Swift Runs The Heart (24 page)

She was left holding the reins of both horses, watching him efficiently seeing to the remains of their idyll here and knew she had been wrong to hope. All too soon, he came out and pulled the door shut behind him with a final thud, then took the reins of his horse from her and swung into the saddle. It was over. Still, she could not stop her head turning for a last look as the bend of the hills finally took the cottage from sight. Bas's head remained set forward and his talk was of the everyday. His manners had always been superb when needed and today was no different.

“I thought you might stay with the Smiths for the present and later, if you wish, you may prefer to remove to your father's home. I have no idea how long this business will take me.”

He was looking at her, but he may as well have been discussing the weather. They both knew he did not intend to return, yet still he kept up the polite fiction.

“Whatever you say,” she mumbled. She had leaned forward to flick a bug from her horse's head, refusing to watch for any reaction from him. If there was one, it certainly did not affect his voice. It was the same lightly pleasant lilt as ever. Yet she had heard it different, his voice roughened with passion, and had she dreamed that softly whispered “Shh, my heart,” last night?

No, she must not remember that. She was but an encumbrance to him, a responsibility now to be discharged. Yes, the passion had been real, the physical want of her, but she had been a fool to read more into it than he could give her. Bas Deverill loved life and was constantly amused by the pleasures it insisted upon throwing in his path. It had been her misfortune to be one of them for a short spell and now it was over.

Yet she did not regret the interlude. The ending of it hurt – God how it hurt – and she knew the pain was only beginning, but she could not truly say she wished it had never happened. Now she had only the remains of an hour left. Her fingers clamped down over her wedding ring. He had given her that at least, the illusion of respectability to protect her when he had gone. Must she destroy these last moments with her melancholy? He was the English stranger today, but last night he had been her lover and nothing could take that from her.

Her horse stumbled then and he reached quickly for her reins, one leg brushing her own. Abruptly he pulled her horse safely to a stop then quickly tugged his own away from her vicinity. Geraldine watched his leg. She had not imagined that sudden tensing of his body.

Suddenly, laughter lit her face. Whatever lay ahead now, not even Bas Deverill could deny he still wanted her

“Race you to Big Rock,” she called and dug her heels in.

The track was level here, a grass-covered river flat with no dangers to hinder the galloping horses. The hard ground would yield no comfort to a falling rider, but that only increased the sharp edge of excitement that bubbled within her. After a stunned pause, he followed her, the light in his face an answer to the taunting challenge in hers. It was a good mile to the large rock set by a bend in the river and Geraldine knew the track well. She used all her knowledge to keep just ahead of Bas, her horse edging just ahead of his. Then it dawned on her that he was letting her stay ahead, using her knowledge of the terrain to aid his own horse, slowing as she did, twisting to avoid a covered hollow just as she had. And when they neared the finish, she well knew he would surge ahead of her, his bigger horse more than a match for her mount. It only widened the grin on her face. There were a few traps for the unwary yet to come.

She eased her horse a bit, confident she could nurse its strength without risking the race. As she expected, Bas's horse matched hers, staying a length behind. Then she threw in the odd false feint. He followed every move. On they raced, the hills glowing in the early morning light on their right, the river nearing them on their left. The last ridge before the homestead approached, with the mighty boulder thrown out by some past flood marking the edge of the river and now known simply as Big Rock. Their route passed between river and hill, and the land offered a dead flat run on grass to the end. Now she must go. Hoofbeats behind her drummed a heavy tattoo. Bas was making his move, racing across the dew-covered grasses. Soon his horse's head was level with her mount's tail. Then it breathed on her leg, then shoulder. Now they were neck and neck and he was throwing her a triumphant grin. She returned it, a secret smile in her challenge.

Almost the rock was upon them. Fifty yards more, forty. Suddenly she yanked her horse's head to one side, swerving in a short arc.

Too late, Bas followed her action. The hidden sink of soft sand and gravel hiding under the grass caught him, his horse stumbling then slowing. He was an expert rider and soon had it under control, easing up the far side and digging his heels in for the last few yards of desperate pursuit.

Too late. Geraldine flashed by the rock, then slowly pulled her horse up in a long arc to ease to a halt and wait for him to come up to her.

He had eased to a trot and was eying her dubiously.

“You just about brought my horse down with that little trick of yours.”

“Rubbish. You're too good a rider. I knew you would be safe.” She grinned, seeing no anger in the gaze he fixed on her.

He stared at her face a moment longer, then sat back in the saddle, kicking his horse to a slow amble towards the collection of buildings up ahead, and cast a considering scrutiny over her own seat and her hands on the reins.

“You're not bad yourself,” he admitted.

His hand reached across for hers, drawing it up to his lips. Gently, he kissed her fingertips, then looked up into her face.

“I will come back for you.”

A red flush of warmth invaded her cheeks and she drew her hand back.

“Of course you will.”

It was a nice fiction. All the same, she was very grateful for the loud “Halloo” from the homestead porch as the Smiths saw them. She wondered now why she had begun that wild race across the plain. A moment of wild exhilaration to finish this strange period of her life. Was that brief joy preferable to a full half hour spent together, even one strained and marked with false politeness?

Now, there were only moments left. A flurry of greeting at the homestead, the gossip over breakfast of people starved for company, then he was reaching down his hand in a last touch of farewell as she stood beside his horse. A wave to their hosts and he swung his horse about.

She had sworn she would not do it, yet his departing back saw her standing foolishly watching until all trace of a dust cloud had vanished from the horizon.

It took a huge effort of will to force her feet to take the steps that turned away from the last sight of him and back to the house. Her voice spoke words, the everyday words of work and gossip, and her hands set to the tasks that came to her.

In a raw station, there was no time for idle hands and she quickly fitted into the pattern of the workday. First, help with the interminable sweeping and cleaning of the house in this dusty place. Then to the kitchen, to prepare morning tea to take out to the men working in the nearby yards, followed by lunch, afternoon tea and the inevitable roast of mutton for the evening meal. Though most of the men ate in the cookhouse next to the single men's quarters, two young cadets lodged with the family along with the Smiths' brood of four youngsters.

It was a blessing to be so busy and the familiar pattern of the station homestead provided a kind of solace to Geraldine. It was safe, known, requiring no thought to let her slip easily into the to and fro of constant toil—and there lay the rub. Her mind was not distracted, could not escape from the one image that dogged her all day and far into the night. Bas riding off, back as straight as if on a hunt field, slowly disappearing into the haze of dust. She had kept careful watch over each departing footfall of his horse.

Never once had he turned to look back.

The early morning found her lying sleepless in her bed, sightless eyes in the dusk staring into the future. It was bereft of light. For a long while she lay there, slowly recounting the tale of their time together. From that first fantastical meeting, through the adventures in the hills, to the drudgery of his saloon and the magic of the Christmas night. There had been sad times, fraught times, times when the tension lying between them could almost be seen. But then there were also those moments of astonishing joy. Delights she must now live without forever. Somehow she must dredge up from painful depths the will to endure it. To do otherwise was unthinkable. Neither her own pride nor the laughing image of Bas Deverill in her head would let her.

It was pride alone that got her through the next day, and the one after that, and then all those ones that still came after that. Three weeks later, and it was stretched ragged. The Smiths were kind, remembering, they said, the early days of their own marriage, when to be apart had been a sore trial. “But your good man will be back soon,” they would say, with knowing smiles on their faces.

After a few more days of such kindness, she knew she must leave. To follow Bas was a choice barred to her and she knew her Aunt Shonagh well enough to anticipate the dismay with which that good woman would greet her arrival.

She had only one choice; her father's home. Having made her decision, she lost no time in acquainting the Smiths with her decision.

“Mr Deverill told me that if he could not conclude his business within three weeks, it would likely take quite a time longer. We agreed, therefore, that I should go on to my father's house. I certainly cannot impose myself upon your hospitality any longer.”

“But this is your home,” cried Esme. “You grew up here. It is the land of your father and your dear departed mother. You cannot impose on us in a place that is yours by right. Far more so than that great house your new Mama got your father to build down on those flat plains of Canterbury. You're so far from the hills there!”

Her husband shushed her, looking at Geraldine's face in that quiet scrutiny of his that she had learnt concealed a wealth of wisdom. Robert Smith was a man of few words, but those he did speak were worth the listening.

“I had thought you and your man might settle here.” He pulled out his pipe, slowly poking a matchstick into the glowing embers then replacing it and taking a long draw. He reached up to take it from his mouth again. “Old Tom is leaving in the morning to pick up some supplies from the port in Timaru. I'll send the cadets with him and they can take you safely up to your father's new house. I need to send him copies of the latest tallies anyway.”

She knew better than to argue or feel any guilt that she would be depriving the station of hands at a time when all were needed. Robert Smith had said they would go, and no more was to be said on the matter.

The New Place. Her father had lived here five years now and the official name was Strathdene, but it was still known simply as ‘The New Place'. After his second marriage, her stepmother had lasted just a year at Loch Máire. It was too isolated, too primitive, she said. He was a wealthy man and must fill the position that was demanded of him in the new colony. Yet how could they do that marooned so far from the society whose company she craved? With the birth of a son less than a year after the marriage, her father could deny the mother of his heir nothing.

Geraldine had watched in bewilderment as the strong father of her childhood had become first a shattered phantom after her mother's early death, then the compliant appendage of this woman who seemed so much the opposite of all her mother had been. She looked hard for it, but never did Geraldine see the sudden kindling in his eyes when he looked at her step-mama that had been there whenever her mother walked into the room. Instead, there was the studied ritual of marriage, the outward display of a proper husband and wife. Only when either looked into the face of her little half-brother did she see any of the emotion that her early childhood had led her to expect in a family.

Caught up in her newly burgeoning womanhood, Geraldine could only dimly guess it was fear of loneliness that drove her father. All she knew was that suddenly she did not seem to belong to him and that, within months of the birth of her brother, they must leave the home and the countryside she loved to move to this flat land far from the mountains within a mere matter of hours' ride from the growing town of Christchurch. In a matter of weeks, her step-mama had miraculously recovered from the rigours of birth and removal and was planning their entrée to the select society of Canterbury runholders. They were soon plunged into a round of soirees, balls and other entertainments. The only gains that Geraldine could see were the easing of the lines on her father's face as his wife at last found satisfaction, and her own enchantment, she must admit, with her little brother. He had seemed to inherit only the best of both parents, and brother and sister had fallen under a mutual spell within minutes of the baby's opening his eyes.

She had last seen him over a year ago, on her last visit home, and he would probably have forgotten her.

“Gerry, Gerry!” A small boy was hurtling down the steps of the big house even as the wagon drew to a lumbering halt, and was already swarming up the side even as Old Tom looped the reins about the front brake. A flailing bundle of arms and legs flung themselves into Geraldine's lap and it was some minutes before she got her breath back enough to speak.

“James Edward MacKenny. What do you think you are doing?” she laughed.

The grin on the face of the wee urchin was almost as wide as the one on her face and her arms locked convulsively about the small body.

“James! That is quite enough of such behaviour.” The sharp voice came from the large front porch. Geraldine clung tightly to the little body as she looked up to the top of the wide porch steps.

“Hello, Step-mama.”

The pale-haired woman standing there straightened, her little bud-like mouth screwing into an unattractive pout. Slowly Geraldine released her little brother's arms and climbed down from the high seat of the wagon. She turned back to thank Old Tom warmly and took the single bag he passed her. She placed the bag carefully by her feet, then reached up for James, swinging him down with a kiss to his unruly mop before turning back to face the house, her brother's little hand firmly clasped in hers as together they mounted the steps. The other woman said not a word.