Mary Brock Jones (36 page)

Nessa ignored Ada. In a day, a week, a month maybe, she would start to live again, to stop hoping. But not yet. Not yet.

There was a sound from the hill. She strained her eyes, searching. Then she saw it. A hawk, swooping down in search of what prey it could find on a chilly winter slope.

Maybe Ada was right. She turned and went inside.

“Tell us a story, Nessa. One of the olden ones.”

“Not today, lambie,” said Ada. “Miss Nessa has work to do.”

“No she doesn’t. She’s just staring at the fire. She could tell us a story instead of that.”

A ghost of a laugh broke from Nessa. The wee girl was right. A story was better than staring at nothing. She sat in the chair and beckoned the child on to her knee.

“A long, long time ago in a land so far away from here that you have to sail a year and a day to get there…”

“In a row boat?”

“No, in a big ship like Mummy and Daddy sailed in when they came here.”

The little girl snuggled down and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Everything was all right. This was how the story always started.

Nessa’s arm tightened around the sweet weight, and she breathed in the comforting smell of childhood. Outside, something banged. She knew now not to listen. The door opened, footsteps came in. Bob, and others?

She looked up.

Three men walked in, but it was only one that she looked at—tired, dusty-faced and muddied all over. Slowly, she rose to her feet. “John?”

Then she was running and his arms were holding her and his lips claiming her for his own.

“You’re back.” The tears began. And the smile.

She pulled back and grabbed his arms.

“Don’t you ever listen to me again. Don’t you dare risk your life. Not for me, not for anyone. Do you hear me?”

He laughed, light-hearted and filled with joy. “I will risk my life for you any time I have to. And your brother is safe. Isn’t that what you wanted?” She saw the real question in his eyes.

Her answer was for his ears alone. “Not as much as I want you, as I love you, Mr John Reid.” His arms tightened then, and she was home.

Her brother stood in the doorway still. He coughed. She blushed fifty shades of red, the heat rising in her cheeks, and untangled herself from John’s arms.

“You’re alive.”

He grinned weakly. “It’s a surprise to me too.”

He looked so tired and thin, but his eyes took in everything.

Her hand clung to John’s regardless.

“Your friend?” she asked.

“Didn’t make it,” said John’s voice quickly in her ear. There was a shadow in her brother’s face, and something that told her not to ask more. He was leaning heavily on Bob, barely able to stand. Before she could say anything, Ada bustled up and was helping Bob carry Philip to the fire. It was Nessa who brought him soup and a rug and stood over him till he ate every mouthful. Then she turned to John and stood, stricken, one hand holding the ladle and the other reaching for a second bowl, caught between the two men. John looked at her then over her shoulder. She followed his gaze to see her brother looking back at him and some strange male message pass between them.

“You bring the Pastor. I’ll walk her down the aisle,” said Philip with a touch of the wry humour she hadn’t heard since her mother died. “It’s all right, Ness. Your place is here,” he said softly.

“I’m sorry. I have no choice. You are my brother, Philip, will always be my family, but John…”

“I know,” he whispered.

An arm shot round her waist. The weight of it told her the owner. John. “Don’t worry so much, sweetheart. Your brother and I had a long talk last night. It’s all fixed. Or at least, it will be as soon as you give me some of that soup. I’ve got something to ask you, and it’s not a question a man wants to ask on an empty stomach.”

“Ha, more like you need a bit of something else, lad,” said Bob, pulling out his precious whisky and adding a generous dollop to both bowls. The men grinned but Ada harrumphed, and it was a very much a woman’s smile she exchanged with Nessa.

John insisted on eating every last mouthful in the large bowl and slowly chomping through the generous slabs of bread and butter. All the while, Nessa switched between watching John eat, studying him to see the colour in his cheeks, then running her hand over her brother and forcing one more life-saving spoonful into his mouth before helping him over to the bed readied for him. Then back to John.

“Shouldn’t you be resting too?” she demanded.

“I’m fine, love.”

“You were up there so long.”

He shook his head and took her hand, his long fingers soothing her anxiety. “We stayed last night in the hut, and I was prepared for the weather, on a horse who knew what he was doing.”

“But Philip?”

“Nearly died up there. He was in a bad way when I found him, but he did well, love. He did all any man could. The other boy … no one could have saved him.” He looked over at her brother, and Philip’s stillness said he had heard every word. Nessa stood, went over and took Philip’s hand, leaning over softly and kissing him on the cheek.

“I’m so very proud of you, little brother,” she whispered softly. His hand clenched hers, but the shadow in his eyes did not quite lift. She doubted it ever would. She squeezed back. “Next time,” she added, “do you think you could be less heroic and more sensible?” He chuckled weakly and the shadow retreated a fraction. She tucked his hand under the blanket. He sighed softly, turned his head on the pillow, and subsided into sleep. She stood, watching, then walked back to John and into the circle of his arms, as one returning home.

“You had a question to ask me?”

His arms tightened and he smiled down into her face. “Outside.”

But it was farther than that he took her. He walked her down the steps then unhitched his horse, lifted her to its back and swung up behind her. She said nothing, but a growing sense of rightness welled up inside her. He set the horse over the rise and up the path to his home. Neither said a word, but it was a comfortable silence. It was not yet the place for speech.

They arrived at his house and he lifted her down. “Go on inside. I have to stable the horse.”

John watched her as he walked the horse to the stable, watched her go into his house. Then he took a wisp and brushed his mount down till every last patch of damp sweat was briskly rubbed and glowing with warmth. He added a generous dollop of molasses to its bran and slowly stroked down the horse’s flanks as he watched it eat. He owed his life to the horse’s good sense and, even at such a time, it deserved to be given its due.

Or was he stalling? Today was so important. He had waited so long. Had he read truly the welcome in her eyes, in her body? Was today the day he had dreamed of so long?

“What do you reckon, boy? Can’t put it off any longer.”

He gave the horse one last swipe and chose to pretend it was not more interested in its manger than its master’s fears. Then he set his shoulders and walked resolutely out the door.

His skin felt too tight and something held him by the throat. He swallowed and came round the corner of his house.

She was standing in the doorway, a hot cup of tea waiting in her hand. Her hair glowed with the early rays of the morning sun, catching the shades of chestnut and gold hidden in the darkly burnished mass. Her full breasts and small waist drew him, but not as much as the warm smile of welcome on her face. His skin sparked to life, and he set his foot on the bottom step.

She had been so afraid while she waited. A cup of tea. That would fix anything. Did he still want her, love her, as he did before? Or had she made him wait too long?

He walked towards her—tall, strong and solidly planted in this land of his. Safety, a haven, and excitement such as she had never known, all rolled into one.

He climbed the step toward her. She held out the cup and watched as the strong muscles of his throat swallowed one mouthful only before he set the cup to one side on the railing. Then his arms pulled her in, his head slanted down and his mouth covered hers, teasing her lips open to let his tongue surge in. Home.

Much, much later, when every part of her body had sprung to sensual life and the waiting was nearly unbearable, he lifted his head and looked into her eyes.

“I love you. I love you so much. If I ask … I need to know. I cannot hear ‘No’ again.”

“Ask, ask what you wish.”

One of his big hands moulded her breasts and the other smoothed over her bottom, pulling the core of her where he needed it. “Will you marry me, Nessa Ward? Will you stay with me, let me love you all the days of our lives, build a home here with me? I promise to keep you safe, to protect and cherish you, to defend you with everything in me. Will you let me be your family?”

“I will,” she said simply. “I love you, John Reid. I will marry you and cherish you and care for you, for our home, for our children, and together we will build a home here.”

He lifted her with a crow of triumph and carried her inside, to his big bed with the embroidered quilt. The sun shone in the window, onto their bodies as he curved over her and gave her his strength, and she welcomed him and gave him back her care, her compassion, her love.

At the end, he lifted his head. One large hand cupped her face and brushed the waves of brown hair from her beautiful eyes. “I will keep you safe.

“And I will care for you.”

Six weeks later, the sun shone on the green grass of a fine spring morning. It was six weeks she would never forget. Long days when the men set out to search for miners lost up on the hills. She doubted they would ever know how many perished trying to cross the Old Man Range in that blizzard. It was the last hurrah of the winter storms that broke the fever gold had laid on this land. Daily now, men passed the Coopers’ home, heading back to the coast.

Some were going home. Others were still caught fast. There was talk of strikes on the west coast of the island, they would say, and she saw the shadow of dreams in their eyes. Ada gave them food and waved them on their way.

Today, though, all that was forgotten. The smile on her face echoed the glow lighting her inside. In front of John’s house, every single packer from Chamonix had lined up in an honour guard, forming a path for Philip to walk her down, to the man who waited for her there. Beside John stood the pastor he had promised to find so many weeks ago.

Before they started, Philip tugged at her arm, the gentle tug of her baby brother of old. His face had never recovered from the gaunt hunger of Campbell’s, all trace of youthful softness obliterated by the hard edge of a man full grown—but the smile was the same, and the warm glow in his eyes.

“Be happy, sister of mine. This is good for you.” He bent and laid a kiss of blessing on her cheek.

Her day was now full.

The rest of it was filled with happiness, with laughter and with joy. At the end of the day, the guests slowly straggled away, one by one, till only Philip remained. He stood at the front of the house with them and then held his hand out to John.

“Look after her.”

“It’s a promise.”

Nessa’s smile began to slip. She did not like his tone. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”

Philip had been staying with Jacques at Chamonix.

“No. I’m leaving early.”

Her smile disappeared completely. “To the new field up the Manuherikia River?”

“No, Ness. I’ve got enough gold. I’m going to do what we always planned. I’m going back to England, to Oxford like Father.”

“But … when will I see you again? Will I ever see you again?” Then she shut her lips, and leaned back into her husband’s arms, into John. Why had it come so soon, this cleaving of her in two?

“Listen to the rest of what he has to say, sweetheart.” John’s arms wrapped round her in support.

“I will be back, Ness. Those last days at Campbell’s got me thinking. This is a good land, but for it to be great it needs order. The rule of law, and a strong force to keep it so. Men like Sergeant Garret, your husband, Jean-Claud and Jacques. I want to be one of those men. I’m going home to study Law, and I’m coming back here to help this colony grow. I will be back, Ness. I promise.”

Tears flowed down her cheeks. She put out a hand, wiped away the touch of moisture at the edge of his eye. “Papa and Mama would have been so proud of you, so proud.” She hugged him, then put him back from her. “You take care of yourself. Write regularly. And make sure you get proper lodgings.”

He chuckled softly. “I promise.” For an instant, she saw the small boy who had caught her heart so many years ago, and held it still. But her husband’s arms were around her and she saw now her heart had grown. It held Philip, but also so much more, and would one day grow even bigger, hold even more.

“Get going before I cry all over that fine suit of yours. Study hard and come back to us. My babies will need an uncle, and I don’t know of a better one than you.”

He laughed properly and loudly now, and hugged her hard before swinging up into the saddle of the horse he had bought himself. Nessa stood watching him disappear up the track and thought back to the day the two of them had walked down that same hill, so many months ago. The day she had first seen this valley, this house, this man beside her. She stood in her husband’s arms and watched as her brother disappeared over the hill. A last burst of the dying sun caught the metal on his horse’s bridle and flashed back to her a burst of light. Then he was gone.

John turned her and hugged her close while the tears poured from her. Then she finally lifted her face, and he had never seen anything so beautiful. “He will be back,” said John.

“I know. I feel so proud, and so sad and happy. It’s as if everything is finally in its proper place.”

She lifted her hands and held her husband’s face, bringing his mouth down to hers.

Then John knew it was all right. He laughed joyously and swung his wife up into his arms.

The door slammed shut behind him with a resounding kick from his boot. The last rays of the sun glanced in the window, then withdrew. Two bodies came together inside and needed no outside glow to heat and warm them. The day was done.