“That is exactly why you waste your time. You love how wrong I am for you.”
“I should have nothing more to do with you.”
“You know that kind of thinking will only draw you closer to me.”
“You are as arrogant as Lucius.”
“With much better reason.”
She gasped at his impudence and turned her face away from him.
“Good night, Mr. Donnigan.”
He grinned crookedly.
“Good night, Miss Brennan.”
Late the following morning, they stopped to rest in a small riverside village, where natives placed straw mats in the cool mud and the shade of the huts, for lounging. Evelyn watched as the others settled down for sleep, for she herself could find no rest. Her mind was trained on the events of the previous evening, her side aching from her accident, her head throbbing from the rum. She was grateful for the way the rain clouds hung dark and ominous in the tropic sky, for they shielded the piercing rays of the sun. They would pass in a few hours, and hopefully, by then, so would her headache.
Brock Donnigan fell asleep quickly, and she studied him, recalling the evening they had passed together. Her gut twisted at the memory. A kiss, indeed! And what a kiss it was! She had not known what she was doing; she had given it too little thought. It was when she began to think, that she realized something was happening that should not be happening.
What would her father say? Some exemplary woman his daughter was turning out to be.
She hung her head, torn between what she felt, what she wanted, and who she had become. In a perfect world, she saw all these concepts coming together in perfect harmony; yet in one night, she had made a mess of all three.
She wanted to maintain her propriety, to uphold her innocence; all while seeing the agreement with Lucius through till the end. She was not a dishonest woman, nor did she wish to become one.
She looked up, for a strange sound caught her attention. A few meters away, a native woman, bare-breasted, held a large, flat basket between her hands. She flicked it with her wrists, sending thousands of little brown beans into the air. The breeze caught the chaff and blew it away while the beans rattled back into the basket.
Evelyn sighed, vowing to herself that from this moment on, she would behave more honorably. She would tell Mr. Donnigan that if he did not have intentions to wait for her, he was wasting his time and must tempt her no more. Lucius was right. She was a strong and resilient woman, and it was high time Brock was made aware of it.
Lucius was seated with his back against the opposite hut, his head back but his eyes open and watching her. Beside him, Josephine was asleep, curled into a ball around Bartholomew, who was napping between her arms.
“You look thoughtful,” he told Evelyn, his voice only loud enough for her to hear, for he did not wish to disturb the others.
“As do you.” she replied. “What are you doing awake?”
Lucius cocked his head to peer past her, where the rafts and their belongings were beached.
“I’m keeping an eye on things.”
“I see. That’s unusually thoughtful of you, Mr. Flynn.”
Lucius grinned, for Evelyn’s eyes sparkled with sarcasm.
“Aye. I would receive the credit if Mr. Donnigan hadn’t put me up to it.”
“Of course.”
“He is quite the hero, isn’t he?”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“He saved your life last night. Or have you forgotten already?”
“Oh, that.” Evelyn feigned indifference. “I could have handled things well enough on my own.”
“Don’t I know it,” Lucius indulged her.
She smiled in response.
“That was quite an ordeal,” Lucius continued. “I know you cannot swim, and I was frightened for you.”
“Then why were you not the first to save me?”
“Mr. Donnigan got to you before I could, and although our friendship seems to have become a competition, I’m not sorry I lost that round. However, I still owe my life to you, and if another opportunity arises to repay you, don’t think I won’t take it.”
“That’s unusually sincere of you, Lucius. I’m suspicious. Have you discovered Mr. Donnigan’s grog?”
Lucius smirked.
“No, no. These are the words of sober lips, lass.”
Evelyn regarded him with interest.
“Well, I receive them with gratitude and do not take them for granted. I cannot remember the last time I spoke with you when your breath did not reek of ale.”
Lucius shrugged.
“Perhaps I am a changed man.”
“Perhaps you have finally learned how to submit to authority.”
Lucius scoffed.
“Brock Donnigan has no authority over me.”
“Yet here you are, our appointed watch.”
“I was already keeping vigil over the girl,” Lucius replied sharply, nodding towards Josephine. “Brock observed this and snatched the opportunity to be indolent.”
“The girl?” Evelyn asked, confused. “What responsibility do you have to Josephine?”
“Who do you think will protect her now that Stephen Whitfield is dead?” Lucius replied. “She is a young woman. She needs a guardian.”
Evelyn noted the sincerity of Lucius’ tone, and it softened her demeanor towards him. Perhaps his encounter with death had done him a greater service than she had previously supposed.
“Are you feeling better then?” she asked. “Surely you are recovering, for you obviously feel strong enough to take on a charge.”
“She is my second charge,” he corrected her. “I have not forgotten you, Miss Brennan.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Evelyn waved him off. “You and I both know you have no real responsibility to me.” She looked around and added, “it’s all a play, Lucius, and we are the players. You don’t have to be dishonest with me. I’m in on the truth, remember?”
“No, Evelyn. It is all very serious. I intend to uphold my end of the bargain. I will see to it that you get to California unscathed.”
“But Mr. Donnigan-”
“To hell with Mr. Donnigan!” Lucius whispered fiercely. “I leave him to his life and his priorities. You, Miss Brennan, are not his responsibility. You are mine, and I will not fail you. You have my word.”
She watched him, waiting for some break in character, for any indication that he was not telling the truth. But Lucius spoke with conviction, meaning every word.
Evelyn remained dubious, for though Lucius’ intentions had adopted a sense of nobility, he was yet the same Lucius Flynn who had stumbled drunk across the beach two days ago. He wanted her to believe he had changed, but jumping into the Chagres had proven little more than stupidity on his behalf. After all, Brock had been there to save her, and Lucius was too arrogant to consider working alongside him, for Lucius Flynn operated solely in the world of Lucius Flynn. There was not room for anyone else. If he had truly changed, it would not matter who came to Evelyn’s aid in the future, only that she was safe. Brock’s recommendations, however, seemed to have left shrapnel in Lucius’ shoulder, and a taste of bitterness upon his tongue that he refused to swallow.
“We shall see, Lucius. One incident is not enough to earn my trust. There are years that stand between us, and you should not make promises you cannot keep.”
Lucius opened his mouth to speak, but he had no words, and Evelyn did not want them anyway. She turned her face from him and closed her eyes, leaving Lucius to his thoughts and also, she supposed, his excuses.
* * *
The travelers ate a meal of fish and beans, and by afternoon, the troupe was progressing once more. Again they encountered broken trees, yet these were logs that had drifted to the water’s surface and formed something like a dam. Sandbars rose up in various places, and the natives advanced cautiously, maneuvering the bungos to avoid running them aground.
Some hours later, they saw the carcass of a
crocodile floating along the riverbank, which the men found highly amusing and the women found repulsive. For the remainder of the journey, the females were afflicted with paranoia, believing that at any moment, a live crocodile might burst forth and devour them whole. Brock assured them that should such an incident occur, he would be certain to put the beast in his place, for he had battled many in his youth. At this, the ladies were intrigued, while Lucius muttered “Bull’s pizzle” and shook his head with disdain. He was terribly close to accusing Mr. Donnigan of reading novels, for the man entertained such sensational ideas as to actually make him look silly. Surely the girls did not believe this rubbish.
They did, however; though no such horrors met them, and the company pressed on unscathed.
* * *
After three long days, the finale of their river voyage was approaching and they found themselves aching for solid ground. They grew silent, as if their destination were some fickle mirage that might be frightened away by a spoken word. Instead, they busied themselves by quietly imagining what lay beyond the river, and where their journey might lead.
In the silence, Evelyn regarded the form of Brock Donnigan, recalling with a blush the way his lips had felt against hers. Pleasure and indignation arose at the memory. Now was the time to confront him, to make her conditions known. Who knew when they would step foot in Gorgona, and if the chance to be alone with him would come again? She must not allow the opportunity to be lost.
She glanced over her shoulder and regarded the others of their party: Josephine, the embodiment of innocence; Adele, the heartbroken widow; Lucius, the husband she did not love, yet had foolishly betrayed…
She turned from the scene, her mind resolved to continue.
“Mr. Donnigan,” she whispered, a bit more demanding than she intended, “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about what happened the night I fell into the river.”
Brock turned slightly, his lips curled up in a grin.
“A pleasant memory in the end, wasn’t it?” he winked.
Pleasant? Well of course it was pleasant, but…
Evelyn shook her head.
“What happened between us was entirely my fault,” she continued. “I succumbed to a moment of weakness, but weakness is not in my character. It was a mistake, and I want you to know that I will not allow it to happen again.”
Brock clucked his tongue.
“Look, Duchess. There’s no need for making promises. You’re an innocent girl, and we had one hell of a kiss. That’s all that needs to be said.”
“No, it isn’t. This is not just about the kiss. I am not entirely sure you respect me properly.”
“I respect you fine, love.”
“Then you must make your intentions known.”
“My intentions?”
“Yes, your intentions. You fancy me, that much is certain. But what comes after, hm? Where does all this flirtation lead?”
Brock was silent a moment, and Evelyn’s resolve wavered.
“Mr. Donnigan?”
“This is not a conversation I am prepared to have.”
She felt flustered in an instant.
“If not now, then when?” she demanded to know.
“When the moment is right,” Brock shrugged.
“Right for whom? You?” she asked, incredulous. “Because right now is good for me. I am not one to play games, Mr. Donnigan.”
“Oh?” Brock turned to look her straight in the eye. “I think you are, Miss Brennan. I think all of this is very much a game to you, and I am happy to oblige, so long as it remains here and now, not incumbent upon the future. I have no interest in the future, Miss Brennan. Stephen Whitfield was invested in his future and look what happened to him. Didn’t get to see a damn piece of it. But you and I are right in front of each other, this moment, and what we do with the present is all that concerns me.”
Evelyn began to refute, but ceased when she discovered she had nothing to say. Mr. Donnigan’s views were entirely unorthodox, yet her principles faltered as she gazed back into his perfectly sculpted face.
Her expression was sultry, the way she looked when she could not refuse a challenge. This thrilled Brock to no end. He had her baited yet again.
“What’s this?” he asked. “The great Evelyn Brennan, speechless in my presence?”
“You have a dastardly intentional way of clouding my thoughts.”
She read the satisfaction in his face.
“I just want to live, Duchess. Not chase after dreams.”
“There is nothing wrong with having a plan.”
“I find no pleasure in what I can’t touch.”
“Then you will find no pleasure with me.”
“I already have, Duchess, and I am craving more.”
“How badly, I wonder?”
Brock smirked and traced his fingertip from Evelyn’s knee along her calf muscle, sending a shock down her spine.
She shook her head in weak resolve.
“I don’t want to compromise my integrity, Mr. Donnigan.”
“That’s fine,” he replied. “Just don’t stop me from trying to change your mind.”
* * *
Gorgona was a small village, once peaceful like its native inhabitants, now overrun with gold seekers. It was a holding ground for those wishing to continue to Panama City, and it was here the road diverged. The travelers could continue some ways up river to another village called Los Cruces, where the road to Panama City was easier but more lengthy; or they could hire mules and take the path that cut directly from Gorgona across the mountains. The latter was shorter but more arduous, for the road was narrow, steep, rutted, and made entirely of sticky, slippery mud.
Some Americans had already established businesses and made Gorgona their home, their canvas inns and constant busyness contrasting with the natives’ tranquility and tall, spacious cane huts, the walls of which were commonly transparent due to the finger-spaced gaps between the canes. At any time of the day, one could simply gaze inside to see one of the locals lounging quietly in a hammock, staring back. They were a quiet, observant, inactive people, which the white foreigners interpreted as indolent.
It was evening when the bungos arrived. One by one, they pulled ashore, leaving their passengers and cargo in this new and curious place. It was not a very large village, but it was bustling with people nonetheless. The travelers found lodging where it was available, but the inns were soon full, and those who had not procured a room were forced to set up camp. Tents were erected densely along the river, with the glow of campfires scattered among them, sending orange sparks into the air and repelling the ubiquitous horde of mosquitoes. White canvases could be seen stretching beyond the village, speckling the nearby hillsides.
Brock Donnigan and his party were among those unable to find shelter at the inns, but they were so exhausted that the prospect of spending another night on the ground was of little concern. The evening air was warm and as they were too tired to pitch their own tents, they built their own fire and unrolled their mats in the dirt a small distance from the river. Brock and Lucius agreed that in the morning, they would do whatever necessary to continue on to Panama City without delay. Too impatient to advance to Los Cruces, they would take the mountain road.
In anticipation of an early morning, they surrendered to sleep. Evelyn, however, did not.
She could not stop thinking about her conversation with Mr. Donnigan, for which she had possessed great intentions but merited little progress. Once she began to indulge him, to banter with him, her direction was instantly off course, as though every word that came from his lips served only to blot and tear the well-planned map of her thoughts. In the moment, she had reveled in and despised his charming gifts; but now she was removed from his presence, and this paradox left her mad with irritation. His words were persuasive, his sense of freedom attractive, but they only served to confuse her. Why was he being so difficult? Any other man would not question her desires. He would promise her his fidelity, h
is love, his honor. He would drop to his knee in an instant and declare, “I shall wait for thee till the end of time, Evelyn Brennan! If only thou wilt have me as thine own!”
Evelyn sighed. No matter how hard she fought for such a declaration, Brock Donnigan offered nothing of the sort. He tested her principles with every breath, questioning her every motive. She must speak with him again, and this time, she would force him to give her an answer. There were only two options, and they were clear.
Yes, I will wait for you.
No, I will not.
It should be simple, and it would be… if only he were not her perfect match in obstinacy.
“Still awake, Duchess?” a voice whispered.
Evelyn’s heartbeat increased. She felt angry, nervous, and thrilled all at once.
“Don’t you ever sleep, Mr. Donnigan?” she whispered in return.
“Don’t you, Miss Brennan?”
“Certainly not lately.”
“What’s on your mind?” Brock asked, propping himself up on an elbow.
“I am restless,” Evelyn replied, “and I was only wondering if anyone else is as miserable as I.”
“Can’t say we are. I’ve only just woken…” Brock looked around. “And the others seem quite content.”
“Thank you for your empathy,” Evelyn scoffed. “I feel so much better.”
Brock smirked.
“Any time.”
“Where did you say that hotel is?”
“The Washington? Should be there tomorrow night.”
“Then perhaps I shall live another day.”
“Unless it’s full, of course,” Brock added.
Evelyn emitted an exasperated grunt, to which Brock chuckled.
“Sleeping on the ground doesn’t suit you, Athena?” he asked.
“Not in the least!”
“I can’t imagine why not.”
“You know very well why not,” Evelyn shot him a look. She didn’t care if he found her spoiled. “My upbringing was such that I never once slept upon anything but a fine mattress before this ridiculous adventure. We do not all have your rugged history, you know.”
“You think me an animal.”
“No, but you are so very wild, Mr. Donnigan. I wonder if any woman could tame you?”
Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) Page 19
