“Where? Oh, about two hours walk above the main Dunstan encampment.”
She gasped.
“And the wind is in the wrong direction for anyone to hear us, so I did not lie to you.”
“If you start laughing again, I’ll…”
His insufferable grin widened, and she was mortified to feel a blush creeping over her cheeks.
“Pax,” he chuckled. “Though I will have you before this game is over.” It was a promise, his low voice speaking almost to himself despite the velvet glow in his eyes. Then they snapped back into sparkling purposefulness. “As to what next? We are heading back into the Dunstan, for a visit at least. I’ve had enough of running blind. Those men proved how useless it is against the likes of Black Jack. I need to know what he’s up to. Also, there’s the business to check on. There are too many fools down there with gold in their pockets and Molly, good as she may be, cannot milk them as well as I.”
“Money – is that all you care for?”
His eyebrows lifted. “You have never felt its lack? It would seem unlikely. No one who comes to the goldfields can deny they seek wealth.”
“Possibly,” she conceded, blushing again, unable to say more lest she expose herself. She drew back, fussily brushing specks of shale from her dusty skirts. He watched her, then took her hand slowly, lifting her palm and slowly running one finger over its smooth underside. He looked up into her eyes again.
“I said I would have you, not your past. That is your business. These hands have known work, but not hard toil. Why you are here is beyond me. You have never known need, I would guess.”
Hypnotised, she shook her head in acknowledgement. He continued to stare, and her tongue darted out to moisten suddenly dry lips. Then something in her broke.
“A life. I wanted a life,” she blurted out, grabbing her hand back.
He did not laugh, as she had expected. “Maybe we have more in common than it seems.” His voice was low again, almost as one voicing a thought.
Then suddenly the queer moment passed. He stood abruptly, took her hand to help her up, then squeezed back through the crack in the rocks. Once out, he began to walk briskly away., She watched, stunned, then, fearful of being abandoned, hurried over the rough ground to catch him up.
“Wait. You cannot mean to simply march back into town?”
“Why not? We need food, water and a change of clothing, all in that order.” He looked at her, with a pained spasm taking in the dishevelled mess of her dress, but she refused to be put off.
“And Black Jack?”
“Why? What can the man do, after all?”
“Kill you.”
Chapter 3
The words had not affected him at all, Geraldine remembered grimly. She hunkered down lower behind a clump of matagouri bushes. Two hours he had been gone. She pulled out her watch and glared at its face. Was that all, or had this old friend deserted her too, choosing now to mark erratically the passing hours? She squinted at the lengthening shadows on the hills. No, by the look of them only two hours had passed since he had left. A hissed “wait here,” the clunk of the water canteen on the ground beside her, then he had gone. No time for her to argue.
She had done enough of that on the march here, pointing out all the reasons for her to accompany him into town and refraining from stating the most obvious—I don’t trust you to return.
“How many women are there on the fields,” he had said, tugging gently at a lock of her hair, “with this bright flag?”
She shifted restlessly and her hand caught on the sharp thorns of the matagouri. One blood-red drop welled up, barely standing out from the dark grime and dust caking her hand. He was probably taking time for a bath while he was at it.
Her ears strained for the sound of a gunshot.
It was now well into the long twilight of the summer night. The cooler temperature was a relief, but it was all the joy she could find in her situation. A hawk wheeled slowly overhead, watching for the telltale quiver of grass that spoke of a mouse. Its shadow on the grass was the only sign of movement in all the eerie stillness.
Her ears strained again.
A shuffle of stones. Her eyes sought the distant slope, down the narrow valley towards the township. She had wanted to come closer and watch from high on the hills that brooded over the tent settlement.
“Don’t be a fool. Someone would find you,” he had said.
So she sat here, her only view this narrow gully and its suffocating enclosure of hills.
Then a puff of dust, a figure moving stealthily though the long tussock at the narrow entrance, a dark jacket and a swagger. Finally, a glint of tousled brightness as the tall tussock knocked off his hat. He was back.
A tightly coiled knot of air escaped her. Until now, she had not believed he would return.
He stooped to pick up the hat, looking upwards unerringly to the spot where she crouched in hiding. She did not rise. There was a limit to her trust. Though she watched him with eyes lit by unadulterated joy, they also scanned the slopes behind his rapid advance. Had he been followed? Nor did she stop watching till he dropped silently beside her.
“Miss me?”
She ducked her head, still studying the slope below intently.
His hand reached out, gently pulling up her chin and her eyes to look at his. “I’m not so short of cash I would sell you to Black Jack to save my skin. Not that he would accept at the moment, anyway. Not the way he feels about me.”
“You weren’t born here.”
“No one is following me, sweetheart, but thank you for the vote of confidence.”
Something in her broke and she gripped tight, pulling her chin out of his hand and staring at the ground. His mocking smile vanished and he reached to pull her into his arms.
“Forgive me,” he said.
She couldn’t hold back, collapsing into his shoulder as tears of relief soaked the pad of his jacket. Only a few tears, quickly banished, but they were there. Some time later, he lifted her chin again, gently this time.
“You took a long time,” she said.
“Things to do and to collect. I did bring something for you—you must be hungry.” He pulled round the two sacks he had been carrying. She opened the first –clothes! The jacket, shirt and breeches of a rapidly growing boy. “It seems a safer option in this country,” he explained. She pulled each one out and held it up against herself. Once she got to the jacket, she couldn’t stop the giggle that broke out.
“It’s huge. I’ll be swamped in this.”
“Good. From a distance, you should fool any strangers into thinking you a young lad. Up close – they’d have to be blind not to see the truth.”
She opened her mouth in astonishment, but before she could do more, he opened the second sack and began pulling out the contents. Water bottles, flour, sugar and, rolled up in a tightly bound cloth, a large loaf of bread and a piece of hard cheese. She seized on it.
“Thank you.” Then she added in half apology, “I must have been more in need of food than I thought.” A choked grunt of disbelief was her answer. It brought her eyes to his face again. A very clean-shaven face. “You did take time for a bath!”
“Of course. And don’t worry that your own less than salubrious state might offend me.”
“It had better not,” was her incensed reply. “Don’t you dare laugh at me again.”
“You really ought to have something to eat.”
She glared at him. The infuriating man was laughing at her. Nor could she risk replying, being still far too vulnerable to tears. She broke the bread, offering him half, then thought better of it.
“I suppose you already ate?”
“Yes.” He was not the slightest bit apologetic. “I am afraid that this is the best I could manage, but I now have a gun and there is some bird life in this godforsaken region. We should manage to keep ourselves reasonably fed.”
That stopped her. “Just how long do you think we are going to have to stay skulking
in these hills?”
“Can’t say,” was the careless reply. “Not too long. I’ve a business to attend to, and not even Black Jack can keep me from it. Now, do you think you can eat while we walk? The moon should be up tonight, but this is no place to wander about in the dark. We need to find somewhere to camp before then.”
“So, it’s back to the caves?”
“No. If our trail was followed, they would find us there. We’ll have to find another bed.”
“You think they have someone that good?”
“I have no doubt that you feel able to conceal the signs of our passing, but Black Jack has some wild folk working for him. Men who know even more about the ways of this land than you.”
That stung. But to answer as it deserved would lead to explanations she had no wish to give. There was no need for him to know too much of her childhood. He may be relatively new to this country, but her father was not unknown and it was but a week’s walk north of here to the run her heart called home. Thousands of acres of gloriously empty country where she had spent the precious years when both her parents were living. A lonely, isolated childhood in many ways, but over the years there had been enough passers-through for her father’s name to become widely known and respected. More so following his shift to the new run in the Canterbury province to the north. No, she had no desire for her exploits to become widely broadcast, nor for the complications that would ensue. She could not defend her skills at all, could only glare before picking herself up and striding urgently after his rapidly receding back.
She chewed on the dry bread as she walked, but as the moon rose some hours later and still they pushed onwards, she found it had been meagre fare to compensate for the day’s hunger. She was tired, starving and fed-up, with no sign of a halt being called by her infuriating companion. Not that she was about to bring her complaints to his attention; not to someone who claimed to be a gentleman and should not need to be told of such things.
Some while later, tiredness was badly eroding the protective shell of her anger. They must stop soon, surely. She plodded on, the dusty hillside seeming to grow steeper and harder with each determined pace.
Foot up, foot down. Foot up, foot down. She chanted the words silently to herself. Foot up, foot down, foot … a stone under her heel, legs shaking with exhaustion. A stumble and fall, her hands grazed and tears stinging her eyes.
He did stop this time, watched her struggling to rise as the treacherous stones slipped and slid under her feet. Then he leaned down with his thin, strong hands.
“Nearly there. Just to the top and I promise we will stop, sweetheart.”
Don’t call me that, she thought. Her voice was too wobbly to risk saying the words aloud.
Then she was steady on her feet and his hand held her safe. Up the slope again. She glanced upwards. It wasn’t much farther. Was it?
Don’t look,” he advised. “You can make it.”
He walked beside her now and for once, she was content to do as he said. Foot up, foot down. That was the way. Push on her knee to force her body onwards. One step at a time. Anything could be beaten one step at a time.
It was still an overwhelming relief to be finally allowed to stop. She sank to the ground, barely able to take in what his eyes must have seen from below. A hollow. The merest dimple in the hillside just before the top, but with the long tussock waving around them they were safe from view, both from intruders coming from above and below. In the dry warmth of an Otago summer, there was no need for more elaborate shelter. She had a vague impression of him unrolling their swags to retrieve their blankets then being gently laid on the ground, a strange sense of peace as a finger chased lightly over her cheek, and then no more.
The next two days would ever after remain a blur. She had greater freedom of movement in the breeches he gave her, but the night found her slumping exhausted to the ground. She knew the flats and valleys east and north of here, but these rugged hills were foreign to her. She suspected they were to Bas Deverill too, but he never admitted it. It was the only explanation for their erratic wanderings. Now west, then south, up this gully then back down that cleft. Only her skills and experience gave her any idea of their direction; westward, haphazardly following the direction of the Molyneux River as it surged through the gorge inland from the Dunstan. The only consolation she could find was a conviction that Bas knew their bearing too. Though whether he had any goal in mind, she could not discover; nor would he listen to any thoughts of her own to the contrary.
Then late on the second day they struck south again, back towards the Molyneux. The sun was throwing the sharp edges of the hills into bold relief as they slid down the last few feet of shale into a small encampment of miners. Geraldine kept her hat jammed low down over her brow and let her shoulders droop in what she hoped was the slouching gait of a sullen youth, relying on her masculine clothing for disguise.
“You fool no one,” her annoying companion murmured, “but nor will any comment. Much as you may have heard in a disparaging fashion of the morals of the miners, they do at least know when to keep their mouths shut.”
She jammed her hat down harder, slithering to the bottom of the slope in an embarrassing sprawl. Deverill ignored her completely.
“Hello there. Is there room at the fireside for a pair of travellers? We have flour and salt with us to share.”
Three men sat at the fire. The eldest stroked his beard slowly, studying Bas’s face. Then seemed satisfied.
“Sit yourselves down, strangers. The billy is about to boil and the boy has made a good mutton stew. You’re welcome to share.” He tapped his pipe on a stone then moved slowly to one side, gesturing to the space thus cleared in front of the fire.
“Thank you kindly. A cheerful fire is a welcome sight in these wild lands. We’re on our way up the Molyneux, hoping to find a spot to claim before we head back to the Dunstan for the rest of our supplies. How’s it going here?”
“Oh, makings only,” replied the miner gruffly in the standard reply. The yield of a claim was a closely guarded secret for most of the miners. Bas nodded slowly, then pulled out one of the precious bags of flour and passed it to Geraldine.
“The boy here makes a nice damper to go with that stew.” She could say nothing in her supposed guise, and must set to on the nearest flat rock, mixing the flour with water and a sprinkle of the precious salt, before setting it to bake on a stone at the fire’s edge, keeping her eyes sullenly down all the while. Bas, on the other hand, was free to lean back and chat amiably with their newfound friends, completely at his ease.
The damper was soon cooked and she passed it round as the youngest of the strangers ladled out the stew into tin pannikins. Once served, eating was undertaken in the studious silence such welcome fare deserved. Geraldine tried to refrain, she really did, but her hand could not seem to spoon the delicious dollops into her mouth fast enough. Her last good meal had been so long ago.
Gradually, the tempo slowed and then they were done. The youngest, who she gathered was known simply as “Joe here”, began to collect the dirty dishes. She rose to help, just as Bas said, “Leave them, Joe. My young friend here can earn his keep for a change.” Then he drew a bottle from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Perhaps you men would care to join me?”
“Can’t say we’d object,” said one of the others, as Joe eagerly resumed his seat and the mugs were passed forward.
Geraldine sent her ally a short, loathing glare then did as bid. She knew his reasons. If she had not offered to help Joe, their new acquaintances would have looked very askance at her, yet nor did she dare start talking too freely to the young man. No, the best solution had been for her to wash up alone. But did he have to be so offhand in his manner?
She was still bristling later as she began to slowly drift off to sleep, huddled in her blanket near the fire and listening to the voices of men wily in the way of the fields, telling ever-taller stories of near lucky finds and the gut-roaring pranks that made this hard life
bearable. Men. They lived in a different world, and were welcome to it.
Something woke her. Tense without knowing why, she stared into the darkness. It was well into the night, judging by the sky, and beside her she saw the lean bulk of Bas with the shapes of the other men beyond. It was quiet, yet her ears strained. She lay absolutely still, her eyes mere slits but scanning intently the dark forms of the men. Three, yes. Or were there? The furthest one was long as a man, but the silhouette of the blanket was wrong. She looked closer. Some rocks and a bedroll could make that long roll.
Just as she decided she was right and began to reach over to Bas, a hand clamped hard over her mouth and another began to paw sickeningly at her breasts. Gagging, she shoved her elbow back. Her attacker was ready for that, shifting swiftly, and the hand clamping her mouth tightened cruelly over her nose also.
“No need for that, Missy,” said a voice near her ear. The stale smells of sweat and liquor washed over her. Her stomach heaved. “Now, old Charlie here is a long time without a woman, so we is going to have a bit of fun, little lassie. That is, if you want to breathe again.” He released his hand a fraction and she drew a gasping breath in quickly before the clamp returned. “You understand me?”
She nodded carefully, wondering desperately when the gagging hand would lift again. His other hand began to undo buttons, exploring the soft curves of her. She tried to squirm away, but the hand on her mouth only clamped harder and the other continued, kneading and pulling in sickening intimacy. She strained hard away. She couldn’t help herself. The horror of it engulfed her. And who would help her, so many miles into the wilderness?
Her pathetic attempts made no difference. His heavy legs now trapped hers, stifling her in the engulfing clasp, yet still every muscle strove to pull away.
But he did not release her mouth or nose. The pounding grew in her chest and slowly her muscles grew weaker. God no. She could not fall into unconsciousness. Black waves battered at her and she fought them back as the exploring hand travelled lower and lower. Which would come first, the blackness or her stomach’s revolt? She knew not, and she was beginning not to care.
Swift Runs The Heart Page 4
