Then came a slow drawl she had learned to dread. He was English, like her. That made it worse somehow. The man knew almost as many tongues as she and, despite everything, she could not hide her response from him. Today, it was German. Yesterday had been French, the day before Italian. He had laughed when her rigid back had told him she knew the words he called her: filthy, from the street, deliberately used to degrade. Always the last words were the same.
“Run along, girl. Albert knows where to get you when I want to—and I will be coming.”
Today, she was safe. There were men working near enough to see her. They could not hear his filthy, softly spoken words, and would not have understood them even if they could. But they would hear if she screamed. The man could not touch her this morning, so she said to herself. If she kept repeating it often enough, she might just believe it.
She picked up her pace, and hated the sound of satisfied laughter she left in her wake. Then she was back at her tent and separated from her tormentor by the trench, filled with hard working and decent men. One of them was her brother. She was safe.
Only then did she dare to look back. The man had not moved, knowing her well enough by now to wait. He stood, lolling on the porch rail. He was far enough away now that she could not clearly see his face, but she still saw the insolent switch of his hand. A corrupted salute from a man who acknowledged only his own rule—nor could she miss the miner’s breadth in his shoulders and the strong muscles of a full grown man.
Philip would be no match for him. She checked her gun again, her hand stroking the barrel and seeking the trigger and safety switch. She carried it always now, the weight of it in her pocket bumping a reassuring tattoo against her leg with every step she took. She did not tell Philip of her fears. For his own good, for his safety, he must not know.
Her Mama would be so proud.
She had much to do, too much to be held by flights of fancy. The weather held fine, and today she meant to take advantage of the sun’s rays to wash their bedding, ready for the cold of winter to come. She stripped their makeshift cots, hauling out the blankets to bundle up and carry down to the small creek nearby. It was only a small trickle, but it ran true and clean, tumbling down far enough from the diggings to be free of the spillage from the miners and their tents. She had to go down the gully a bit to be below the place where they all took their drinking water but begrudged that only a bit. It was the greatest sin in their small community to soil the drinking water they all depended on.
The pile of blankets was heavier than she expected. She took a step. A heavy stone caught her foot.
“Idiot,” she muttered at herself. She could not see a thing for the pile of bedding, and it was so heavy she feared she might drop it before she had even left the camp site. She chuckled, suddenly feeling better. She had been so worn down by the man Albert’s stares and her unease at this new place, she had forgotten the ordinary difficulties of life.
Stop worrying about what might happen, she scolded herself. She turned back, dropping half her cumbersome pile on her cot, then snagged the canvas bucket holding the soap she needed, before setting out again.
It truly was a beautiful day. There had been the nip of winter in the air first thing, but by the time she had carried both bundles down to her chosen spot and began beating the dirt out of each with a rock she found by the stream, the combination of warming sunshine and hard labour had warmed her enough to bring back the feel of a summer’s day. A small lizard basked on a rock nearby, and the last of the summer’s crickets set up his lone call into the sunlit day. What could she do but smile and beat her woollens in time with his cheery song?
A snatch of tune kept running through her head. She had never known the words, but the rhythm and the song had welcomed her often on such a day when they had once lived in Italy. Their house had overlooked a vineyard, and the autumn days had been filled with the laughter and song of the grape pickers. It was their song she hummed softly now, the hard beating of her washing leaving her without breath for anything louder.
Finished with beating, she plunged each blanket repeatedly in the cold running water, watching with satisfaction as it stripped away the loosened grime of their summers’ trials. Straddling the bank, she then wrung each one as hard as she could before taking them, one by one, and spreading them out to dry over the sturdy tussocks, smoothing each down with a proprietary air.
Finally, the last was done. All around her, they draped across the thick grasses. She stood, heart beating, conscious of the burn in her arms and back and breathing in the scent of wet wool and sun-baked grass. It was a heady mixture and she stood, hand on hips, feeling very pleased with herself.
“Ah, girl, you’re a sight and no mistake.”
She swung around. She knew that voice.
“Albert Fox. What are you doing here?”
“Enjoying the day. Just as you are, Missy.”
She doubted that. She quickly looked around for help. The other miners were not far away, just up the hill. She saw heads, backs bending, but she had forgotten about the noise of the diggings, the steady bang of shovels against rock and dirt and the calls of the men as they worked together. She could scream and they might come. If they were not too engrossed in their work.
Carefully she stepped back, trying to remember the lay of the ground behind her. Albert stepped with her, forward two steps to each one of hers, crowding closer and closer.
“I have to get back. Philip will be home for his lunch. He’ll be waiting for me.” She was gabbling.
“Ye’ve a bit of time yet. Plenty of time.”
“No, I have to get back.” She was backing into a bush. A sharp pain cut into her hand when she reached back. Matagouri. Thick and filled with thorns. A no-way-through-here, kind of bush. She halted.
Fox grinned.
“As I said, Missy, we’ve plenty of time. Mining is hard work, no mistake, and a fellow needs a bit of fun. Especially when a fine piece of woman flesh comes near, offering herself.”
“You are mistaken, Mr Fox. I am not offering anything. Especially to the likes of you.”
Wrong words. She knew it as soon as she said them.
“So, too fine for the likes of a proper working man, eh? Only the toffs like Mr John Reid get a taste, do they? Past time you learned some home truths, Miss Stick-Your-Nose-in-the-Air—you and that whelp of a brother.”
He lunged, and she flung herself back, right into the thorn bush. One big, sharp spine raked her cheek in a burning lash of fire. Fox grabbed her hand and pulled her back, little caring as more of the vicious spines tore at her clothes and hair. Then she forgot about them as his mouth came down on hers, foul-smelling, stinking of raw whiskey. She choked, and his mouth lifted. She gasped at the clean air. Then one hand grabbed at her breast, digging his fingers in and squeezing the soft tissues cruelly. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Ah yes, Missy. You ain’t going to forget Albert Fox.” He squeezed hard again.
Maybe it was the fresh air she had gulped, and maybe it was the sharper pain of his claws and fingers. Something changed. Anger replaced the fear that had threatened to cripple her. No, she would not forget Albert Fox. Nor, she was determined, would he forget her. He was slobbering at her neck now. She had undone her top button earlier while she worked, and his mouth slurped disgustingly at the exposed skin as his other hand still clawed at her increasingly tender breast.
To do that, he had let go one of her arms. Her hand was free.
“Stop, stop,” she cried, sounding as tearful and frightened as she could. He ignored her. Just as he ignored her free hand inching towards the pocket with the concealed gun. She gagged, trying to buck him off and made whimpering sounds. It made no difference to him.
Her hand found the gun and her fingers found the trigger. Time to put into practice the lessons Philip and her father had once taught her.
The next few moments passed in a blur of motion. One of her legs came up in a sharp and hard movement, her knee drivin
g swiftly and accurately into the most tender part of her assailant’s body. He buckled, letting her go. She pushed back, moved to one side, then shoved him in the lower back as brutally as he had done to her. The man sprawled forwards, landing face down in the matagouri, swearing madly.
Nessa walked carefully back then turned to run, but a sound of tearing and snapping alerted her. She swung back. Fox had somehow got out of the clutching thorns, blood caking his face and arms. His eyes showed his full fury as he moved to haul her back again. She hadn’t a hope of outrunning him. She had only one choice.
She fired.
A look of pure astonishment spread across his face and he clutched his right thigh.
“You shot me!”
“Yes, Mr Fox, and the next bullet will be in a place that will not heal as readily.” She shifted the barrel of the gun upward and aimed it square at his belly. “Ever seen a man die of gut shot? It’s slow, painful and there’s only one end.”
He stared at her as if she had gone mad then went to take a step forward, but his leg crumpled under him. “Aaaghh!”
She almost stepped forward, instinctively, to help—then stopped. She knew where she had shot him. He should only have a flesh wound, not enough to cripple him. The man would have to stop breathing before she trusted him.
Then she heard a sound of hooves and a horse being pulled up hastily. Help had arrived. At last. Then the warm scent told her who had come. She sagged in relief.
“Nessa! God, are you all right?” John grabbed her, took one look at the scratches and strode towards Fox with death in his eyes.
“Leave him,” she said wearily. “I’ve already shot him. He’s in no shape for a beating.”
“So?”
“Please, John.”
They were probably the only words that could have stopped John Reid right then.
He came to a halt and half turned back to her, fury darkening his eyes. She flinched and saw him clench his fists, visibly fighting for control. Only because she asked, said every part of his body. He stepped back from his prey, but kept a close eye on Fox, even as he moved back to Nessa, putting his big body between her and her enemy.
He lifted his hand, and one finger lightly skimmed over the marks of thorns and violence on her face. He barely touched her, as if afraid to do more, and his face showed no softening at all.
“You’re coming back with me.”
It was not a question. She nodded slowly. Then lifted a shaking hand to her hair.
“I must look a mess.”
“Never to me.”
Fox chose that moment to try to move, bracing on one knee to pull himself upright. It brought him back to John’s full attention. The man could barely stand, but still John leaned back and pulled the gun he always carried on his saddle for shooting game, out of its holster on his saddle. His moves were slow, deliberate and unmistakeable in meaning as he pointed the barrel directly at the man.
“Can you stand?”
“Not likely,” groaned Fox. “The little b—”
John’s face must have changed, and Nessa saw his finger tighten on the trigger.
“Then you’d better crawl,” said John, with no compassion in his voice at all. “Back to camp, now. There might be someone there who can do something about that scratch. If not, I suggest you start praying.”
“She did it. She can fix it,” the man retaliated.
“Miss Ward will never have to put up with your company, ever again. Do I make myself clear?” John cocked the rifle and lifted it to his shoulder. He moved the barrel very slightly, and shot. The bullet whistled a mere inch past the man’s ear. The barrel tracked slowly down, back to aim at the exact spot on Fox’s belly that Nessa had earlier chosen. Right at his gut. “Do I make myself clear?”
“You wouldn’t dare. Fine, upstanding man like you. What would the constabulary say?”
“About what? A practice shot that went astray? Or do you think they would take your word against a run holder’s? This is not England. The rules here are different.”
The man glared at him but seemed finally to realise his danger. He turned away and hobbled slowly back towards the camp. John watched him, his gun trained on the man as he got smaller and smaller, finally disappearing in the direction of his favourite saloon. Only then did Nessa begin to breathe normally. She saw John’s shoulders relax a bit. Not totally, though.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said in that tightly held voice he had used since coming to her rescue. She could only nod and stand quietly as he walked across to the creek, took out his own handkerchief and dipped it in the running water. He wrung it out and came back to her, gently dabbing at the drying blobs of blood and slime on her face then carefully combing his fingers through the loosened hair on her head, seeking and finding the remaining pins and securing it again at her neck.
“Better?”
The kindness and, yes, love in his face undid her.
“Hold me,” she whispered. For a moment, his arms waited, stuck half way between them. Then they swung forward and collected her into their haven as he pulled her full against his big body. Her head ducked into the hollow of his shoulder and she clung wordlessly to him.
She was safe.
Chapter 15
Back in camp, John walked her to their tent. She had left her washing behind, draped over the tussocks like Holland covers in a closed-up house. She had tried to protest.
“I’ll come back for them another day,” he had promised as he steered her up the hill. Now, she walked beside him with his horse following. She clung to his arm like a lifeline, so tightly he had to push her into the tent, unlocking her fingers from his arm then gently shoving her through the open flap. “Pack your gear. All of it.”
But she only stood, head bent under the low roof and staring foolishly at her cot. All feeling was gone. How had she come here? Embarrassment flooded her as the image of what John had seen hit her. She had kneed a man, shot him like some woman of the streets. John had scorned poor little Jenny. What must he think of her? It struck her then like a blow. She could not go with him, not after this morning.
“Nessa, pack,” his voice growled impatiently. To her shocked mind, there was no sound of love in it. “There is too little time if we are to make it back to the Cooper’s before dark. Start packing.”
It never occurred to her he might have meant his voice to sound bracing, recognising her delayed shock. All she heard was anger. She was no more than a burden, yet another responsibility. But she had no choices left. She could only obey. One hand mechanically reached for her gowns, the other spread the blankets to make a swag to contain them in a ritual that was second nature to her now. She pulled out her carpet bag, moving to stand so that her body hid the sight of her chemises and other unmentionables from John and the outside world. It was so easy. No thought required for something she had done so many times in her life. More’s the pity. She would have liked to have something to worry about. Something other than the knowledge that John Reid—Mr Reid—had seen her at her disastrous worst.
“I’m going now to talk to your brother. Don’t worry. I can tell him what happened. You won’t have to speak of it again.” He stood watching her a moment longer, and she could almost see him calculating. Was she following his instructions?
What else could she do? It was no longer safe here. The other miners would deal with Fox. That was a certainty. It changed nothing. She was now marked. When would the next man try something similar, thinking she must have asked for today’s assault?
She heard John leave. It was the trigger. Suddenly, her rigid control broke. She sagged, falling down to the edge of the cot, and slumped forward, head between her knees with her eyes tight shut. All the fear, the horror, the awfulness of it swamped her.
She had shot a man—a man intent on rape.
She could only gasp and hug her knees tight as she rocked and rocked, forward and back. Here in the privacy of her tent, she gave into her grief.
For lo
ng moments, she rocked back and forth, till the pain and shock faded. It did not leave her, just died down enough for her to let the world in.
A part of her had kept watch and made sure her privacy was intact. She was still alone, unobserved. Cautiously, finger by finger, her clutching hands released her knees and she eased back onto the bed, her crossed arms still held tight across her chest. Then she let that go also, releasing the last spasm in one, almighty sigh. Methodically now and in control once more, she set to her packing.
Once finished, she rearranged the tent, placing Philip’s gear in an orderly and easy to find manner to make it easier for him to manage on his own. He had done it before, but something in her still needed to set her mark on his life.
She checked their supplies and made sure all were sealed tight and stored well away from the mice that frequently plagued the camps. Maybe she could send him a cat. She had heard a man in the Dunstan was selling them, though at a high price. Her hands stilled again. She would need money, work, a job to keep herself. What this time? Her arms crept round her chest again and she had to hug herself tighter to stop the rocking, to hold herself in place. What was she going to do now?
Suddenly there was another pair of arms around her, holding her as hard as her own. John was back
“It’s over, you’re safe. Oh, God, don’t look like that. As God is my witness, you are safe now, and I will make sure you stay safe.” His arms pulled her in as if to a haven, and his lips came down on hers in desperate assurance.
For precious moments, she let the warmth of his body and lips fill the cold places in her. Then she remembered and pulled away, hiding her face.
“I’m sorry. I never meant. You don’t have…” The red blush of her cheeks and her embarrassment must have told John all she could not say. It had been so good in his arms, to live in that fantasy world—but no longer. He had seen her seen her shoot a man. There was no way back. He was a kind man, maybe still a friend. But he was also a man, and he had seen her in another’s mans arms.
Mary Brock Jones Page 18