He had to shake the boy to rouse him sufficient to get the details he needed. Ada was pouring him tea, soup and bread. He grabbed the bread only, wrapping it in the napkin beside it and putting it in his pocket.
She stared in shock. “You’re not… You can’t go up there.”
“I can and I will.” He wrapped his scarf twice round his head and throat and buttoned fully his big oilskin coat.
“Nessa, Miss Ward. Stop him. You can’t let him go to the tops in this weather.”
“Yes, Miss Ward, stop me.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness dammed up, couldn’t stem the words. “Stop me, and let your brother perish.”
A flicker of something in her eyes, a sharp blade piercing the dull glaze, and she sat up.
So now he could add guilt to the cauldron inside him. “Forgive me. That was stupid. Ada, I’ll be fine. I’ve been walking these hills in weather this bad for days now. I know what I’m doing.” Unable to bear more, he wrenched open the door and strode out before anyone … no … before Nessa could stop him. She would not forgive herself, nor would he, if he did not go.
“Nessa, you can’t let him go up there. It’s death on the tops in weather like this, even for a man like Mr John.”
But Nessa stood, frozen, hearing his words echoing again and again. John or Philip. Philip would die up there. John knew these hills.
She could not hear him anymore, no matter how hard she strained her ears. The snow outside muffled everything. A jingle of reins still? No, he was gone. Philip would die if John did not find him.
“He knows these hills,” she whispered.
Ada threw up her hands in disgust. “Maybe. But snow makes it different. Up there, a body doesna know up or down, sideways from straight ahead. So Bob says.”
What had she done? She strained to listen for the sounds of a horse, but she couldn’t hear him. He was gone.
He knew these hills. He had told her so, had proved it again and again. Her feet were moving, and she was out the door.
Outside, everything had changed. A damp, grey fog had descended, hiding the world from her. She didn’t know this place well enough. To go blundering into the mist was foolish, could lead to her own death, and all to no purpose.
Her feet were moving, regardless. Down the steps, to find John. Ada caught her by the waist.
“Stop, lass, it’s no use. Ye canna find your way in this. He’s gone and it’s too late to fetch him back.”
The words were true. Nessa had to listen. But it was the pressure of the older woman’s hands that pushed her back in, back against her desire.
Ada refused to talk to her after that. A cold fear in Nessa stopped her confronting Ada. John knew what he was doing. He knew the hills.
She flitted from task to task, unable to settle.
There was a sound outside. It was an hour since John had left. She rushed to the door. Bob was climbing the steps.
“Is he with you?”
He looked at her as is she had lost her mind. He was probably right. “Who, lassie?”
“John.”
Bob shook his head, and nodded toward the near ridges. “He’s up at Chamonix.”
Ada came out then. “No, he’s not. He’s gone up the hill, to rescue Miss Ward’s brother from the glacier.”
“In this?”
For once, Ada said nothing. Her lips pursed and she nodded confirmation.
“He’ll no find him in that.” His work-hardened hands pointed to the hilltop with its grey cone topping. “Not till that snow stops falling. There’s no knowing where you be in that stuff.”
A single stroke thudded hard in Nessa’s chest. What had she done?
“I’ve got to go. He’ll come back to Chamonix. I must be there.”
Ada moved in front of her, blocking her escape. “You’ll not stir a step from this house, lass. If Mr John comes back, it’s here he’ll be expecting to find you, and here you’ll be.”
There was no moving the woman. “Chamonix is on the track over,” Nessa argued.
“No, he’ll come down by the back gully here,” said Bob. “Leastways, he will if here’s where he wants to be.”
“That decides it,” said Ada. “It’s here he’ll come.”
“Not after I sent him up there. How could I?”
“Tell you what, lassie,” said Bob. “I’ll go up to Chamonix and get a party together. We can’t venture up on the glacier, but we can be on both tracks, ready to fetch them down if they make it.”
Nessa gasped.
“Yes, lassie, they might not make it. That’s always there, and the sooner you learn that in this land, the better,” he said sternly, then started on his preparations. She watched Ada, back rigid, help her husband ready himself to brave the snow, with not a word against it. He stomped to the door.
“Keep my dinner for me. We’ll head back from the hills when the dark comes on.”
“Righto,” said Ada.
Nessa saw how she watched her husband and how she stood listening after the door was closed, turning back to her work only when all sound of his leaving had vanished into the winter quiet. She could not apologise, not again. There were no words for what she was expecting from this woman.
“Bob knows the hills, and he’ll be sensible,” was all she could say.
“Aye,” said Ada, then briskly turned to her children, listening wide-eyed in the doorway of the second room. “Right, you lot, the sun’s out again and there’s work to be done. Boys, your father already gave you chores to do. Girls, these rugs could do with a beating.”
Nessa had only respect for Ada’s courage and set to with the young girls, rolling up the big floor rugs that were Ada’s pride and carrying them outside to beat out the muddy footprints from the days of poor weather. It was good work, exactly what she needed. Her arms swung hard as her body and mind sought to banish unwelcome images: John lost in the snow, Philip lying injured, John and Philip both sprawled in the snow like discarded corpses of war, still and unresponsive. Dead, was the whisper. She beat the rug hard, smashing into oblivion the dark pictures, only to have them replaced by others: a man’s hard body, rough fingers tracing the lines of her breast and belly, heat rising in her as a man rose and fell above her, strong and beautiful and, inside her the thick, hard and rigid stroke after stroke bringing the fires in her to raging completion.
What had she done?
There were others too: John coming to her rescue at the Arrow; John, self-righteous and angry at Queenstown; John, riding away from her at the Shotover diggings; John, always there, always keeping her safe. A dam of need burst in her, and it was only the training of a lifetime that kept her arm swinging, kept the tears back. Keeping her safe. No one had ever done that for her. Not ever, not in her whole life. And she had sent him to his death.
No, he knew the hills. He knew them. He had told her so.
There was a clock on Ada’s wall. Another treasured gem that made this house a home. The loud tocking hammered into Nessa’s skull. At first she had avoided looking at it but, finally, it won. Now, she counted every minute, every hour, since he had gone. The tocking measured her footsteps, her heartbeat, the moments of the rest of her life. Her hands scrubbed busily at the table, measured out a skein of wool, darned sock after sock. Still the pictures came.
They were of John only now. Lost in the snow. Calling her name, over and over. Philip was gone. A part of her grieved, hoped for him. She loved her brother. But John was the other half of her, admitted too late, discovered only when it seemed she must say goodbye forever. Night was near and they had been gone so long.
Then Bob was back. His head shook its nay before she could open her mouth.
“They’ve probably taken shelter in the hut up there. There’s an outriders’ bothy just below the Old Man Rock.”
Nessa blushed. She remembered that hut, with every muscle, every bone, every beat of her heart.
Eventually, she agreed to lie on her cot and make a pretence of sleep. All night she lay sti
ll, listening to the clock tocking away the minutes, the hours, its mournful toll echoing in the lonely stretches after midnight.
She was outside at daybreak. The sky had cleared and … was it her imagination? Did the shackling clouds on the hill tops appear to be loosening their grip?
There were animals to be fed, a stoop to be brushed free of snow, troughs to be freed from their icy cap.
“Come in for breakfast,” Ada ordered.
No, that was beyond her: to talk, eat, pretend to the children that all was well.
The sun was rising fully over the hill that marked the far end of the valley, finger streaks of warmth tentatively reaching down the paddocks and lighting up the shadows beneath each clump of tussock, but the warmth could not reach her heart.
Mid-morning found her at the back door again, looking to the hills. Bob had gone out again. “Just in case.”
“Come away, lass. You’ll do no one any good pining away out here.”
Nessa ignored Ada. In a day, a week, a month maybe, she would start to live again, to stop hoping. But not yet. Not yet.
There was a sound from the hill. She strained her eyes, searching. Then she saw it. A hawk, swooping down in search of what prey it could find on a chilly winter slope.
Maybe Ada was right. She turned and went inside.
“Tell us a story, Nessa. One of the olden ones.”
“Not today, lambie,” said Ada. “Miss Nessa has work to do.”
“No she doesn’t. She’s just staring at the fire. She could tell us a story instead of that.”
A ghost of a laugh broke from Nessa. The wee girl was right. A story was better than staring at nothing. She sat in the chair and beckoned the child on to her knee.
“A long, long time ago in a land so far away from here that you have to sail a year and a day to get there…”
“In a row boat?”
“No, in a big ship like Mummy and Daddy sailed in when they came here.”
The little girl snuggled down and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Everything was all right. This was how the story always started.
Nessa’s arm tightened around the sweet weight, and she breathed in the comforting smell of childhood. Outside, something banged. She knew now not to listen. The door opened, footsteps came in. Bob, and others?
She looked up.
Three men walked in, but it was only one that she looked at—tired, dusty-faced and muddied all over. Slowly, she rose to her feet. “John?”
Then she was running and his arms were holding her and his lips claiming her for his own.
“You’re back.” The tears began. And the smile.
She pulled back and grabbed his arms.
“Don’t you ever listen to me again. Don’t you dare risk your life. Not for me, not for anyone. Do you hear me?”
He laughed, light-hearted and filled with joy. “I will risk my life for you any time I have to. And your brother is safe. Isn’t that what you wanted?” She saw the real question in his eyes.
Her answer was for his ears alone. “Not as much as I want you, as I love you, Mr John Reid.” His arms tightened then, and she was home.
Chapter 22
Her brother stood in the doorway still. He coughed. She blushed fifty shades of red, the heat rising in her cheeks, and untangled herself from John’s arms.
“You’re alive.”
He grinned weakly. “It’s a surprise to me too.”
He looked so tired and thin, but his eyes took in everything.
Her hand clung to John’s regardless.
“Your friend?” she asked.
“Didn’t make it,” said John’s voice quickly in her ear. There was a shadow in her brother’s face, and something that told her not to ask more. He was leaning heavily on Bob, barely able to stand. Before she could say anything, Ada bustled up and was helping Bob carry Philip to the fire. It was Nessa who brought him soup and a rug and stood over him till he ate every mouthful. Then she turned to John and stood, stricken, one hand holding the ladle and the other reaching for a second bowl, caught between the two men. John looked at her then over her shoulder. She followed his gaze to see her brother looking back at him and some strange male message pass between them.
“You bring the Pastor. I’ll walk her down the aisle,” said Philip with a touch of the wry humour she hadn’t heard since her mother died. “It’s all right, Ness. Your place is here,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry. I have no choice. You are my brother, Philip, will always be my family, but John…”
“I know,” he whispered.
An arm shot round her waist. The weight of it told her the owner. John. “Don’t worry so much, sweetheart. Your brother and I had a long talk last night. It’s all fixed. Or at least, it will be as soon as you give me some of that soup. I’ve got something to ask you, and it’s not a question a man wants to ask on an empty stomach.”
“Ha, more like you need a bit of something else, lad,” said Bob, pulling out his precious whisky and adding a generous dollop to both bowls. The men grinned but Ada harrumphed, and it was a very much a woman’s smile she exchanged with Nessa.
John insisted on eating every last mouthful in the large bowl and slowly chomping through the generous slabs of bread and butter. All the while, Nessa switched between watching John eat, studying him to see the colour in his cheeks, then running her hand over her brother and forcing one more life-saving spoonful into his mouth before helping him over to the bed readied for him. Then back to John.
“Shouldn’t you be resting too?” she demanded.
“I’m fine, love.”
“You were up there so long.”
He shook his head and took her hand, his long fingers soothing her anxiety. “We stayed last night in the hut, and I was prepared for the weather, on a horse who knew what he was doing.”
“But Philip?”
“Nearly died up there. He was in a bad way when I found him, but he did well, love. He did all any man could. The other boy … no one could have saved him.” He looked over at her brother, and Philip’s stillness said he had heard every word. Nessa stood, went over and took Philip’s hand, leaning over softly and kissing him on the cheek.
“I’m so very proud of you, little brother,” she whispered softly. His hand clenched hers, but the shadow in his eyes did not quite lift. She doubted it ever would. She squeezed back. “Next time,” she added, “do you think you could be less heroic and more sensible?” He chuckled weakly and the shadow retreated a fraction. She tucked his hand under the blanket. He sighed softly, turned his head on the pillow, and subsided into sleep. She stood, watching, then walked back to John and into the circle of his arms, as one returning home.
“You had a question to ask me?”
His arms tightened and he smiled down into her face. “Outside.”
But it was farther than that he took her. He walked her down the steps then unhitched his horse, lifted her to its back and swung up behind her. She said nothing, but a growing sense of rightness welled up inside her. He set the horse over the rise and up the path to his home. Neither said a word, but it was a comfortable silence. It was not yet the place for speech.
They arrived at his house and he lifted her down. “Go on inside. I have to stable the horse.”
John watched her as he walked the horse to the stable, watched her go into his house. Then he took a wisp and brushed his mount down till every last patch of damp sweat was briskly rubbed and glowing with warmth. He added a generous dollop of molasses to its bran and slowly stroked down the horse’s flanks as he watched it eat. He owed his life to the horse’s good sense and, even at such a time, it deserved to be given its due.
Or was he stalling? Today was so important. He had waited so long. Had he read truly the welcome in her eyes, in her body? Was today the day he had dreamed of so long?
“What do you reckon, boy? Can’t put it off any longer.”
He gave the horse one last swipe and chose to pretend it was not more
interested in its manger than its master’s fears. Then he set his shoulders and walked resolutely out the door.
His skin felt too tight and something held him by the throat. He swallowed and came round the corner of his house.
She was standing in the doorway, a hot cup of tea waiting in her hand. Her hair glowed with the early rays of the morning sun, catching the shades of chestnut and gold hidden in the darkly burnished mass. Her full breasts and small waist drew him, but not as much as the warm smile of welcome on her face. His skin sparked to life, and he set his foot on the bottom step.
She had been so afraid while she waited. A cup of tea. That would fix anything. Did he still want her, love her, as he did before? Or had she made him wait too long?
He walked towards her—tall, strong and solidly planted in this land of his. Safety, a haven, and excitement such as she had never known, all rolled into one.
He climbed the step toward her. She held out the cup and watched as the strong muscles of his throat swallowed one mouthful only before he set the cup to one side on the railing. Then his arms pulled her in, his head slanted down and his mouth covered hers, teasing her lips open to let his tongue surge in. Home.
Much, much later, when every part of her body had sprung to sensual life and the waiting was nearly unbearable, he lifted his head and looked into her eyes.
“I love you. I love you so much. If I ask … I need to know. I cannot hear ‘No’ again.”
“Ask, ask what you wish.”
One of his big hands moulded her breasts and the other smoothed over her bottom, pulling the core of her where he needed it. “Will you marry me, Nessa Ward? Will you stay with me, let me love you all the days of our lives, build a home here with me? I promise to keep you safe, to protect and cherish you, to defend you with everything in me. Will you let me be your family?”
Mary Brock Jones Page 28