Swift Runs The Heart (11 page)

“No one you need to meet.” But Daisy had levered herself upright, tardily pulling a dirty shawl about her shoulders as she pushed past Bas to eye Geraldine. Her boys' clothes did not fool this girl.

“So. you're the fancy piece Black Jack's all fired up about.” She stuck her hands on her hips, and blatantly surveyed Geraldine. “Word is Bas lit out of here with the finest bit of woman flesh on the goldfields. Stolen her from right under Black Jack's eye. Others said you was Bas's all along and Black Jack wanted what he didn't have – as usual. Me, I said no. Bas Deverill would never get into an argy bargy over a woman. Money, yes – a woman, no. Now, I'm not so sure.”

Daisy circled Geraldine, pulling off her cap and casting a professional eye over the straggled result of her hasty attempt at pulling her hair into a respectable bun. Next minute, she felt a yank and gasped as the saloon girl gave a practised tug, letting her hair tumble about her shoulders. This was getting to be too routine an occurrence.

The other girl stepped back and looked at Bas. His eyes laughed back. Geraldine felt like stamping her feet in a fit of childish temper.

“You've found yourself a goldmine after all. What happens to the rest of us, I'd like to know?” Daisy crossed her arms and glared at Bas.

“Believe it or not, Daisy love, it's not what you think.”

Geraldine had about enough of being ignored. “It certainly is not! And if both of you will excuse me, I have urgent affairs to attend to.”

Bas lifted one eyebrow, his face suddenly matching his accent in hauteur. “Can I hope that you intend procuring a ticket for tomorrow's coach back to Dunedin?”

“As I've told you, I can manage for myself. Though I promise I will think about leaving Dunstan if it proves unsafe.”

“Liar,” he said softly.

Geraldine gave him back stare for stare. It was not one of her best ideas. There was something in his gaze she couldn't meet, and all she managed was to mumble a garbled stream of “thank you's” before turning to flee.

“Here, where do you think you're going?” Daisy had grabbed her arm “Didn't you hear anything I just been saying? Black Jack MacRae wants you—and he ain't too particular about what you might be wanting,” she added when Geraldine opened her mouth to point out that Black Jack was not around at the moment.

“Don't make no difference. He's got mates and you can't go parading about the town. Lord knows there's few enough women in the field and none with hair like yours.”

“She's right, you know,” said Bas, “and since I am in part responsible, it is only fair that you stay here till we think of something better.”

It was less than complimentary and his hand on her arm almost drove her to argue the point, except she had to admit he was right. Despite it, she had no intention of changing. She had endured too much already for her freedom, and had no intention of giving it away so easily. Her impulsive demand of help from this man was looking more and more like a mistake.

She put on her most determined face. “I thank you for your kind consideration, but I am not without resources and this is my country.”

“Very pretty, but a goldfield is a law unto itself and you are new to the fields, my sweet, whatever else you may be.”

She looked down at where his hand still held her. “Perhaps.” He let go, slowly, and her head shot up. “Yet is what you offer any better than whatever else I can find?” Her hand jabbed outwards, to the saloon and the street.

Bas just shook his head and looked in amusement at Daisy. “What did I tell you? She may look like a man's struck gold, but it's fool's gold. No man wants to buy an argument after a day's work on the field.” He sighed and turned towards Geraldine. “Will you just listen first – and without saying a word?” She was dubious, but nodded. “Can you cook?” She nodded again. “Then you can have the job Molly first offered, cook and cleaner. On one condition…”

She stepped back angrily.

“No, not that – not that you don't tempt me greatly. All I'm asking is that you keep that head of yours covered at all times and dress as a skivvy. It won't fool anyone who cares to look closer, but it will hide your beauty from most. This town can explode into a riot quickly enough as it is. I don't want the powder that sets it off coming from my establishment. Is that understood?”

Geraldine blinked, gulped and stepped further back, unable to believe her ears. “That's what I was doing before you erupted into my life,” she shot back.

“An error of judgement on my part. Not that I intend to apologise for it. Your presence got me out of a very sticky situation.”

“And me into one,” she could not help pointing out.

“It's true what they say of red hair,” he murmured. Then suddenly he changed tone, his voice that of timeless authority. “Do you accept my offer or not? Have a care what you say. I may stand in your debt, but it is not limitless.”

She hated the blush that stung her cheeks. For two, hard-fought years, she had managed to hide her thoughts and passions. Now, only a matter of days in this man's company and her tongue was betraying her at every instant. Fretful hands smoothed down the creases of her abused jacket and a finger strayed to check the buttons so tightly securing her neckline.

“Yes, I accept, with thanks,” she managed to say, and refused to acknowledge his satisfied grin.

Life moved in strange cycles. An interlude in Dreamland, then right back to the start of her adventure. It was some days later and Geraldine swished a switch of tussock irritably over the floor. She was not quite back to the beginning. Before her strange adventure with Bas Deverill, she was all set to explore this new world she had entered. Her boy's disguise had worked well enough on the trip inland; she'd had no doubt it would be as effective here, but that illusion was gone and instead, here she was. Confined to these mere feet of space and living in fear of the streets, of what they may hold or rather, whom.

As for her
benefactor
; he seemed to lead a charmed life from what she could gather. She had begun to doubt he had ever told her the truth. If Black Jack really wanted to kill Bas Deverill, he could have easily done so by now. Instead, the arrogant Mr Deverill strode the streets of Dunstan town with impunity.

She gave a last twitch to the makeshift broom. A vicious thrust sent a cloud of dust billowing through the door, catching the man who entered full in the face.

“Aagh.” One hand covered his throat and the object of her anger fell back, coughing harshly. “Water, for mercy's sake.”

Geraldine was still angry, yet her hand reached for the barrel standing in the corner, lifting the lid and dipping in the mug hooked on its side. Ungraciously, she thrust it at Bas. It was some minutes before he was capable of speaking and when he did, his voice was still shredded with effort. All the time, Geraldine watched silently.

He banged the cup onto the barrel. “Is that the normal way colonials treat morning visitors?”

“No, but nor was I expecting company - since you have made it unsafe for me to walk the streets and meet any who may care to visit.” She snatched back the mug, clunking it down on its hook. “Though despite your warning to me, I understand it is perfectly safe for you to wander about quite untroubled by Black Jack's attentions.”

A sudden smile lit his face, chasing away the heavy frown lines. “So that's your problem. Perhaps it will help if I say I am not untroubled by MacRae's attentions, just better able to take action against them.” He pulled back his coat, showing her the gun tucked into his waistband.

Geraldine's mouth dropped open, chagrin etching her own frown lines deeper. “I do know how to use one of those,” she pointed out.

“Possibly, but it's only my life he wants from me. It's a deal more he wants from you, and who can blame him? Though perhaps if we let him see you as you are now, he might forget a certain bewitching vision.” The man had the hide to laugh—yet again.

It didn't stop Geraldine blushing bright scarlet. She knew exactly what Bas Deverill meant. Her hands were chapped raw, her hair straggled about her face, the dress she had on had certainly seen better days and she was painfully conscious of a smear of soot over her cheek from scouring out the camp oven. All she had of respectability with which to cloak herself, it seemed, was her own inbuilt pride. She drew herself squarely up, folded her hands primly and lifted her chin.

“Was there something in particular you wished to discuss with me?” she said. “For if not, I fear I am too busy to waste my day in idle chatter.”

His lips twitched and he bent his head in acknowledgment, then put on what she had come to call his ‘gentleman's face'. It was one she had come to particularly dislike. His usually lively face became still and utterly unreadable, but for one eyebrow that rose maddeningly.

“There was, as it happened. You may have forgotten, but Christmas is only two weeks away. The miners will want to celebrate – and I wish to profit by it.”

She refused to rise to his bait, but could not stop her lips tightening.

“Consequently,” he continued, “I have ordered in extra supplies of food, liquor and champagne for those fortunate enough to afford it. There will be a Christmas dinner here for upwards of two hundred, plus I have booked in extra entertainment for the occasion. I thought, as Molly and the girls are very busy at this time of year, I would leave it in your capable hands.”

He was watching her closely, an annoying quiver at the corner of his mouth. He didn't think she could manage it! Well, she had told him she was staying, and stay she would.

“That will be fine, though I will have to employ extra staff for the day. I take it that will be in order?”

He was silent a minute, still watching her. Then, with an ironic salute, he said, “Fine, as long as you let Molly seek them out. Just don't bankrupt me – and use someone else to go out for supplies. You stay here,” he ordered, and then he was gone, leaving Geraldine standing stock still in the kitchen, both fists clenched and prey to an overwhelming urge to do just as he warned against - use up every last penny of his ill-gotten wealth. She counted to ten, very slowly, and then to one hundred when that failed.

It did calm her down sufficiently to realise the absolute folly of what she had promised to do. Aunt Shonagh had ensured that she knew the rudiments of social duties, but she doubted whether organising a Christmas celebration for a crowd of miners would in any way resemble tasteful afternoon teas for a handful of Dunedin's matrons, which was all she had previously attempted.

She sought out Molly. The madam of the brothel was feisty, prone to using interesting language and had not yet abandoned plans to use Geraldine “as that fine figure of yours was meant to be employed,” but she was also shrewd and wise in the ways of a goldfield.

“A Christmas feast, is it? About time he set someone to manage that. What with a parcel of new girls to train and himself opening up new places on the Arrow and Shotover fields, I'm about run off my feet.”

“But I've never done anything like this,” squawked Geraldine.

“Nothing to it. Plenty of food, drink, some good musicians, and my girls and the miners will take care of the rest. We had a fine old knees-up on the Tuapeka field last year. Now, you just go and find someone to organise the extra supplies we'll need and don't worry that pretty head of yours too much about it. We don't want frowns on the most valuable young woman on the Dunstan, do we?”

With which provoking comment, Molly also left her standing.

Well, there seemed to be nothing for it. And suddenly a mischievous twinkle lit her eyes. Lord High and Mighty may think her bound to fail this test, trapped as she was in his wretched saloon for fear of Black Jack MacRae. All thanks to him on that one too, she ruminated crossly. But no one ever said young Gerry MacKenny shouldn't wander the streets. How could she know it wouldn't work here if she didn't try it?

With a grin, she reached up to where her bundle was stowed on a high shelf. Shortly after, a disreputable youth slipped out the back entrance of the saloon, an unholy grin on his decidedly grimy face.

Not even Aunt Shonagh would recognise me now
, decided Geraldine, malicious delight singing in her veins.

Soon she was part of the throng flooding the streets of Dunstan that warm December day. Here was what she had dreamed of. Her bright eyes darted quickly about, alive with excitement under the broad brimmed hat hiding her tightly braided hair.

Crowds of people filled the street, people in all their multi-hued wonder. Experienced miners from California with their distinctive crimson sashes. Old hands from the Melbourne fields and new chums from the farms, offices and workshops of the world. It was easy to pick the latter. They were either laden with piles of unnecessary gear or had rushed to the fields with no supplies at all and wandered about with an air of anxiety on their faces.

Geraldine was not the only one eyeing the innocents avidly. Shops abounded; primitive, barely more than canvas tents with counters of whatever solid material was at hand. Here the back of an old dray, there a sheet of iron. Very often a mere sign above the open flap, with goods laid on the bare earth below. And in them – all the miners might need, and much more they might not. Cradles, gold pans, shovels, canvas tents, flour, sugar, salt, all at exorbitant prices. A cart rolled into town as she watched, laden with lamp oil and dried fruits according to the driver who loudly extolled his wares as he reined up. He was immediately rushed. The driver jumped on his seat, a handgun suggestively displayed at his hip as he fought to keep order. He succeeded by refusing to serve any but those directly in front of him. His companion took up an even more menacing stance on the back of the cart, a long rifle sweeping slowly over any who thought to help themselves without paying.