Swift Runs The Heart (3 page)

The interior was much as she had expected. In one corner, a large hearth was set into the makeshift chimney, and she was pleased to see a store of the local coal set by the wall. There was even a large round cauldron, of the type known commonly as a camp oven, hanging from a bar over the fireplace. In this place of few resources and a crowd of desperate miners, such luxury was unlooked for. Cooking utensils were worth their weight in gold! In the other corner, a large sack lay folded, waiting to be stuffed and made into a mattress.

She turned, her face a question. This was a prepared place of refuge, not an abandoned lucky find. Bas correctly guessed her worry.

“I did a good turn for a man who made his stake and decided not to stay longer. He told me of this place and said it was mine if I needed it.”

“It looks like you expected that you might do so.”

“I've learnt that it always pays to have an escape route.”

She heard him in silence, opened her mouth, then shut it.

“Very wise,” he chuckled.

He left then and she could hear him outside, tending to his horse. She stood a second longer, fear batting her, then suddenly she remembered his grin and a gust of excitement washed over her. Who knew what the night would bring, but did that really matter yet? No, what was more important now was a fire, dinner and a place to sleep after whatever should come. She turned briskly and had soon set to work.

The local coal was not of particularly good quality, but in the treeless wastes of inland Otago, it was all there was available, and she eventually managed to get a fire going. It was not cold, but the hut looked far more cheerful in the flickering glow. Then she began to hunt. The place had the look of a stocked refuge and she soon found her instincts to be right. Behind a rock set into the back wall was a small hollow and there she found flour, salt, sugar, tea and an old packing tin that would do nicely for carrying water.

It took her three trips to the creek below the hut to get enough water, but soon she had some coming to the boil in the camp oven. Then she mixed flour, water and salt to make the crude bun known as damper on a clean slab of slate she recovered from the hill above, and set the dough to cook on the upturned lid of the camp oven.

Soon, the reassuring smell of cooking spread through the hut. She popped a handful of tea into the boiling water, and then began fossicking again. A piece of rock propped in one corner could be laid flat to form a crude table. She dug deeper still into the niche that served as pantry.

“Aha!” she crowed, hauling out her newfound treasure and standing to eye it in delight.

“You sound as though you've found the Crown Jewels,” said a voice behind her.

“Just about,” she replied, too pleased with her find to be annoyed at Bas Deverill and his quiet re-entry. She swung around, triumphantly holding up the prize – one very old, battered tin mug. “Tea and damper?”

“What, no cream or strawberries?”

“Too early in the year for strawberries,” she grinned back, then gestured him to take a seat as she carried the damper across to the makeshift table, using the edges of her skirt to carry the hot, camp oven lid. Dipping the mug into the hot tea, she broke off a piece of damper, sprinkled a small dash of sugar over the broken inner edge and passed both to him.

“You've done this before,” he commented, taking them from her with a short nod of his head and eying her warily.

“I told you, I was born in the colony.”

“Where?”

But that would lead to the complications of truth. “A bit north of here,” was all she said.

He wasn't to be so easily satisfied. “I guess you to be about twenty years or so.” She nodded. “The only white people born in this part of the colony at that time were missionary brats and whalers by-blows.”

“I am neither of those,” she shot back, her head coming up sharply, her green eyes sparkling, only to see her strange companion double up with laughter. By the time he recovered sufficient to speak, the spark of anger inside her had become a blaze.

He choked once, then again. He must be able to see her rage, but showed no sign it perturbed him.

“Please tell me which of my guesses you found the most insulting – missionary brat or whaler's by-blow,” he finally managed to get out.

“Oh! Why… by-blow, of course,” she stuttered back.

“Liar,” he said softly. “There's none of the missionary in you, though I suspect someone has tried their hand at forcing you into that mold at some stage. They didn't do a very good job. Next time, you should slap my face if I dare to mention such an indelicate subject as whalers' misbegotten children.”

She flushed scarlet. Aunt Shonagh would have been horrified at her behaviour, but Geraldine had grown up with the whalers and their children. Her parents had begun life in the colony working for Johnny Jones, the earliest farmer in this part of the colony, and their only other neighbours had been from the nearby whaling settlement. The whaling families, the rough men and their self-proclaimed wives and children, made up the world of her childhood and were still the only people apart from her parents she had ever trusted. Not that she was going to tell this man that. No, silence was her safest defence, and the meal was finished in strained quiet. It did not stop him watching her.

By mutual consent, he left her to tidy up the remains while he set out to pull some tussock to stuff the mattress. Once the hut was tidied again to her satisfaction, she went to help, pulling at the tough grasses and stuffing them into the sack to form a bed she knew from experience to be remarkably comfortable.

Then all was set for the night, and he stood watching her eye the sole mattress in worried speculation. His lips twitched in amusement, seeing the blush she could not hide.

“Calm down, my wee Irish colleen.”

“It's Scots, actually,” she shot back, nervous and on edge.

“Not with those eyes of green.”

“My mother was Irish,” she conceded. “I have them from her.”

“And the hair?”

“From my father. My mother's was black. Black as the sheen of a moon-shrouded lake, my father would say. I think he was right. She died when I was thirteen.”

Her head ducked, letting the living strands of amber cloak the trouble in her face. She felt a brush of air as his hand reached towards her, then pulled suddenly back.

“Your father married again,” he guessed, too accurately for comfort.

“Yes. A fine Scotswoman, from Edinburgh.” She clasped her hands tightly at the memory of the woman who had changed everything in her idyllic young life. Her stepmother, that good, law-abiding woman, had never tried to come to terms with the wild, Highland heritage of her husband—or her stepdaughter. As soon as Geraldine was old enough, she found herself bundled off to Dunedin, to stay with Aunt Shonagh and acquire some town polish, her father had told her.
To find a husband and be off my hands
, was the unspoken wish of her stepmother, read too clearly in the woman's falsely smiling farewell.

She shook herself. What was there in this man that laid her soul bare? She looked up, fearful of the scorn she expected. His face was still, the warm humour banished. The room seemed suddenly too small and she stepped back unconsciously, wishing the heavy quiet gone. She had told him too much. Suddenly, she was again conscious of the dark outside and the remote loneliness of this small hut. He watched her face so closely.

“I'll take first watch. You have the bed for now,” he said finally, turning to open the door. Then stopped. “I may not know your parents, but I do recognise the manners of one reared gently. Many things have been said of me, but never yet that I forced any woman to share my bed.” There was a fleeting shadow of bitterness in the words, as suddenly banished as he flung a grin on his face, dispelling the gloom, and added carelessly, “If you do care to offer, though, do not expect me to decline. You are
very
beautiful.” And he had the gall to laugh as she flicked a last switch of tussock at him.

A hand was shaking her by the shoulder.

“Go away.”

“Sorry, Sleeping Beauty, much as I like to oblige a lady. It's late and if we are to continue unscathed tomorrow, I need some sleep now. Up you get, my little colonial Miss.” Geraldine felt herself being rolled unceremoniously onto the hard rock floor. Rubbing her elbow, she sat up glaring, but said nothing. She was the colonial he labelled her as, and knew well the truth of his words.

“Pass me the gun, then. I am well used to handling one,” she added, to counter his reluctant grip on the barrel. “Don't worry. You have not yet given me reason to suppose that I would be wiser to use it on you than on our friends out there.”

It took a while before he slowly released the weapon. She took it, her hand easily falling into the familiar way of it as she went through the usual checks, ensuring it was loaded and ready to fire. He watched her a moment then seemed to be satisfied, settling down deliberately on the mattress and pulling his coat collar up.

“Call me if anything happens,” he said, then turned over. Either he was a good actor or he really did trust her. Why she hoped it was the latter, she could not say. Be grateful, that was the best course. Wasn't it?

She thrust the thought away and let herself slowly out the door, seeking the shadow of the adjacent rocky spur. From here, she could see the gully below but had to stand periodically to peer into the deep shadows of the hill behind them. It was all rough shale that way, the small hut being built right at the head of the small gully scoured out by the busy creek springing from snow melt and springs in the hills surrounding them. Any who came at them from the rear might well be hidden from sight, but the sliding of gravel and rocks set off by their feet would soon betray them. No, intruders were more likely to approach by the narrow path over the hill below, as had she and Bas Deverill, or to use the boulders sprinkled along the creek bed to hide their approach. She couldn't see the hill on the other side of the hut, but the sheer bluff at the top would stop any coming that way.

She settled back onto the harsh edges of the rock and stared downwards, her gaze constantly swinging to and fro.

There was a half-moon tonight. Not blazing bright, but enough to light up the hollows and edge the borders of the path with sharp lines and planes of glinting silver. Deep black shadows fell on the side of the many boulders, shadows that could hide danger. Thick stalks of spear grass covered the steep slopes edging the path, clinging to the outcrops of rock, and long snow tussock cloaked the patches between. She might see riders, but if a man knew they were here, he could readily leave a horse at a distance and come right up to this doorway, slithering through the covering shelter of the long grass. The only consolation she could find was that any who tried such a trick would suffer badly, sliced by the sharp leaves of the spear grass and the stringy tussock, and grazed to bleeding by the sharp stones that littered every inch of open ground in this dry place. Would they endure it? How determined was Black Jack to capture Bas Deverill? She remembered the tales.

Black Jack never forgave any who crossed him. And now she could number herself among that band.

A sharp stone dug into her back. She twitched, trying to find a comfortable support. Bas Deverill had shown some courtesy – the moon told her the night was well past its midpoint – but there was a long vigil ahead. And a plague of disquieting thoughts to share it with. Stillness came to her, but not as in the disciplined watches of the past, relatively safe on her own land or with her father and their own men at hand.

The dangers then had been unknown and from the natural world only. This time, she knew the face of her enemy and she did not like it one bit. Too short a time later, she shifted again, dislodging a stone to the accompaniment of what seemed like a mighty avalanche. Angrily, she chided herself. Was she a new chum? One of the ignorant treasure seekers flocking to this land?

Silently, she forced herself to stillness once more. The night grew quiet again.

Or did it?

Her breath stopped as her ears strained.
Quiet, heart, let me listen
. There was the constant soughing of the wind, but that other sound. Had she imagined it?

No – over there. And again. The merest scraping of boot on shale. Up the creek, then. An intruder, using the solidly placed boulders as silent stepping stones, but every now and then he must place a foot in the treacherous, slipping gravel scree littered between them.

He, or they?

Carefully, she eased off the rock, slipping quietly back through the door. One small hand covered Deverill's mouth and a sharp pinch dug into his ribs. He went to jerk up. Her hand clamped harder and her mouth spoke softly to his ear.

“We have visitors.”

“How many?” he mouthed silently into her palm.

She shrugged.

His eyes questioned as his hand pointed up the path.

No, said the shake of her head. Her own hand pointed down the creek.

Silently, he slid from the bed, gathering up his saddlebags and ready-rolled swag, tying it over his shoulder and gesturing for her to do the same. He was as soft-footed as any colonial, she noted with surprise, as she followed him out through the barely open crack of the door.

The large boulder she had been leaning on cast its shadow over the front of the house, affording them a covering darkness. In the space between it and the hut sat another large slab, one she had seen earlier but assumed to be as heavy as its partner. Now, Deverill went to it, grasping it by both hands and looking to her to copy him. Quietly, she did as bid. On the nod from his counting head, she lifted with him in one silent heave.

It came far more easily than she had expected. Only her tense sense of danger stopped her exclaiming in surprise. Carefully, they lowered it back to one side then she saw what it had hidden. A small tunnel-like opening, leading round to the back of the hut and away from the gully's entry points of the river and the path coming down the other side of the hut.