niederlassen
möchten. Jetzt soll bereits aller verfügbarer Boden aufgeteilt sein, so
daß für Nachzügler kein Land mehr vorhanden ist. Diese sitzen
unten in Tanga oder gehen weiter nach Süden, um andere Plätze für
ihre Betätigung zu suchen; auch der „Boom“ von Lindi war zum
großen Teil auf diese Überfüllung des Nordens zurückzuführen.
Wirtschaftlich liegt also der Schwerpunkt unseres ganzen
Kolonialbetriebes einstweilen noch in diesem Nordosten. Das tritt
übrigens schon im ganzen Habitus des Europäerlebens in Tanga
zutage; viele Monate lang hat der würdige Pflanzer dort oben in den
Bergen Usambaras gesessen, ohne rechte Gelegenheit, den
Nachbar zu begrüßen; jetzt hat’s ihn gepackt: er muß einmal unter
Menschen. — Wenig später sitzt er im Klub von Tanga.
 Wo der Deutsche ist, gibt’s auch Musik. Daressalam genießt den
Vorzug zweier Kapellen, der Matrosenkapelle von den beiden
Kreuzern und der schwarzen Askarikapelle. Beide erfreuen sich
einer offiziellen Förderung; gleichwohl konnte ich mich den
schwarzen Musikanten gegenüber des Eindrucks nicht erwehren:
„sie kunnten’s nit gar schön“; in jedem Fall war die Musik sehr oft mit
viel Geräusch verbunden. In Tanga ist man nicht nur in
wirtschaftlicher Beziehung gewohnt, sich auf eigene Füße zu stellen;
auch die Knabenkapelle ist ein privates Unternehmen. Tanga ist
Schulstadt par excellence; Hunderte von Eingeborenenkindern
werden hier in die Anfänge europäischer Wissenschaft eingeführt
und in die Geheimnisse des Deutschen eingeweiht. Sie
radebrechen’s denn auch alle, die kleinen schwarzen Kobolde; die
Intelligenzen unter ihnen, bei denen die weißen Lehrer musikalische
Talente entdeckt zu haben glauben, werden in die berühmte
Knabenkapelle gesteckt. Dieser geht es augenblicklich
ausgezeichnet. Als wir Admiral-Reisenden uns am Abend auf dem
Platz vor dem Klub einstellten, empfing uns eine Musik, die mich
sogleich an eine deutsche Jägerkapelle erinnerte. Ich hatte recht,
von irgendwelcher Seite waren der Kapelle Waldhörner gestiftet
worden; diese gaben den ganzen Darbietungen jenen
unverkennbaren Charakter. Gespielt wurde von den kleinen Kerlen
gut, das läßt sich nicht leugnen; so gut, daß allen Ernstes die
Anregung fiel, man solle die Kapelle nach Uleia überführen, damit
doch wenigstens einmal etwas Ordentliches aus den Kolonien
importiert würde. Afrika reizt zu schlechten Witzen.
Es mag an zuviel Old England gelegen haben, daß Weihnachten
nicht so stimmungsvoll verlief, wie wir Deutsche das wohl männiglich
erwartet hatten. Der Tannenbaum, der im Speisesaal in hundert
elektrischen Lichtern erstrahlte, wurde von den Ladies und
Gentlemen stumm, aber ohne großes Erstaunen genossen, etwa mit
derselben Gemütsruhe wie das illuminierte Eis, das von jedem
hohen Festtag an Bord unzertrennlich ist, und ohne das man von
dem Dasein des Festtages gar nichts merken würde. Neujahr „liegt“
wieder uns Deutschen nicht; am Silvesterabend sind wir zwar
gewohnt, uns mehr oder minder tief unter Alkohol zu setzen, eine
tiefere Bedeutung sehen wir jedoch in dem bloßen Wechsel der
Jahreszahl nicht. Auch das neue Jahr wird uns genug Sorge
bringen, dessen können wir sicher sein! Getanzt haben freilich beide
Nationen mit gleicher Begeisterung und Ausdauer. Draußen brüllt
der Sturm, von Nordnordwest direkt dem Schiff entgegen, das am
nächsten Morgen vor Suez Anker werfen soll; hoch oben aber
schaut mein alter Freund von Mahuta, der Vollmond, vom Firmament
hernieder. Über den weißen Mann wundert er sich schon längst nicht
mehr; der hat das gräßliche Kelēle, das Geschrei der Schwarzen, für
schön befunden; jetzt springt er sogar höchstselbst wie ein wilder
Neger vom Makondehochland dort auf dem großen Schiff herum,
von dem so etwas wie Musik ertönt. Sie kommt zwar diesmal von
weißen Leuten, gleichwohl ist sie nicht viel schöner als der
Ngomenschall vom Rovuma. Es ist nur gut, daß sie so rasch vom
Sturme verweht wird. Schier verärgert deckt der alte Herr jetzt sein
Antlitz zu; weißgraue Wolken gleiten in rasender Eile vor ihm dahin;
vor ihm und gleichzeitig auch vor den zackigen, steilen Bergen der
Arabischen Wüste zur Linken, unter denen wir in fast unheimlicher
Nähe der Küste entlang nach Norden dampfen. Um Mitternacht die
übliche Versammlung im Speisesaal, ein Gratulieren von Tisch zu
Tisch, von Bekannten zu Bekannten, ein Anstoßen und Zutrinken mit
dem perlenden Naß der Champagne — man ist drin im neuen Jahr
und segelt in seine dunkeln Tiefen mit ebenderselben Eleganz hinein
wie das gute Schiff in den Golf von Suez.
Am 1. Januar gegen Mittag habe ich in Suez den Boden
Ägyptens betreten, um ihn erst vor wenigen Stunden wieder zu
verlassen. Mich hat es getrieben, die Stätten der altägyptischen
Kultur und diese Kultur selbst an Ort und Stelle zu studieren;
deshalb hat es mich bald von Kairo und seiner Umgebung
hinweggezogen nach Oberägypten hinauf, nach Luxor, Karnak und
Dehr el Bahri. Auch klimatisch war Kairo für den Übergang aus den
Tropen zum winterlich kalten Nordeuropa nur wenig geeignet; von
den Ägyptenreisenden des „Admiral“ wurde einer nach dem andern
unpäßlich, so daß die einen sich kurzerhand nach Deutschland
einschifften, indem sie sich sagten: „Den Schnupfen hast du dort
billiger“, wohingegen die anderen in Luxuszug und Schlafwagen
nilaufwärts steuerten, um im herrlichen Wüstenklima von Assuan
sich langsam und vorsichtiger wieder an das subarktische Klima von
Uleia zu gewöhnen.
Der Staudamm von Assuan ist kulturgeschichtlich eine Barbarei,
technisch eine anerkennenswerte Leistung, volkswirtschaftlich eine
Großtat. In scharfen Kurven schlängelt sich die Schmalspurbahn
zwischen Luxor und Assuan nilaufwärts. Der Nil fließt bald
unmittelbar am Bahndamm, bald legt sich eine schmale
Alluvialebene zwischen den alten, heiligen Strom und das neue,
unheilige Beförderungsmittel. Dabei hat man immerfort das Gefühl:
„Herrgott, ist das Ländchen schmal; wenn’s nur der Wind nicht
einmal überweht und zudeckt.“ Plötzlich treten die kahlen Hügel zur
Linken zurück; eine weite Fläche tut sich auf, erst ganz weit hinten
von den scharfen Konturen der arabischen Wüstenberge begrenzt.
Wüste ist auch diese Ebene selbst, doch wie lange noch! Wende
dein Antlitz zur Rechten, o Fremdling; dort erblickt dein Auge einen
großen Gebäudekomplex. Er ist gar nicht ägyptisch und gar nicht
arabisch; nichts vom Schmutz fellachischer Unkultur haftet ihm an,
er verkörpert vielmehr den reinsten europäisch-amerikanischen
Fabrikstil. Ihn zeigt auch der himmelhohe Schornstein, der das
Ganze krönt. Der schaut so fremd auf das Silberband des Stromes
zu seinen Füßen, auf den schmalen, grünen Streifen zu beiden
Seiten dieses Stromes, und auf das unendliche Sandmeer der
Wüste im Osten und Westen hernieder, als müßte er sich fragen:
„wie komme gerade ich mit meiner überschlanken Röhrenform in
dieses Land, wo alles so wuchtig, schwer und massig ist, die
Häuser, die Tempel, die Gräber und die Pyramiden?“ Eine dichte
Rauchwolke entquillt dem Schlot. Wende deine Augen nach vorn;
siehst du dort das Silberband strömenden Gewässers, das sich in
schnurgeradem Kanal in der Ebene verliert? Siehst du fernerhin die
Gräben und Rinnsale, in die sich von jenem Kanal aus das Wasser
des heiligen Stromes verteilt, vollkommen gesetzmäßig und
gehorsam dem Willen des menschlichen Geistes? Des Rätsels
Lösung ist einfach; der Gebäudekomplex ist eine Pumpstation,
angelegt, jene zur Wüste gewordene Ebene von neuem zu
bewässern. Jetzt ist die Ebene noch vollkommen kahl; in wenig
Monaten wird sie ein unabsehbares Ährenfeld sein, dessen Halme
hundertfältige Frucht tragen.
 Die wirtschaftliche Erschließung der öden Sandflächen des
oberägyptischen Niltals ist die gegebene Parallele für unseren
eigenen Kolonialbetrieb. Ohne einen festen Willen, ohne Kapital und
ohne eine genaue Kenntnis des Landes und seiner Eigenschaften
würde auch jene englische oder amerikanische Gesellschaft im Niltal
nichts erreichen. Alle drei Faktoren tun auch uns not, sofern wir
weiterkommen wollen in Ostafrika, in Südwest, in Kamerun und
Togo. Nur e i n kleiner Unterschied ist dabei; der im Laufe vieler
Jahrzehntausende angehäufte Alluvialboden des Niltales bedarf
lediglich der Berieselung mit dem belebenden Wasser desselben
Stromes, dem er seine eigene Entstehung verdankt, um sofort
wieder ein Kulturboden allerersten Ranges zu sein. Der in seiner
Wasserführung weise geregelte Nilstrom ist der Zauberstab, der die
Verwandlung unfruchtbarsten Ödlandes in den besten Acker in
einem kurzen Augenblick vollzieht. Für das Pori und die Steppen
Deutsch-Ostafrikas fehlt uns dieser Zauberstab. Freilich hat das
Land Flüsse und Bäche in großer Anzahl, doch sind diese Flußläufe
in ihrer Wasserführung einstweilen noch nicht reguliert; keiner von
ihnen ist auch in jenem großartigen Maßstabe schiffbar wie die
Lebensader des Pharaonenlandes. Im Laufe der Zeit wird auch bei
ihnen das alles kommen; man wird den Pangani zu einer
Verkehrsader gestalten und auch den Rufidyi, vielleicht sogar den
Grenzfluß Rovuma; doch das ist Zukunftsmusik, die die lebende
Generation nicht mehr zu hören bekommen wird. Auch der Boden
Deutsch-Ostafrikas hält den Vergleich mit dem des Niltals nicht aus;
er ist kein abgesetzter, humusreicher Alluvialboden, sondern ein im
allgemeinen ziemlich mageres Verwitterungsprodukt anstehender
Gesteine; der Zauberstab des netzenden Wassertropfens allein tut’s
also bei ihm nicht. Gleichwohl ist die Wasserfrage, soweit ich es
beurteilen kann, die Kardinalfrage unserer ganzen kolonialen
Agrikultur. Bei Saadani sind sie gleich in die Vollen gegangen: mit
Dampfpflügen bearbeitet man dort gewaltige Flächen;
Baumwollkultur im großen soll dem amerikanischen Monopol ein
Ende bereiten. Das ist alles gut und schön gedacht; die
Temperaturverhältnisse sind günstig, auch der Boden ist für jene
Kultur vollauf geeignet; nur e i n Faktor ist unsicher: Deutsch-
Ostafrika kann ebensowenig wie Indien mit voller Gewißheit auf
normale Niederschlagsmengen rechnen; wenn aber einmal der
Regen ganz ausbleibt, was dann?
Man hat den dunkeln Weltteil oft und gern mit einem
umgekehrten Teller verglichen; sanft und sacht steigt das Land
ringsum vom Ozean aus an; allmählich wird der Neigungswinkel
größer; schließlich artet die Küstenebene in ein vollkommenes
Randgebirge von bedeutenden Abmessungen aus. Doch den
Gebirgscharakter haben diese Berge nur von der Küstenregion her;
ist man über sie hinweggeschritten, so ergeht es dem Wanderer wie
auf den Höhen des Harzes oder des Rheinischen Schiefergebirges:
die vordem so stattlichen Berge sind verschwunden, unbehindert
kann er den gesamten Horizont überschauen, denn auch jenseits
des Schollenrandes ist er auf nahezu gleicher Höhe geblieben. Um
bei dem Bilde des Tellers zu bleiben: er hat den schmalen
Aufsatzrand überschritten und spaziert nun auf der wagerechten
Fläche des Bodeninnern bequem dahin.
Mit dieser ganz eigenartigen Oberflächengliederung muß auch
unsere Kolonialwirtschaft stark rechnen. Zunächst ist die geringe
oder ganz fehlende Schiffbarkeit der Flüsse durch sie bedingt; des
weitern bringt es der Charakter unseres Luftmeeres mit sich, daß der
Hauptteil der Niederschläge an jenem Schollenrande niedergeht,
hinter dem dann die Zone einer Art von Regenschatten anhebt, die
manchen Landstrich, wie z. B. Ugogo und die Nachbargebiete, zu
nicht übermäßig üppigen Gefilden stempelt. Immerhin ist der größte
Teil dieses Innern von einer Bodenbeschaffenheit, die das
Fortkommen und Gedeihen aller für das äquatoriale Afrika überhaupt
in Betracht kommenden Nutzpflanzen sehr wohl gewährleistet. Der
Pflanzer ist dort in der glücklichen Lage, mit dem belebenden Einfluß
der ständig scheinenden Tropensonne zu rechnen; diese zaubert
selbst aus dem Sande wohlbestockte Fruchtfelder hervor. Dort unten
im Süden habe ich mich tagaus tagein davon überzeugen können.
Überhaupt jener Süden. Er ist bisher das Aschenbrödel unter
allen Bezirken unserer Kolonie gewesen, und ich fürchte, er wird es
auch fernerhin bleiben; auf ihm lastet das Vorurteil, er sei
unfruchtbar, und das schreckt die amtlichen und auch die privaten
Kreise von seiner Erschließung ab. Es ist richtig: fett ist weder der
Boden des Makondehochlandes noch des Mueraplateaus, noch der
weiten Ebenen, die sich hinter beiden Bergländern zwischen dem
Rovuma im Süden und dem Mbemkuru oder dem Rufidyi im Norden
erstrecken; Sand und Lehm und Lehm und Sand hier, und
Quarzgerölle dort, das ist die Signatur des Ganzen. Dennoch haben
wir durchaus keinen Anlaß, an diesem Süden zu verzweifeln; denn
wenn der Neger in ihm sein gutes Fortkommen findet, ohne
Düngung sogar und ohne jede andere Errungenschaft unserer
hochentwickelten intensiven Feldwirtschaft, wenn dieser selbe Neger
außerdem in der Lage ist, erhebliche Bruchteile seiner Ernten an
Sesam, Erdnüssen, Kautschuk, Wachs, Körner- und Hülsenfrüchten
auszuführen, so wäre es verwunderlich, wenn der Weiße aus jenem
Gebiet nicht noch mehr herausholen sollte.
Eins dürfen wir allerdings nicht vergessen: ein Schlaraffenland ist
weder der Süden, noch Afrika überhaupt; niemand fliegen die
gebratenen Tauben in den offenen Mund; Arbeit und immer wieder
Arbeit ist vielmehr hier die Devise genau wie in minder glücklichen
Klimaten auch. Gerade bei den Makonde, den Yao und den Makua
haben wir genugsam Gelegenheit gehabt, diesen unausgesetzten
Fleiß kennen und würdigen zu lernen. Des können wir jedenfalls
sicher sein: viel bequemer wird es auch der europäische Pflanzer
nicht haben, weder im Süden, noch im Norden, weder an der Küste,
noch im Innern. Das schadet aber auch gar nicht; aus Müßiggängern
sind noch niemals starke, lebensfähige Völker erstanden, auch in
Kolonien nicht; im Gegenteil, je stärker die Anspannung und der
Kampf um das Dasein gewesen ist, um so kraftvoller ist die
Entwicklung auch aller Tochtervölker im Laufe der ganzen
menschlichen Kolonialgeschichte gewesen. Die heutigen Vereinigten
Staaten sind der klassische Beleg für diese Behauptung; die in der
besten Entwicklung befindlichen Kolonien Südafrikas reden eine
nicht minder deutliche Sprache. Andere Belege würde man mit
Leichtigkeit zusammenstellen können.
Draußen gehen die Wogen immer höher; der „König“ ist mehr
breit als hoch; er geht ganz ruhig, doch muß er es sich gefallen
lassen, die Wasser des Mittelmeeres mehr, als ihm lieb ist, über sein
Deck fegen zu sehen. Habe ich bei dem grandiosen Schauspiel
wirklich die Pflicht, mich in unfruchtbare koloniale Ausblicke zu
vertiefen? Der Ausspruch meines Freundes Hiram Rhodes von den
„politischen Kindern“ war freilich mehr als hart, doch ein klein wenig
Berechtigung hat er gleichwohl, auch über den Sansibarvertrag
hinaus. Wir Deutschen sind 300 Jahre nach den anderen Völkern
auf die koloniale Schaubühne getreten; trotzdem eifern Hinz und
Kunz bei uns darüber, daß unsere vor ganzen 20 Jahren
erworbenen Kolonien noch keine Überschüsse abwerfen; am
liebsten möchten die braven Banausen, daß ihnen „Südwest“
womöglich ihre sämtlichen Steuern aufbrächte. Man könnte sich das
Haupthaar raufen ob solcher Torheit und solchem Mangel an
geschichtlichem Gefühl. In Deutschland werden die meisten Bücher
gedruckt, keine gekauft und nur wenige gelesen. Unter diesen
letzteren können kolonialgeschichtliche Werke kaum vertreten sein,
sonst wäre es nicht möglich, daß selbst koloniale Fachkreise so
wenig über jene tausend Kämpfe, Widerwärtigkeiten und
Rückschläge unterrichtet sind, auf welche die Engländer in Indien, in
der Südsee, in Afrika und Amerika mit wehmütigen Gefühlen
zurückzuschauen Veranlassung haben, und welche den
Niederländern, den Spaniern und den Portugiesen ihren
ausgedehnten Kolonialbesitz sooft bis zum Überdruß hätten
verleiden können. Uns schwebt unbewußt immer der Reichtum
Englands und die Wohlhabenheit Hollands vor, die ja allerdings
beide zum großen Teil auf dem Kolonialbesitz beruhen; dabei
vergessen wir stets, daß drei Jahrhunderte ein fünfzehnmal längerer
Zeitraum sind als unsere koloniale Ära, und daß bei beiden Völkern
nicht weniger als zehn Generationen in harter, mühseliger,
unausgesetzter Arbeit haben erringen und erkämpfen müssen, was
uns Emporkömmlingen von gestern nach unserer Meinung mühelos
in den Schoß fallen soll. Das ist ein Mangel an historischem Gefühl,
auf den man gar nicht kräftig genug hinweisen kann; ich bin der
festen Überzeugung, daß eine objektive Würdigung unseres
schönen, großen Kolonialbesitzes auch erst dann Platz greifen kann,
wenn wir diesem Mangel, der bei dem Volke der Denker doppelt
unangenehm auffällt, durch einen besseren Unterricht abgeholfen
haben werden.
 Ein unfehlbares Mittel zur Gewinnung jenes historischen Sinnes
ist das Hineinstecken von zwei Arten von Kapital in die Kolonien; das
eine Kapital besteht in dem Menschenblut, das für ihre Erhaltung
und Entwicklung vergossen wird, das andere in dem baren Gelde,
das man für ihre Erschließung und Nutzbarmachung in ihnen selbst
anlegt. Um die Größe des englischen Kolonialreiches und seine
Verteilung über die ganze Oikumene zu veranschaulichen, wird
häufig darauf hingewiesen, daß das Mutterland zu keinem Zeitpunkt
ohne irgendeinen mehr oder weniger belangreichen Kolonialkrieg
sei. Das stimmt für die Gegenwart; es hat jedoch auch seine
Richtigkeit für die Vergangenheit; England hat in der Tat jederzeit um
seinen auswärtigen Besitz zu ringen gehabt. Unzweifelhaft ist dieser
dreihundertjährige Kampf um Haben und Nichthaben, der, auf
spezifisch englische Verhältnisse übertragen, oft auch ein Kampf um
Sein und Nichtsein gewesen ist, der Hauptgrund für das innige
Zusammenleben der ganzen großen Familie von Mutterland und
Tochterstaaten. Es hat wohl ein jeder einen Lieben da draußen in
indischer oder in afrikanischer Erde liegen; das schafft zunächst eine
schmerzliche Anteilnahme an jenem Lande; aus dieser aber
entsprießen sehr bald auch anders geartete Interessen.
Die Richtigkeit dieser Lehre hat uns der blutige Krieg in Deutsch-
Südwestafrika in ach so schmerzlicher Weise nur zu deutlich
bewiesen. Der großen Masse bei uns war jenes Land, sofern sie
überhaupt nur von ihm wußte, bestenfalls des neuen Deutschen
Reiches Streusandbüchse; heute schlafen in seinem harten Boden
ein paar tausend Söhne — und nicht die schlechtesten — den
ewigen Schlaf; von ihnen ist der eine aus dem Palast, der andere
aus der Hütte hinausgezogen an den Waterberg und in die
Omaheke. Ist es da verwunderlich, daß jenes Land dem Volk
seitdem ans Herz gewachsen ist? Wir möchten’s nicht missen,
schon weil unsere Söhne und Brüder dort ausruhen von dem harten,
schweren Kampf, der in der Reihe unserer größeren Kolonialkriege
der erste gewesen ist, der aber vermutlich nicht der letzte sein
dürfte. Das hat die Geschichte aller bisherigen
Kolonialunternehmungen gelehrt.
 Von dem anderen Kapital, den materiellen Werten, kann man bei
unseren Kolonien nicht sprechen, ohne gleichzeitig die Bahnfrage zu
berühren. Was ist geklagt worden über die unbesiegbare
Zurückhaltung unseres deutschen Großkapitals den Kolonien
gegenüber! Ich gehöre leider nicht zu der beneidenswerten Klasse
glücksgütergesegneter Sterblicher; doch selbst wenn ich eine Million
zu verlieren hätte, so würde ich mich doch noch sehr besinnen, sie
in ein Land zu stecken, das durch keinerlei Verkehrswege
erschlossen ist, durch natürliche überhaupt nicht, durch künstliche
einstweilen nur mangelhaft. In der Heimat blickt man jetzt mit großen
Erwartungen auf den neuen Lenker unseres kolonialen Karrens;
Herr Dernburg ist ja Finanzmann; vielleicht erreicht er, was anderen
vor ihm stets noch fehlgeschlagen ist: den Ausbau des längst
geplanten großen Bahnsystems und den Zufluß der nicht minder
nötigen großen Geldmittel.
Nicht ohne Bedeutung für die Zukunft Deutsch-Ostafrikas ist
schließlich der Eingeborene; über ihn kann ich als Ethnograph auch
wesentlich sicherer urteilen als über die anderen Fragen, zu denen
unsereiner doch nur auf Grund seines gesunden
Menschenverstandes Stellung zu nehmen befugt ist. Ein
„unerzogenes Kind“ lautet das Urteil über den schwarzen Mann auf
der einen Seite; ein „ausgefeimter Galgenstrick und
unverbesserlicher Faulpelz“ auf der andern. Es gibt noch eine dritte
Partei, die dem Ostafrikaner wenigstens eine oder ein paar ganz
kleine Tugenden belassen will, doch diese wird niedergeschrien.
„Kasi“ heißt im Suaheli die Arbeit; in der „Lustigen Ecke“ der
„Deutsch-Ostafrikanischen Zeitung“ fand ich das Wort neulich
anders übersetzt, da verdeutschte es der Suaheli mit dem Begriff
„Gemeinheit“. Diese Auffassung vom schwarzen Mann ist an der
Küste tatsächlich herrschend; nicht ganz mit Unrecht, wie man billig
zugeben muß; der Stadtbevölkerung dort ist ernsthafte Arbeit
wirklich ein Greuel und eine Gemeinheit.
Von dem ganzen großen übrigen Teil der Bevölkerung Deutsch-
Ostafrikas glaube ich besser denken zu dürfen. Die zahlreichste
Völkerschaft der ganzen Kolonie sind die Wanyamwesi; mit
schätzungsweise vier Millionen Seelen füllen sie den ganzen
zentralen Teil östlich des großen zentralafrikanischen Grabens. An
ihrem Fleiß und an ihrer Kulturfähigkeit zu zweifeln hat bisher noch
niemand gewagt; sie sind ausgezeichnete Feldbauer, gleichzeitig
haben sie ein Jahrhundert hindurch den gesamten
Karawanenhandel von der Ostküste bis zum Herzen des Erdteils
aufrecht erhalten. In absehbarer Zeit wird dieser Trägerverkehr
unwiederbringlich zu Ende gehen; wird jenes Volk damit überflüssig
werden? Wirf, o Deutscher, einen Blick auf die Abschlußberichte der
Ugandabahn und begreife sodann, welch wirtschaftsfrohes Element
gerade du mit jenem starken Volke zu besitzen das Glück hast; sei
allerdings dann auch klug und weise genug, die andere Folgerung
zu ziehen, diese wirtschaftliche Tüchtigkeit für das eigene Volkstum
zu fördern, weiter zu entwickeln und vor allem für dich selbst
auszunutzen. Wir haben wahrlich keine Veranlassung, den Säckel
eines Volkes zu füllen, das mit uns im schärfsten ökonomischen
Wettkampf liegt.
Was den Wanyamwesi recht ist, ist der Mehrzahl der anderen
Völkerschaften billig; auch jetzt noch, auf schwankem Schiff im
Sturmestoben, komme ich nicht über den hohen Stand der
Feldkultur hinweg, den ich bei meinen Freunden da unten am
Rovuma als Norm vorgefunden habe. Völker, die bei aller
Beweglichkeit so an der Scholle kleben, müssen unbedingt einen
tüchtigen Kern in sich haben; all unsere Lehren der
Völkerpsychologie und der Völkergeschichte würden sonst
zuschanden werden. Erklären läßt sich diese unerwartet hohe
Kulturstufe lediglich durch eine unmeßbar lange Dauer ihrer
Entwicklung. Gegen das hohe Alter des Ackerbaues beim Neger
spricht nichts; er ist konservativ, wie auch sein Erdteil konservativ ist;
die paar fremden Elemente, die wir heute noch mit der
Wirtschaftsform des Sammlers und Jägers behaftet finden, den
Buschmann in den unfruchtbarsten Teilen des Südens, und den
Pygmäen in den unzugänglichsten Teilen des zentral- und
westafrikanischen Urwaldes, werden vermutlich schon vor sehr, sehr
langer Zeit durch die ackerbauenden Bantu abgedrängt worden sein.
Die Feldbauform unseres Negers ist der Hackbau; dieser führt
seinen Namen mit Recht nach der quergestellten schweren Hacke,
mit der der schwarze Landmann den Boden seines Feldes kultiviert,
lockert und reinigt, mit der er die Aussaat besorgt und zum großen
Teil auch die Ernte, die, mit einem Wort, sein Universalinstrument ist.
Wir sind nur zu sehr geneigt, in dieser Wirtschaftsform etwas
Minderwertiges, Urwüchsiges zu erblicken. Insofern als der Hackbau
keines Haustieres bedarf, weder zum Ziehen des Pfluges, der Egge,
der Walze und des Erntewagens, noch zum Zweck der
Dunglieferung, ist er wirklich rückständig; andererseits ist zu
bedenken, daß große Teile unserer Kolonien Herde der Tsetsefliege
sind, sodann, daß die mit dem Hackbau verbundene Beetkultur in
Wirklichkeit eine sehr hohe Wirtschaftsstufe bezeichnet. Der beste
Beleg dafür ist die Beibehaltung des schmalen Beetes auch in
unserem Hausgarten, den wir im Range unmöglich hinter unseren
Feldbau stellen können. Bezeichnenderweise nimmt der Feldbau,
wo immer er zu der intensivsten Stufe unserer Agrikultur, zur
Blumenzucht wie bei Erfurt, Quedlinburg, Haarlem usw., oder zur
Gemüsekultur wie bei Braunschweig, Mainz, Hannover, ferner bei
allen Großstädten, übergeht, sofort die Form des Beetes an. Zudem
wüßte ich nicht, wie anders der Neger z. B. bei unserer breiten,
unzugänglichen Feldform der Hauptgefahr seiner Pflanzung, dem
Unkraut, beikommen wollte; sein schmales Beet gestattet ihm den
Zugang von allen Seiten.
An die Form des negroiden Feldbaues wollen wir also nicht
rühren; sie ist alterprobt und gut. Eine andere Frage ist es: wie
machen wir unseren schwarzen Landsmann auf dieser Basis für uns
nutzbar? Meines Erachtens gibt es da zwei Wege, die beide
gleichviel für sich wie gegen sich haben; beide sind bereits seit
längerer Zeit beschritten, so daß sich die Möglichkeit ergibt, die
schließliche Entwicklung der ganzen Kolonie sehr wohl
vorauszusehen. Der eine Weg führt direkt zur Plantagenkolonie.
Dies geschieht in der Weise, daß man den Schwarzen in Haus und
Hof nicht weiter fördert, sondern ihn zum Arbeiter auf den
Pflanzungen der weißen Herren erzieht, die sich überall dort
anbauen, wo geeigneter Boden und erträgliches Klima eine gute
Kapitalsanlage versprechen. Die andere Methode hat den Neger und
seine Entwicklung selbst im Auge; sie will seine eigene
wirtschaftliche Produktionsfähigkeit nach Mannigfaltigkeit und Güte
der Erzeugnisse vergrößern, ihm selbst dabei gleichzeitig größere
Bedürfnisse anerziehen und ihn dergestalt auch kaufkräftiger
machen. Für seinen Export soll er den unsrigen eintauschen.
Ob sich das deutsche Volk nur für einen dieser beiden Wege
entscheiden, oder ob es, wie bisher, beide auch weiterhin
beibehalten wird, muß die Zukunft lehren. Für das Mutterland sind
beide Methoden gleich viel oder gleich wenig wert, je nach der
Intensität unserer gesamten kolonialen Betätigung; dem Neger
würde allerdings die zweite mehr bringen. Als Plantagenarbeiter ist
und bleibt er „Schensi“; als freier Besitzer seiner Scholle ist er
entwicklungsfähig. Freilich muß man den Punkt dabei im Auge
behalten, daß wir Kolonien gegründet haben in der Erwartung, für
unseren rasch wachsenden Bevölkerungsüberfluß
Auswanderungsgebiete zu bekommen; beansprucht der Neger die
fruchtbarsten Teile seiner Heimat selbst, so ist es mit jenem ver
sacrum nichts.
Von der durch uns einzuschlagenden Gesamtrichtung hängt es
ebenfalls ab, ob wir an der physischen Verbesserung des Negers
und seinem numerischen Anwachsen ein Interesse haben oder
nicht. Unter dem Hauch der Zivilisation konnte das eine oder andere
Naturvolk ganz oder nahezu dahinschwinden; die Tasmanier
gehören der Geschichte an; die Maori von Neuseeland und die
Kanaken von Hawaii nehmen an Zahl rasch ab; man spricht von den
letzten Wedda auf Ceylon. Zu diesen Todeskandidaten gehört die
Negerrasse nicht; im Gegenteil, wo immer sie mit den Weißen in
Berührung getreten ist, erstarkt sie in jeder Beziehung; ihr
Aussterben brauchen wir also nicht zu befürchten. Doch sollen wir
ihren Vermehrungskoeffizienten durch künstliche Zuchtwahl noch
zielbewußt heraufsetzen? Freilich sollen wir das, denn eine
zahlreiche eingesessene Bevölkerung ist uns unter allen Umständen
nutzbringend und dienlich; den Pflanzer befreit sie von der ewigen
Arbeiternot, für den europäischen Fabrikanten aber und den
Kaufmann ist eine große Kundschaft zweifellos angenehmer als eine
kleine. Wie diese Verbesserung in die Wege zu leiten sein wird,
darüber habe ich mich bereits früher (Seite 346 ff.), angesichts der
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