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Authors: Mary Brock Jones

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BOOK: Swift Runs The Heart
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“Bas is still back there,” she cried out.

“We know, Miss, but our orders were to get you folks away first. Bas Deverill can take care of himself.”

“No!” She struggled in the tight hold, breaking it to leap from the horse and head for the gap in the rocks. Her skirts betrayed her. A hand caught her fast, gripping the cloth tightly. “Let me go,” she pleaded. She turned and fastened desperate eyes on Trooper Martin.

“Give him covering fire,” he snapped out brusquely.

The other troopers looked at him then shrugged. “But you wait here, Ma'am,” said the eldest of them.

She nodded, then watched as the men ranged themselves either side of the rock. A cascade of shots rang out, then she heard the sound of scrabbling feet from behind. She snatched the reins of the fifth horse, pulled it towards the gap, and waited.

Seconds later, Bas appeared through the rock. “Let's get out of here.”

That was it. No ‘thank you's. There was no time. He grabbed the reins from her, then caught her by the waist as she was about to move toward the trooper's horse.

“You stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmured, tossing her into the saddle before swinging up behind her. All five horses wheeled about and fled down the slope. Long minutes later, they caught up with the rest of the police troop.

“Time to pull out,” called the corporal, “but we'll be back,” he promised savagely, looking at the red-stained arm of Trooper Martin.

Geraldine's ears listened sharply for the sound of pursuit. None came, but it was a long time before she relaxed her guard. The troopers surrounded them, all with carbines ready as they stretched into a gallop upon reaching the treeless flats.

“They won't come after us today,” said a soft voice at her ear. “Not against armed troopers, even if we are outnumbered. Their carbines have a longer range than anything MacRae's men will be carrying and these men are well-trained in using them.” She twisted, then gave way to the sudden clamp of his arms as he held her still on the galloping horse.

“How did you know we'd been attacked?” she whispered.

“I heard a rumour in town.”

Her voice broke. “They called out to a
Jack.

“Did you see anyone you could recognise?”

“No. They kept their faces covered and I think he left early on, but I know who they meant.”

He did not deny her words. The hard grip of his arm holding her safe softened, gently cradling her back against his firm body. Maybe it was the stresses of the day, she could not say, but for now she gave way, leaning tiredly back into his welcoming safety as the horses began to ease their frantic pace. For an instant only, she felt his lips brush the side of her face. Yet all he said was, “You have no proof the police can use, not in court. Tell the troopers only what you actually saw, not what you guess. There is no need for you to be involved further.”

Which was what Bas told the corporal when they finally came to a halt near the coach still stuck in the stream. Wearily, she nodded in confirmation when asked if it was true she could recognise none of the men again. It was not quite true. The voice and body of the man who had held her was branded in her memory, yet she said nothing of that. Nor of why she knew without doubt whose men had captured them.

“I'll take the young lady back to town now,” said Bas once the Corporal stopped his questions. The man eyed her, and then ordered two men to accompany them. Bas shook his head. “Safer without them,” he said. “Don't want to attract more attention to the lady than necessary.”

The corporal sat silently, then nodded towards the gun stowed in Bas's saddle. “Reckon you could be right,” he acknowledged. Then added with a growl, “ Get her off the fields. Trouble's out to get her, I'm thinking.”

“Agreed,” said Bas curtly, then wheeled about.

Geraldine glanced briefly back. The corporal was watching them leave, a frown on his watchful face. Then he turned back to supervise his troops as they tended to the two injured men on the coach. The driver and second trooper still lived, much to her relief. The rest of the troopers were staying with them until the dray that had been sent for arrived from the lower Dunstan.

The Corporal's questions, combined with the grateful thanks of the injured in the departing dray, had been less than welcome. They brought too many difficulties to light. Not the least, her name. Only the naïve young man had believed “Miss Smith”.

Thank you for getting me out of there,” she said once out of earshot.

“It was nothing, sweetheart.”

He spoke the truth, she realised suddenly. This whole adventure was merely an inconvenience in his day, even a bit of fun. So why had he come? It was stupid to push him, but she needed to know and asked the question. From the silence that followed it seemed she would have no answer. Then he did speak, and still she could not feel fully satisfied. Something did not ring true.

“I owe you,” was what he said, “and Black Jack will think twice about putting a bullet through me if he thinks troopers will get involved. They'd be after him immediately.”

“You said the troopers have no proof it was him.”

“They know whose men pulled that raid as well as you and I, and Brannigan will make sure MacRae hears it. At least it gives me some breathing space while MacRae cools down.”

All of which sounded very plausible. But if that was all there was to it, why had he been so insistent that she leave with him? Then another thought struck her.

“So Black Jack will be lying low for now, which means I'm safe. I can stay on in the Dunstan.”

He hauled his horse up short at that and vaulted off. Then he dragged her down to stand in front of him, blue eyes blazing as his hands seized hold of her and he thrust his head furiously towards her.

“Does nothing ever get through to you? MacRae hasn't forgotten you. He can't. Not a woman like you. God knows I can't. The memory of you is enough to drive a man insane.”

Then he suddenly groaned and pulled her into his arms, warm mouth descending on hers in a kiss that drew the very heart's blood from her veins. She tried, but there was no defence against the need in her. Her arms crept up to cling to him and her mouth softened. Fire flared in her belly.

Then he thrust her back. She swayed unsteadily, only kept upright by the grip of his hands on her arms.

“No. There's a wagon train leaving Lower Dunstan this afternoon. You are going to be on it. Go home, sweetheart,” he cried. “Whatever you came here to find, it's not worth the price you will pay. I have enough on my conscience. Don't let me add you to it.”

She looked at him. His white hands clenched hold of her arms, lean body held rigidly back as he lifted his head, meeting the challenge of her examination. There was no smile on his face today, merely a raw twist to his lips, and his eyes returned no answer to her questions. Then he carefully let her go. He stepped back, reaching down to dust unseen dirt from his trousers. When he straightened up, his face was still once more. He reached politely for her hand to help her up to the saddle.

Fires sparked in her again, but not with the warm glow of expectation. This was the red haze of anger.

“If you put me on that wagon train, I will be off at the first available stop,” she said, her back as straight as his.

“Oh?” Then he read the cold set of her face. “As you would have been on the coach?”

She nodded confirmation. “I meant to leave it at the ferry crossing.”

“Where you would have been seen by Lord knows how many men travelling on to Dunstan. Black Jack would have heard and been waiting long before you reached town. Do you want to become his mistress?”

That did not warrant an answer. “You are not so different from me. You know why I will not return home. I don't see you hurrying home to England.”

He glared at her, seeking any weakness. She showed none. “So you mean to return to the Dunstan, no matter how often you are turned away?” he said, clearly fighting to hold his temper.

She nodded. “I have nothing to go home to.”

“So how do you mean to avoid the attention of MacRae? After today's work, he will be doubly eager to take you. To find out what you know, if nothing else.”

“I'll manage,” she said gruffly.

A corner of his mouth lifted at that. He watched her closely as the lines of his face eased and one hand reached out to slowly trace the curve of her lips. She stared back, confused. “I believe you would,” he said softly.

Then his voice lifted in a sudden change of mood too quick for her to follow.

“Come on, then. Up on the horse. Or do you mean to walk from here back to town?”

His eyes laughed at her as he vaulted onto horse back and reached down his hand to help her up. She did not need to be asked twice, scrabbling up behind him and holding tight to his lean frame as they turned and headed back to the streets of Dunstan town.

Chapter 6

They kept well away from the track on the way back, and stopped by a small gully filled with tall scrub and tussock. Bas pulled up on the far side, leading the horse down into the concealment offered by the hollow. He helped her down, then pulled out the carpetbag slung on the horse's back.

“Best change back to your boy's guise, sweetheart. You don't want MacRae's men to see you ride back into town with me. Can you manage walking from here?”

She nodded.

“Then we wait for a group you can blend in with and I'll follow on behind. Hopefully any interested party will be too busy watching me to notice your arrival. You talk to no one and meet me by the back of the blacksmith's.”

Again she nodded, suddenly too scared to do more. She took the carpetbag from him and moved behind the bushes. She returned quickly with her old swag over her shoulder and handed the bag over to him. He promptly threw it into the bushes.

“You are supposed to be on your way to Dunedin. No need to make anyone think otherwise. From here to Dunstan is about half an hour's walk. Plenty of time to think of what you mean to do next. Maybe you could even consider doing the sensible thing and going home.” She refused to answer that. Then he put out a hand and gripped her firmly on the shoulder. “Don't worry so, sweetheart. I'll be watching over you. You will be safe.” He quickly bent to brush her lips lightly with his, then shoved her gently out into the open before she could think more about it.

A group of men were making their way up the road. By the look of the weary slump to their shoulders, they must have walked up from Dunedin, long days from here, and they barely noticed her as she joined in the group. Her shoulders fell as she copied the slouched gait of the others, keeping her head well down to avoid questions.

She could not look back, but knew Bas followed. It gave her the courage she needed to keep up her deception through the long march into town, and the even longer walk up the main street. Was it only her imagination that saw her the focus of all eyes as she passed down the street, despite the crowd of men around her? No one sought to stop her, so she must have fooled any observers, but it was a huge relief to gain the shadow of the stables at the rear of the blacksmith's.

This stable was one of the few solid buildings in town. Whatever the grandiose appearance of the street frontages, most places were no more than makeshift constructions of canvas and tin. But the blacksmith was a Highland crofter and had built his stables in the mud cob of his boyhood home. It made for a cooler interior than was usual in the township as summer approached and Geraldine was grateful for its shelter as she watched keenly for Bas's arrival. Finally his dusty chestnut horse made its appearance and her heart began to beat again. She had to fight to keep from flinging herself into his arms as he entered the gloom of the building.

“You took long enough,” she muttered.

He only grinned. “Nearly home, sweetheart.”

She still must wait while he stripped and brushed down his horse and gave it a well-earned measure of oats. Finally, he was finished and could walk cautiously from the building. She strolled slowly after him towards his saloon, intent on appearing as if there was nothing of consequence about her and no connection to the man walking so cheerfully down the street. It was an agonisingly slow walk for Geraldine, and it was with enormous relief that she finally came to his establishment and could slip round the side to the safety of the working area at the back.

Like the rest of the town, the rear side of the saloon was nothing like the front façade with its false hoardings and faux glamour. Back here, it was seen to be no more than a large tent with a series of tables and shelters where the daily work of the business was carried out. To one side, a series of smaller tents housed the barman, the cooks and skivvies, and the tavern girls, with another shelter hiding the small privy reserved for the women.

The back wall of the kitchen room had been rolled up to let the hot air escape, revealing the pots, the large stone chimney and the crude benches at which Geraldine had been working … was it only days ago? She stared, a wave of unreality hitting her. Bas was already striding over to one of the tents and unceremoniously jerking up the flap.

“Molly here?” he demanded, his tone rudely awakening the nearest dozing girl. She eventually came to, seemingly unsurprised at the manner of her arousal.

“Bas, love. You back then?”

“In the flesh, Daisy. Where's Molly?”

“Attending to business. Now, let me get some sleep. That ruckus you had with Black Jack set this place on fire and we've had crowds through ever since, hoping to see him put a bullet in you. Run off our feet we are, with every miner for miles around coming in.”

“Nice to know my demise would make such a good floor show. I trust you put up the prices accordingly?”

“‘Course. Molly's been around long enough to know that. ‘Ere, who's that with you?”

BOOK: Swift Runs The Heart
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