Swift Runs The Heart (6 page)

“Sit yourselves down, strangers. The billy is about to boil and the boy has made a good mutton stew. You're welcome to share.” He tapped his pipe on a stone then moved slowly to one side, gesturing to the space thus cleared in front of the fire.

“Thank you kindly. A cheerful fire is a welcome sight in these wild lands. We're on our way up the Molyneux, hoping to find a spot to claim before we head back to the Dunstan for the rest of our supplies. How's it going here?”

“Oh, makings only,” replied the miner gruffly in the standard reply. The yield of a claim was a closely guarded secret for most of the miners. Bas nodded slowly, then pulled out one of the precious bags of flour and passed it to Geraldine.

“The boy here makes a nice damper to go with that stew.” She could say nothing in her supposed guise, and must set to on the nearest flat rock, mixing the flour with water and a sprinkle of the precious salt, before setting it to bake on a stone at the fire's edge, keeping her eyes sullenly down all the while. Bas, on the other hand, was free to lean back and chat amiably with their newfound friends, completely at his ease.

The damper was soon cooked and she passed it round as the youngest of the strangers ladled out the stew into tin pannikins. Once served, eating was undertaken in the studious silence such welcome fare deserved. Geraldine tried to refrain, she really did, but her hand could not seem to spoon the delicious dollops into her mouth fast enough. Her last good meal had been so long ago.

Gradually, the tempo slowed and then they were done. The youngest, who she gathered was known simply as “Joe here”, began to collect the dirty dishes. She rose to help, just as Bas said, “Leave them, Joe. My young friend here can earn his keep for a change.” Then he drew a bottle from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Perhaps you men would care to join me?”

“Can't say we'd object,” said one of the others, as Joe eagerly resumed his seat and the mugs were passed forward.

Geraldine sent her ally a short, loathing glare then did as bid. She knew his reasons. If she had not offered to help Joe, their new acquaintances would have looked very askance at her, yet nor did she dare start talking too freely to the young man. No, the best solution had been for her to wash up alone. But did he have to be so offhand in his manner?

She was still bristling later as she began to slowly drift off to sleep, huddled in her blanket near the fire and listening to the voices of men wily in the way of the fields, telling ever-taller stories of near lucky finds and the gut-roaring pranks that made this hard life bearable. Men. They lived in a different world, and were welcome to it.

Something woke her. Tense without knowing why, she stared into the darkness. It was well into the night, judging by the sky, and beside her she saw the lean bulk of Bas with the shapes of the other men beyond. It was quiet, yet her ears strained. She lay absolutely still, her eyes mere slits but scanning intently the dark forms of the men. Three, yes. Or were there? The furthest one was long as a man, but the silhouette of the blanket was wrong. She looked closer. Some rocks and a bedroll could make that long roll.

Just as she decided she was right and began to reach over to Bas, a hand clamped hard over her mouth and another began to paw sickeningly at her breasts. Gagging, she shoved her elbow back. Her attacker was ready for that, shifting swiftly, and the hand clamping her mouth tightened cruelly over her nose also.

“No need for that, Missy,” said a voice near her ear. The stale smells of sweat and liquor washed over her. Her stomach heaved. “Now, old Charlie here is a long time without a woman, so we is going to have a bit of fun, little lassie. That is, if you want to breathe again.” He released his hand a fraction and she drew a gasping breath in quickly before the clamp returned. “You understand me?”

She nodded carefully, wondering desperately when the gagging hand would lift again. His other hand began to undo buttons, exploring the soft curves of her. She tried to squirm away, but the hand on her mouth only clamped harder and the other continued, kneading and pulling in sickening intimacy. She strained hard away. She couldn't help herself. The horror of it engulfed her. And who would help her, so many miles into the wilderness?

Her pathetic attempts made no difference. His heavy legs now trapped hers, stifling her in the engulfing clasp, yet still every muscle strove to pull away.

But he did not release her mouth or nose. The pounding grew in her chest and slowly her muscles grew weaker.
God no
. She could not fall into unconsciousness. Black waves battered at her and she fought them back as the exploring hand travelled lower and lower. Which would come first, the blackness or her stomach's revolt? She knew not, and she was beginning not to care.

A
whoosh
past her cheek and a feeling of sharp steel. Then blessed relief and familiar hands pulling her away.

She coughed madly, spitting out the hateful taste, then fought to regain her wits, rolling away from her assailant. Eventually she managed to look up.

Bas knelt beside her, one hand protectively holding her as the other pointed a rifle threateningly at the stranger.

“I guard my own,” he said coldly. “The lady is not for sharing.” Then he leaned forward, yanked a small knife from the shoulder of the other man and quickly picked up the swags he had left ready tied last night. He pulled her upwards and threw their two blankets at her, then slowly backed out of the campsite.

Once out of the firelight, she turned to thank him. His hand cut down. “Not yet.”

After that, she kept a silence as complete as his. They crept carefully over the hill and back the way they had come, then abruptly shifted direction, heading away from the river and up the near dry bed of a small creek. After half an hour of tortuously negotiating the treacherous stones, always straining to both move silently and listen out for pursuit, he changed direction again, heading up the tussock-covered slopes and bending in and around the clumps to leave no telltale damage to show their passage.

It was hours later and near daybreak before he called a halt. It was only the dawning light in the sky that gave Geraldine any idea of their direction. So many twists and turns in their journey had left her stunned and lost—as did the shock of the assault suddenly beginning to set in.

Helplessly she slumped down in a dazed heap and stared listlessly at the streaks of red filtering across the sky.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I tried so hard to be careful in my manner. I didn't think they knew.”

He crouched down beside her, reaching out and shaking her roughly.

“Cut that out. This is no drawing room and we cannot afford falling into a ladylike decline. This is the goldfields, remember. One thousand men to each woman, and most of those here for
entertainment
—and don't tell me you don't know what I mean.”

She shook her head. “But I am not one of them; why would that man believe I was?”

“That man is rough, starved for a woman, and saw no reason why I should get all the fun.”

“What?”

“I did tell you they would see through your disguise. He thought you my doxy.”

“Well, I'm not,” she retorted staunchly.

“You are not,” he agreed, in a suspiciously meek voice.

“And if he thought I was what you said, I suppose it was because you said so!”

“Possibly,” he again agreed, but with no sign of meekness at all and every sign of glee. “Now, stop sitting there like a slug. I've still got some bread and flour, and we are too close to linger.”

She rose reluctantly, unable to banish completely the horror of those moments by the fire, and took refuge in a mumbled, “How much further into these hills do you mean to march us?”

It was lost on him. He was already striding forward and if he heard her, he gave no indication. It was only as they neared the end of her third day of tramping that she got any kind of answer.

They had reached yet another encampment by the river. Bigger this time, with a number of tents and near twenty men. She took one look and stopped.

It took him some yards to notice she was not beside him. He turned, looking about to say something, then saw her face and shut his mouth. For a long minute, she wondered whether he would just ignore her and continue on without her.

Then he began to walk back.

The long days of walking on light rations had begun to erode even his lightheartedness.

“I know these men,” he said when he reached her, no hint of supplication in his voice. “You will be safe here. Whatever I may be, I don't pledge my surety in bad faith.”

Then he turned again and began to march forward. She had no choice. Fear in every part of her body, she followed him.

“Bas, you aristocratic bastard. What hornet's nest have you stirred up this time?”

A veritable giant had separated from the group, black-haired with a beard thrusting forward in a pandemonium of growth from his solid chin. Most miners wore beards, but this one was extraordinary. For a brief moment, Geraldine was diverted from her anxieties in studying the black, bushy depths. She saw Bas had grasped its owner's hand in a warm clasp.

“Josh. Good to see you, too.”

“Now, Bas, no need for that tone. Whenever I see you, you are up to some new devilry, and from the word going the rounds, you've picked a real heap of trouble this time.” The young giant stared placidly down at Bas, then cast his eyes over Geraldine, standing nervously behind him. “I take it this is the prime piece word says Black Jack would like to get a hold of. Almost as much as he wants to kill you.”

“Josh Smith – Geraldine MacKenny.”

Geraldine nodded her head briefly at the curt introduction. Never had she felt more unnecessary. Already Bas had turned away again, asking the big man what actual news he had heard.

“… and not your highly embroidered version,” he finished warningly.

“Don't need to on this one. Talk is you fouled up MacRae's latest duff scheme as completely as it's possible to have done, and labelled him the perpetrator. For which favour he intends to kill you very thoroughly in the short time left to him before the authorities run him out of the Dunstan.”

“Which will be how long?”

“Sergeant Brannigan's due back any day. He and his troopers will give Black Jack his marching orders then, so say the rumours.”

“Let's hope they are right. Can you put us up here in the meantime?”

“Always, you know that. But not all ears are friendly these days and Black Jack is flashing a big pot of gold around for information on your whereabouts. The newer chums have arrived at this stretch a bit late for a decent claim. They can either take the risk of moving on to Fox's new strike on the Arrow, or take the gold on offer right here.”

“By telling Black Jack about a newly arrived pair at this camp,” concluded Bas sourly.

“Bas, no need for that. You've been up against worse. Come on, sit down and get a feed inside you. You'll soon be back to your old self again.”

“Sometimes lately I've begun to wonder if that's possible.” Deverill fell strangely silent, turning to study Geraldine. She wished more than ever that the ground would open, but just as she was about to protest his scrutiny he turned back with a shrug, clapped Josh on the shoulder, and reverted once more to the jesting companion she had first met.

In one thing, Josh was right. A good meal brought a whole different perspective on her situation, although even her renewed optimism balked at what appeared to be their generally accepted sleeping arrangement. Two men had kindly turned out of their tent and Geraldine found herself being escorted to a small oasis of privacy, alongside a jovial Deverill. From the annoying tilt of his eyebrows, she guessed he knew exactly what she thought of spending a night in a tent alone with him. Worse, how little she could say about it in the company of men she neither knew nor trusted.

The flap fell behind them and Bas bowed theatrically, spreading their blankets on the rough mattress of grasses. “Your couch awaits, my lady.”

“Don't even think of acting as if I should enjoy this,” she shot back, twitching her own blanket firmly away from his. He just as firmly pulled it back.

“The only thing keeping you safe tonight is the belief of those men out there that you are with me. Remember, they all know you as the prime piece from my bar who seduced Black Jack MacRae.”

“Thanks to you!” She twitched the blanket back again and lay down on it to hold it in place. Next moment, she was being dragged closer and closer to a Bas sprawled laughing on his own blanket. “Oh God, no—you're drunk!” she exclaimed, vainly trying to stop him.

“On the miserable few mugs I sank tonight? Nonsense.”

She had to admit his reflexes seemed not the least impaired. Try as she might, she could not stop him dragging her, wrapped in her blanket, close beside him, to end up lying curled at his side, one of his hands moving gently down the wisps of hair escaping round her face.

“Shh, my sweet. They will hear you and probably come to investigate. Have you no idea how long it is since most of these men had a woman. Or maybe you would enjoy the attentions of a whole camp of healthy young men?”

Her cheeks flamed. Thankfully, it was too dark in the tent for him to see. “Of course not. But nor do I want your attentions.”

“Are you sure?” he murmured, the treacherous hand sweeping slowly around her cheek, trailing down her neck, lower and lower.

“Quite sure.” But there was a quaver in her voice she could not hide and she had to tightly clench her own hands to stop them moving up in their own exploration.

He guessed anyway. His other hand reached down, gently tugging one fist open and drawing it up to his mouth. She could feel the upward tilt of laughter at the corners of his mouth then forgot it. His tongue, warm and questing, slowly traced a path across the opened palm of her hand, and deep within her something clenched then began to throb. A rhythm pulsed through her veins in time with the slow stroke of his hand across her cheek, down her throat, lower and lower.