John nodded once, then thrust the news sheet back at Jacques and headed for the back room. That was where he would find Nessa when the main room was as full as this. She preferred to avoid the more raucous elements on such days, for which John was profoundly grateful. He trusted Jacques to keep her safe, but it was better if she was away from possible trouble. She had heard nothing yet. He said nothing and took her out the back door. Because of the crowds, he told her.
As it turned out, the storm was but the start of two months of misery on the fields. How many men lost their lives in those terrible days, none dared to guess. It began with rain, pouring down the gullies and rivers and washing away claims, equipment, tents and men with equal impunity. In mid-July, all the Arrow township was hit as rising waters flooded the flats at the mouth of the gorge. John could not hide the news from Nessa and saw the pain of it in her eyes. “I’m sure the Johnston family are safe,” he said.
She did not argue with him, did not say anything. Merely held out her hand for the news sheet and read the words over and over again.
“They have ample supplies at Campbell’s,” said John. Maybe it helped.
After the rains came the frosts—black ice, with the air so cold it burned to breathe it, and everything was coated with the deadly rimes of hoarfrost.
Then came more reports of floods inland, with mud flows and slips washing away isolated mining camps, men, women and children reported to be lost.
“Philip must come down now,” said Nessa on hearing the reports. “I have written, begging him to leave. Winter here is so terrible. Why will he not come down?”
“He’s as safe at Campbell’s as anywhere.” There was enough truth in it for John to be able to sound convincing. The packers would only cross the Great Glacier in pairs now, waiting for a break in the weather then trusting in their horses’ good sense to find the way across the treacherous plain of snow. Deep drifts hid holes and traps in the ground from a careless traveller.
“I must go to him. He needs me.”
“No! No!” he shouted, fear clawing his gut.
She said nothing. From then on, he watched her closely. There had been too much desperation in her voice.
The rains came again in early August, bringing more dreadful stories of lost lives and tragedy. John ordered Jacques to keep all news sheets from Nessa, but he knew she still found them. At least the rains washed some of the snow off the tops. He came over one evening to find Nessa at the back of the Coopers’ cottage, feeding the hens and looking up at the hills.
“Looks like the worst of the snow is over.”
Her tone was too casual to be trusted. “Only from here,” he said repressively. “It takes more than a few days of rain to clear the glacier.”
“Is that what happened in past winters?”
“Yes,” he said, even more forcibly.
“But you could be wrong. This is only your fifth winter here.”
“Don’t even think about it. I’ve warned all the packers against helping take you over to Campbell’s. No one else knows the hills well enough to try it.”
“There’s always the Cooper boys.”
He stared at her, aghast.
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t serious,” she mumbled shamefacedly. He damped down his fear, confident she would never put at risk any of the family who had been so kind to her. But there had been too much desperation in her voice. What would she dare for her brother’s sake?
Nessa could not stop looking at the hills over the next few days. There was hardly any snow visible from here, and John could be wrong. The weather this year was different from that of past years. Even he admitted that.
Today was one of her days for working at Chamonix. She looked at the hills once more, and made up her mind. She could wait no longer.
It was another dismal day: grey skies and a cool breeze. She guessed there would be more rain soon. She hurried to get ready and walked briskly over to John’s cottage, too impatient to wait for him to collect her.
“It looks like rain,” she explained, in response to his surprise at seeing her there. Usually, he picked her up from the Cooper’s place. “I wanted to make it to Chamonix before the clouds burst.”
He conceded, but whether he believed her was another matter. She had learnt not to trust that bland look on his face.
He lifted her onto the horse’s back then mounted behind her. Today, she gave in to his touch. After this morning, she might never feel it again. He was going to be so angry. She leaned back into his chest and treasured the feel of his strong arms around her. She heard the catch in his breath, felt it stop for a full minute, then begin again cautiously. He said nothing, but let her head fall into the hollow of his shoulder and curled his body around hers. Halfway there, he pulled Ned to a halt and turned her round to face him. His mouth descended and his lips met the welcome of hers. It felt too much like a homecoming.
When her senses were fully dazed and her world had narrowed in to encompass only the feelings he evoked, his touch on her body and his mouth moving on hers, he slowly lifted his head.
“I have missed you so much,” he murmured. Then sent shivers through her as his tongue traced the shell of her ear. He bit down gently, and this time it was her breathing that stopped as his hands cupped her breasts. “Have you missed me?”
That she dare not answer. He waited, testing her resolve. It only just held, she had to admit to herself. In the end, it was he who sighed. He picked up the horse’s reins and touched its flanks to walk on. His arms no longer held her so close and she sat forward stiffly.
That, he would not allow. He gathered both reins in one hand and clasped his other arm around her waist, pulling her back close into his body—back where she belonged. “Give me this at least,” said his strangled voice.
There were some pleas she was not strong enough to refuse—not when they exactly matched her own desires. She sat in his embrace and shut her eyes, savouring to the full the feel and the strong, masculine smell of him.
At Chamonix he pulled up in the bustling street, helped her down and led her into Jacques’ store, giving his usual warning to the Frenchman to keep her safe. Then he deposited her bag at her desk, and she waited for him to leave.
He stood looking at her as she fiddled with her pens and papers. His hand reached out and touched her hair, caught in a severe bun at the back of her neck. Then his fingers traced her jaw and she felt herself leaning in to his fingers.
“I don’t know how much longer I can stand this. I need you too badly, but I am beginning to wonder how long you can hold out. You want me as much as I want you.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, but he had already swung on his heel and was disappearing out the door. The words would have been a lie anyway. She bent her head to her first task, translating the words of Mr Thatcher’s latest ditty into German. There was a Prussian packer in town who had taken a liking to the scandalously satirical songs of the miners’ balladeer.
Not even the witty satire could raise her spirits today, yet she must set aside her sorrow if she was to succeed in her goal. At mid-morning, she joined Jacques for their cup of coffee before the rush of the midday lunch crowd. The store owner had the Frenchman’s love of gossip, and she had learnt much of the ways of the packers from him.
“Any new men in who might need my help with translations?” she said today, hoping she sounded as if it were only a routine query.
“No. Only one new man, mam’selle, and he is English. A boy, but good with his horse. He’s from the Lake Country, I think they call it, and seems to be at ease with our hills and the cold.”
“Young, is he?”
Jacques shrugged. “Young enough. Barely a beard there yet. He’s just back from a trip down the Molyneux and did well, Jean-Claud tells me.”
She nodded, then moved on to other news. Jacques was too astute, and she dared not give him any reason to be suspicious. The man was almost as bad as John at wishing to protect her.
Once
Jacques was gone, she started to make her plans. The boy was not hard to find. None of the men here were very old, but this lad was younger than Philip. His name was Thomas, he told her, grinning out of a cocky face filled with the bravura of youth. She could not stop the guilt that hit her, but then reminded herself that Philip’s life was at stake. It did not take long in chatting to the boy to find he had grown up on the Pennine hills and so had a good understanding of the perils facing any trying to cross the ranges.
She had managed to save a tidy sum from her work over the past months and knew she was safe when his eyes saw the heavy purse and lit up.
She calculated there was still time to make it to Campbell’s if they left before midday.
“Righto, Miss,” agreed the boy. “Just let me harness up the horses and we can be on our way.”
“And wear extra warm clothes,” she suggested, appeasing her conscience. “It gets very cold up on the tops.”
For herself, she had purloined an oilskin coat from Jacques’ office. She reasoned he would have lent it to her if he knew she needed it and resolutely ignored the voice pointing out that if Jacques had any idea what she was up to, he would lock her in a back room till she came to her senses. She had also packed extra food rations and made the boy call in at the other store in town, to pick up supplies of flour, sugar, tea and dried fruits.
“You’ll get a very good price for these at Campbell’s,” she told him. “Far more than at the close-by fields; but better not mention my name. Over there, they know I work for Jacques, so they may sting you for an extra cut.” Her ability to lie so readily dismayed her. It’s for Philip, she kept telling herself. She had to make her brother come down while he could.
Half an hour later, they were ready to go. She checked the sun, shining weakly through a break in the cloud cover. Still an hour before midday, she guessed. Plenty of time, she told herself. She sat on the pack horse and followed behind the boy, Thomas, slumped into her coat to make herself as invisible as possible in the busy street. Then they were out of the hustle and headed up the hill. Only then did she breathe easier. She was on her way to Philip.
Chapter 19
“What are you doing here, mon ami? Nessa went home with the young Cooper boy hours ago.”
“She did?”
Jacques looked at him strangely. “You did not send the boy?”
“No, they weren’t home to send. Both boys left home at daybreak with their father. They were picking up a load of nails and fencing wire from Galloway Station.”
“But,” Jacques paused, “the mam’selle, she told me the boy was here. Me, I did not see him. He is too young to come in here, that one, and knows it. I did not think it strange he should be waiting outside.”
John was getting a sick feeling in his stomach. Jacques must have felt the same. He strode out with John and by mutual consent they split, each taking opposite ends of the street.
The sick feeling got no better as John heard “No” after “No” when he asked about Nessa.
“Not seen her since this morning mate.”
“Dunno”
“You want to keep a closer eye on that one, boyo. She’s a right looker.”
John’s fist connected with the packer’s nose. “Don’t bother coming to me for your mutton. Or any place I supply,” he snarled at the man, and was thoroughly satisfied with the sickly shade of green the man turned. John’s run was the only source of meat around here.
“I’ll be moving on right away, mister. Just don’t mention this to the other run holders, hey?”
John nodded a curt agreement, the momentary satisfaction lost in his growing worry.
He saw Jacques hurrying down the street to meet him. The man had news, it seemed. He broke into a run to meet him.
“She’s headed out to Campbell’s with young Thomas,” Jacques croaked out between gasps. “The tackman saw them leave. Tried to warn him off, he said, but the boy, he said Miss Nessa had told him you agreed to it and would not listen.” Jacques cursed. “He is not yet eighteen. He’s never ridden that track.”
Then Jacques stopped and both men looked up to the hills. There was a dirty grey bank of cloud descending. Already the top of the nearest slope was hidden by the chilling blanket.
“I’ll start immediately.”
Jacques nodded. “Take Jean-Claud. His horse is the steadiest. I’ll get food and blankets ready.”
John chafed at the delay but knew it was necessary. If—no, when—they found Nessa and the boy, the pair would need heat and food urgently. Did she have no idea how cold it got up there? And the risk to the boy?
Finally, they were ready.
“Bring him back safe, m’sieur,” the Frenchman said. He did not speak Nessa’s name. John understood. What in blazes had she been thinking? Was she so blind to everything but that precious brother of hers that she could do something like this?
He had always known of the part of herself she kept buried—the part of her that prodded her to break free of the constraints of her life, that let her make love to a man she refused to marry, the part that now drove her to risk a boy to save her brother. Young Ward had been safe enough where he was, if only Nessa had trusted in John’s good sense.
He muttered to himself, becoming angrier and angrier at her. Yet deep down, he knew it changed nothing. The anger only masked the fear that drove him up the hill and on to the grey, cold slopes. No matter how stupid, how reckless, how thoughtless her actions, he loved her and would do whatever it took to keep her safe.
For half an hour they plodded up the hill, letting their horses follow the best route. Jean-Claud looked back only occasionally and said nothing.
Nessa had a lot of explaining to do … when they found her.
They passed The Spring, a small store with a couple of shacks nearby at the start of the main track proper. The storeman came out in surprise.
“Where are you going, boys? It’s no place for man or beast up yon this time of day.
“Did you see a boy and a young woman head past here earlier today?”
The man nodded yes. “But that be just before lunch. They’d be at Campbell’s by now, since they have’na turned back … if they got through up there.”
Did the fool have to say that? “Maybe not. They thought it would be clear on the top, it seems.”
The man stared. “I did warn them. It takes more than a few spits of rain to melt that old glacier.” He went back inside, shaking his head in disbelief.
John and Jean-Claud exchanged a glance, then set their horses up the slope again.
“Nessa knows about the musterers’ hut this side of Old Man Rock.”
Jean-Claud barely grunted to show he had heard.
They were in the clouds now and could see no more than a few yards ahead. The way was rough, and his horse stumbled. They pushed on. How much time had passed, he did not like to contemplate. His horse trudged on, trusting blindly in his master to bring him home safe.
A stone clattered down the hill. He froze.
That stone had rolled down the track. From above them.
“Jean-Claud. Stop. Can you hear anything?”
They both pulled their horses to a halt, straining to hear through the thick mists.
Scrape. Thud.
“Did you hear that?”
Then, the unmistakeable sound of a horse’s hooves, sliding over rough ground. No, two horses. But another sound. Was it someone walking?
They both leapt from their horses and hurried forward, pulling their animals after them.
A shape, two shapes, emerging from the grey. Two horses, laden with heavy packs. On the lead, a body lay slumped against the horse’s neck. One person only. Was that Nessa? But no, the shape was wrong, the shape and the way it sat. Then who was it on the other side of the horse?
They had been heard. The horses stopped and the second person walked around in front of them.
John had never covered ground so fast. His own horse forgotten, he ran up the slope and
grabbed her in his arms.
“Don’t you ever frighten me like that again.” His hands raked up and down her back, pulling her in close. “Are you all right? How could you have been so foolish?”
For an instant, she gave in to him and slumped in his arms. Then she began to struggle and pulled him towards the boy. “Please. I’ve got to get Thomas into shelter.”
Jean-Claud had already got to the boy and was lifting him carefully down in his big, strong arms. He gestured to John, who hurried to fetch the blankets from his horse.
“What happened, mam’selle?”
Nessa drew herself up at the anger in the French-Canadian’s voice, but her shoulders were hunched in defence. The man’s face said too clearly what he thought of her at this moment.
“His horse lost its footing in a drift, and he fell off and hit his head. He was only unconscious a short time but he got wet as well. He’s too cold.”
Jean-Claud nodded. “I’ll get up first then you pass the boy to me,” he said to John. “The store at The Springs is near enough and has a fire going.”
John did as ordered, both leaving Nessa to stand holding the horses. “You go first,” he said, once the boy was settled in the big packer’s arms and wrapped in another blanket. “We’ll follow on behind with the rest of the horses.”
Jean-Claud nodded, then glanced at Nessa. “It’s your business, m’sieur. She did the right thing in the end, but tell her not to come back to Jacques’ tomorrow.”
John returned the nod grimly. The packers made good friends but the worst of enemies, and Nessa had just made them that. He watched carefully till he was satisfied Jean-Claud had the boy fully on the horse and could manage the short trip to the store. Then he turned round to face Nessa.
She was not quick enough. She grabbed at her coat, pulling it close, but he still saw the fine tremor she could not control. He swore and marched back to her. “How wet are you?”
She shook her head. “Not badly.”
It was a lie. He could feel it in the shivering she could no longer control. He thrust off her coat and grabbed at her skirts. They were icy and clinging to her legs. Ignoring her protests, he lifted up the skirt and checked her petticoats. Wet through, all of them. But at least she’d had the sense to put a woollen one on. Using his body as a shield from the worst of the wind, he ruthlessly flung up her skirt and broke the strings of the clammy cotton outer petticoats, leaving her in only the woollen one. She was also wearing woollen breeches and good thick boots, he noted, doing his best to ignore the shapely, long legs sheathed within them. Now was no time to let his lust run free—not till he had her warm and alone somewhere, he amended.
Mary Brock Jones Page 24