“Well, let’s get at it then,” was his simply reply, and he strode to her rental car and began hefting out the various items of her gear and Derek’s. “I expect we’ll want a full-scale strategy session now that everybody’s finally here,” he said. “So I’ve laid on tea a bit early.”
It fell to Bevan to make the group introductions, since he alone had now met everyone to be involved in the expedition. And he kept the occasion light and informal despite visible signs that an undercurrent of tension already existed.
Judith was not surprised. This is like trying to mix oil and water. Or worse, sparks and gasoline. Talk about volatility!
On the conservation side, Jan Smythe was a springy, nervy blonde whose only interest seemed to lie in her role as chief technician for the myriad cameras and motion sensors. Reg Hudson was tall, lanky, slow-moving and quiet, but his placid pale-blue eyes held the intensity Judith had so often seen in committed conservation zealots. Ron Peters was exactly what she might have expected – bearded, militant, and aggressive. He looked and sounded exactly the type to be dumping sand in logging equipment fuel tanks or spiking saw logs in a bid to make things difficult and dangerous for forest workers.
I’m surprised this one and Bevan haven’t already come to blows, she found herself thinking, and then found herself even more surprised at how diplomatic and at ease Bevan seemed to be with all his visitors, including the truculent Mr. Peters.
Roberta Jardine, who was expected for tea with a promise of fresh-baked scones and bread, apparently had already met everyone but Derek, and the final member of the “establishment” team, Ted Norton, was a tall, emaciated, very quiet, very old man who said almost nothing, but whose washed-out blue eyes missed nothing either. He would have to be, Judith thought, in his late eighties or even older, and he looked as if he’d been put together from old leather and fencing wire.
“I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating,” Bevan quietly emphasized after finishing the introductions. “When it comes to the bushcraft end of things, or if anybody gets into any kind of situation where survival skills are required, Ted’s your man. He’s forgotten more about getting about in the scrub than most of us will ever learn.”
Bevan grinned at them all then, devils dancing in his eyes.
“He’s also, by the way, the only one here who’s actually had his hands on a real live tiger – several, in fact – which is worth bearing in mind.”
The statement drew the expected reaction from his audience. There was a tangible heightening of interest all round, and a glare from Ron Peters, who looked at Ted as if he were the devil incarnate. Peters appeared about to speak when the old man’s quiet voice slid round the gathering as if on ice.
“Just for the record,” he said softly. “I’ve never killed a tiger, nor tried to, nor wanted to.”
His rheumy eyes swept from one newcomer to the other, meeting each in turn as if daring them to challenge the statement. Nobody spoke, whereupon the old man nodded sagely and somehow faded into the background. Judith didn’t hear another word from him the rest of the evening.
Bevan merely continued grinning mischievously, then announced he had work to do and would see them all later. Derek took this as his cue to collect the greenies together – was it coincidence or a deliberate decision, Judith wondered after not being included – and led them outside, presumably for a more private setting in which to prepare for the evening’s strategy meeting.
Old Ted Norton picked up some leather he’d obviously been plaiting and followed them outside, although Judith noticed he turned away in a different direction. Judith was left on her own to find a vacant bunk, stow her gear, and then wander out and sit beneath one of the huge pine trees in the house yard, where she pondered the day’s events and wondered about those to come with the evening.
To think much beyond that, she decided, was tantamount to folly, and wondered if Jeremiah Cottrell had any conception of the explosive forces he’d schemed to bring together with such a disparate group on such a mission.
“There is no way this group can get along for six days, much less six months,” she muttered. And silently wondered how Bevan Keene expected to keep the two factions – so clearly at loggerheads before the expedition had even begun – from erupting into open warfare.
She was sitting, eyes closed and mind busy composing possible openings for the stories yet to be written, when some silent, inner warning system roused her and caused her to stare wildly about her with alarm.
16
“Don’t tell me they’ve turfed you out of the inner circle already,” said Bevan Keene. “And by the way, you’ll get a crick in your neck if you take naps in a position like that.”
“I haven’t been—.” Then she stopped, suddenly unsure. Had she been napping?
Bevan’s expression said she had. His grin widened, a sure sign he’d caught her out and was going to enjoy rubbing salt in the wounds.
“You’ve been asleep about twenty minutes, by my reckoning,” he said, and she saw the devils come into his eyes as she flinched at the realization he’d been watching her so long. “Although I’m sure you’ll say you were just resting your eyes and pondering the wide range of disparities in our little band of happy wanderers. Fair bit of room for thought there, eh?”
“It is certainly going to be an interesting mix of attitudes and personalities. I don’t envy you the job of keeping the peace.”
Now the devils in his eyes laughed with him. “Keeping the peace isn’t part of my contract, Judith Theresa. It would have to be in yours, if anyone’s, since you’re allegedly the only truly neutral figure in the drama. Presuming, of course, that you’re really as neutral as you say you are.”
“Meaning, I presume, that you don’t believe I am?”
Judith was fully awake now, although becoming so had only served to heighten her defensiveness and the curious feeling of vulnerability at the knowledge that Bevan had been able to observe her for so long without her being aware of it. As he could have, and likely did, from his hunkered-down position against a nearby tree trunk.
“Meaning I hope you’re not fooling yourself about this entire performance,” he said, one eyebrow arched in skepticism. “It isn’t going to be any tea party, and I just hope you realize that.”
“I realize I’m already getting a bit sick of you setting me up to be the meat in the sandwich,” she replied hotly. “Not that it will do you any good,” she continued, lying now, but convinced of her ability to hide it. “However, I will say this once, for the record. I have no intention of being used, not by you, not by anyone! And I will not be some sort of weapon, or victim, in whatever hostilities eventuate between you and Derek, or anyone else for that matter!”
“Hostilities?” His voice trilled with false innocence, and his eyes laughed in accompaniment. “Whatever do you mean, Judith Theresa? Hostilities?” He shook his head in apparent amusement.
“You know very well what I mean,” Judith said, but had to admit privately, in her mind, that even she didn’t really know exactly what she meant, only that all logic suggested Derek and Bevan could never, ever, be what she would term compatible. And, she reasoned, Bevan knew that as well as she did, whether he chose to admit it or not.
“I know what you think you mean,” he said after what seemed a year of silence, a year in which his eyes seemed to darken into pools she could willingly have drowned in. “But I have to say this, Judith Theresa, just so that we understand each other. Your little mate Derek isn’t going to cause any hostilities and neither am I, for that matter. He isn’t worth the effort.”
Judith didn’t know what to say. Bevan’s assessment fit too closely with her own newly discovered knowledge of Derek and how Derek operated, now that she’d seen him afresh, with the clear vision of distance and time. He wasn’t really that important. He was—
“Nothing more than a politician, after all,” Bevan said, and she couldn’t stop the strangled outburst of laughter those seven words prov
oked, because he’d used her own terminology. Bevan watched quietly as she huffed and howled until the tears poured down her cheeks, and when the spasms had subsided enough so that he could be heard, he said, “I wouldn’t have thought it was all that funny.”
“Because,” Judith gasped, “you don’t know why it was so funny.”
And never will, she thought. How could he? She would never dare to admit she’d been thinking of Derek in exactly that word – politician – when she’d been so quiet and distracted at her cousin’s dinner party, much less how striking she had found the difference between Derek and Bevan himself.
“You might try explaining,” Bevan said, fishing.
“I could, but I won’t. Except to say there’s an even more descriptive word for him. ‘Wolverine.’”
Bevan lapsed into concentration, obviously comfortable in the situation, not at all threatened by having to sit and think about what she’d just said. It was this quiet self-confidence, Judith thought, that was among his major charms. He was secure in himself, not afraid to admit that he wasn’t perfect, and he didn’t have to put himself forward as a know-it-all. The silence lengthened, flowing between them now like a broad ribbon, almost visible. Bevan’s eyes were on her, but his focus was not. It gave Judith time to observe him without seeming overly curious. And she took it, letting her gaze roam across his face, letting her gaze touch the flaring mustache, the strong, thrusting chin, the sensuous mouth. In his neat khaki work clothes, he seemed a curious combination of rural and urban. His hands were work roughened but his face revealed a complex sensitivity. She allowed herself the luxury of stroking him with her eyes, touching the crisp hair in the hollow of his throat, the muscular chest and flat stomach. Then she dropped her gaze to his strong thighs before moving upward again, always with half an eye to ensure he was still in that thoughtful trance and didn’t catch her at it.
By the time she reached his eyes, he was still lost in thought. And then, abruptly, he wasn’t. She actually saw the focus of his eyes change, realizing as she did so that he had just caught her staring at him.
“Wolverine,” he said, mouthing the words as if he was reading from a blackboard in his mind. “Nasty little North American beastie, cousin to the weasel. Famous for destroying what it doesn’t eat itself, usually in a manner most foul. Carcajou, in French.”
Then he looked at her, looked into her, and nodded his head sagely. And he understood. Judith knew without another word being spoken that he knew exactly why she’d used the term wolverine as a synonym for Derek.
“Yes, I can see how the description would fit most politicians,” Bevan added.
No mention of Derek specifically, and Judith knew there wouldn’t be. Bevan had achieved his understanding. He knew it and he knew that she knew it too, but he wouldn’t beat her over the head with that knowledge, didn’t have to. To do so would serve only to boost his own ego, and Bevan didn’t have that type of ego, that type of destructive need. Not like Derek.
The sound of an arriving vehicle shattered the moment, and Bevan heaved himself upright, then crossed the small distance between them and held down a hand to Judith.
“That’ll be Roberta with the best home-baked bread in Christendom,” he said. “Let’s help her with the rest of the tucker, and once we’ve got this mob fed, we can get the show on the road.”
Lifting Judith easily to her feet, he kept her small hand enclosed in his own as they walked round to the shearing quarters, where Roberta was already unloading what appeared to be food enough for an army. She swung around at their approach, a greeting for Bevan on her lips. But Judith saw it falter, then divide to include them both, and noticed also that it ended nowhere as effusively as it had begun.
It was only when they paused directly in front of Roberta, Bevan exclaiming at the splendid aroma of the fresh-baked bread and scones, that Judith realized he was still holding her hand, that he had been doing so ever since helping her to her feet.
She flushed at the realization, but her attempts to dislodge his grip were wasted. Despite Roberta’s scowl, he kept Judith’s palm in his grasp long after it had become obvious to everyone that she was trying to free herself.
And when she finally did manage, he grinned down at her with those damned devils laughing from his eyes, clearly enjoying the exercise of making her uncomfortable, putting her off balance.
And, she wondered, did he also enjoy making Roberta Jardine feel the same? It seemed that he did, but to what possible purpose?
17
Dinner that evening was, Judith thought, one of the strangest, most astonishingly weird experiences she’d ever had involving food.
It was like something from an off-beat movie, both real and unreal, familiar and yet totally strange. Again, as she had since the beginning, she was struck by the sheer incongruity of the people and the situation into which they were heading.
The enticing aroma of Roberta’s fresh bread must have permeated the entire farmstead because moments after her arrival the various members of the party began to straggle in from all directions, sniffing appreciatively.
Derek and his crew were, as expected, together, and Judith assumed there had been some fairly intensive discussions since the Queenslander’s arrival. The group entered the dining room together with the Tasmanian contingent almost protectively behind Derek, a subtle but significant move that indicated they had already accepted his leadership. And he knew it!
Judith knew him well enough to read that extra hint of authority in his stride and bearing. Gazing round the room, she realized too that nothing was quite as subtle as she had originally thought. Old Ted Norton was glancing round with a look on his face that suggested he, too, was aware of the tension in the air, and once Judith caught Roberta sending an anxious glance to where Bevan presided over the cooking of steaks and chops for those who fancied such food.
For the vegetarians, who turned out to be Jan Smythe and the ever-scowling Ron Peters, Bevan turned out a very impressive rice dish, and with it a quiche that would have done credit to any restaurant. But when complimented on it, he retorted, “Don’t let this go to your heads. Once we get out in the bush, it’ll be share and share alike when it comes to cooking duties, and I’ll expect as good in return.”
Then he winked at Judith and added, “Except that those who don’t or won’t eat meat won’t be expected to cook it. Or allowed to. I don’t mind the occasional feed of rabbit tucker, but I’m damned if I’ll have my carnivorous tastes upset at the hands of infidels.”
He grinned hugely to show he meant no real hostility, but it was a gesture largely wasted. Jan Smythe ignored the jibe entirely, and Ron Peters’ scowl was largely unchanged. The others in the room merely smiled politely.
Conversation during the meal remained fairly mundane as everyone present strove to avoid friction. It would, Judith couldn’t help thinking, have made an exceedingly boring dinner party. But once they’d reached the coffee stage – herbal tea for the truculent Ron Peters – things livened up considerably.
Bevan kicked things off by reading various e-mail correspondence from Jeremiah Cottrell, as if to remind everyone specifically of the chain of command and their various roles in what was to come.
“That’s the official version,” he said. “But in the field, I suspect we’ll find things working out a bit more flexibly.” Which was the opener to a round-table discussion that ranged from the esoteric to the blatantly ridiculous, provoking howls of outrage at some moments and howls of laughter at others. Even the laconic Ted Norton was seen to smile.
They thrashed things out from every possible viewpoint, it seemed to Judith, then turned everything upside down and started again. Voices were raised, invectives hurled, insults exchanged. Why there weren’t fist fights, Judith didn’t know. At one point she was certain there would be when her own neutrality was called into question by, of all people, Derek!
The comment drew an angry glare from Bevan, apparently on her behalf, but before anything else could
happen the conversation had veered ninety-five degrees and was off to somewhere else.
At one point, Bevan produced several cardboard casks of wine and some glasses. At another, Roberta slid between potential antagonists bearing a platter of assorted biscuits and cheeses. And finally, well into the small hours of the next morning, there was a semblance of agreement: they would spend the next day – today, actually – packing and sorting out, then move out the following day for a trial run of the equipment and their proposed program for the tiger search.
Which was how it went, although it had to be admitted that the day of packing and sorting and organizing was of questionable success. Almost everyone suffered from too little sleep, too much wine and/or arguing, and far too much confusion.
“This is all your fault.” Judith found herself complaining to Bevan later in the day, when it seemed everything that could go wrong had, and what hadn’t yet was on the verge of doing so.
“My planning, not my fault.” He smiled at her through remarkably healthy-looking eyes. Although he and Ted had done their share of damage to the long-deceased wine casks, neither had shown the slightest effect since rising before dawn. The same could not be said of Derek and his crew, all of whom spent the day nursing headaches and suffering from lack of sleep.
“The logic of it totally escapes me,” Judith insisted. “I would have thought things were volatile enough last night, and then you had to go and start them on the vino. What were you trying to promote? A full-blown riot?”
“Just a mob of happy little vegemites, which I got. Just look at them. Not a harsh word among them, quite splendid cooperation, no hostilities at all.”
“No energy, no get-up-and-go, either,” she replied hotly. “They’re too damned tired and hung over to fight, that’s all.”
“Whatever works. They got most of their hostilities out of their systems last night, and that’s the main thing. Better that than spend the next week with it all stewing and burbling away inside everybody. We’ll have enough problems when we go bush as it is, including pent-up hostilities.”
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