Swift Runs The Heart

by Jones, Mary Brock

  Then suddenly she realised what she had been caught doing. A red flush invaded her cheeks and she moved to replace the papers on the desk.

  “Will you ever cease to amaze me?” he asked, without the least hint of anger in his voice at her unpardonable intrusion into his private business. She looked up, trying to read his face in the gloom. “It never occurred to me that you would be able to make head nor tail of these papers. Or if you did, that you would realise this is my office and not Marcus Brown’s, whose name I would like to point out is written clearly on the desk there. Most of Dunstan thinks I’m one of his clients rather than his employer. How did you figure it out?”

  He didn’t sound angry, more like entertained. It did not help. She gestured vaguely at the desk. “There was a sheaf of title deeds there, along with the legal papers to a company owned solely by a Mr Sebastian Deverill.”

  “Not Mr. The Honourable Mr Sebastian Deverill, at your service.”

  She took it as another frippery, and waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever you want to call yourself, you can’t deny that this building, the saloon, the wagon trains and I don’t know how many other properties and businesses in this town and others belong to you.”

  He laughed, quietly in the circumstances, but yet completely amused by her. “As you say, whatever. No, of course I don’t deny it, my absurd Miss. Why you think I should is beyond me. You are in no position to be spreading my secrets, after all. Not with Black Jack as interested in finding you as he is me.”

  “Don’t be silly. You said he wants to kill you.”

  “Kill me, yes, not kidnap as you seem to think. He’s got a vicious temper, MacRae, and right now would shoot me in an instant. Kidnap and ransom? Well, that takes planning and MacRae is not stupid. Few know this is my office or the exact nature of my holdings, but most know I have my fingers in enough pies that it’s better not to aggravate me. As for you, though? Word is he’s on fire with the memory of as pretty a ladybird as ever graced the goldfields. He’s hunting you hard.”

  That utterly silenced her. He studied her face for long minutes, though there was no way he could read the desolation she felt in the shadows of the room. Then he drew her fingers slowly to his lips and brushed them lightly. “Don’t worry so, sweetheart. I will keep you safe. You have my word on it,” he whispered.

  Why, she could not say, but she believed him and felt something in her give way. She was not safe, it was stupid to think so, but one thing she had learned in these last few tumultuous days; his word was good. He would try, and what more could she ask?

  There seemed little else to say, yet when she retired to the bed in the small alcove shortly after she found herself dropping readily into untroubled sleep. It’s been a long day, she told herself defensively, sighing once, then knew no more.

  Someone was shaking her. “Go ‘way,” she mumbled, burrowing under the blanket.

  “Time to move, sweetheart.”

  She opened an eye, peering out. “It’s still dark.”

  “Sun’s not even up yet,” he agreed, in far too cheery a tone for the hour. “Best time for us to move around if you are not to be seen.”

  She opened both eyes cautiously, blinking slowly, then realised she was awake enough to realise the good sense of his words. Grumbling under her breath, she eased herself up, clutching at the blanket even though she had slept fully clothed. She may have trusted him last night when he had said he would keep her safe, but that did not mean she intended to relax her guard. Not in a town where a man meant to kill him and molest her.

  He was holding out a package, she now saw. “That boys’ garb of yours is too easily seen through,” he said.

  She took the packet and pulled out a gown and petticoats, holding the dress up in surprise. It was brown serge, modestly cut with a severely buttoned up neckline. Accompanying it was a large matching bonnet, slightly dated in style but as severely cut as the dress. She looked up in question.

  “Sometimes the truth is the best disguise of all,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. “I’ll wait in the outer room while you change. You can put your boys’ garb in here, along with your swag.” He picked up a carpetbag from the floor beside the bed, and then walked out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  Dazed, she did as ordered. He had been busy last night! Soon after, she emerged looking, as she put it to herself, decidedly schoolmarmish. The look in Bas’s eyes agreed with her assessment.

  “What a waste,” he murmured. Then a hand reached up to tuck away a stray curl beneath her bonnet brim.

  She was not sure if she imagined the lingering touch of his fingers on her cheek, but knew it made her whole body came alive. She ducked her head to hide the confusion in her eyes and could only blame the strange state of her emotions for the words that came next.

  “Is this how you see me?” she said softly, and something impelled her to raise her head again, searching his eyes. She had not imagined the lingering of his fingers, but it lasted only a moment longer before his hand abruptly retreated, along with the hint of vulnerability she glimpsed in his eyes.

  “It’s certainly closer than my first assumption,” he said, “and Black Jack is unlikely to recognise you like this. A bar girl would never choose such a dress. Though I have to say even such an appallingly-cut outfit does little to disguise that lovely figure of yours,” he added, teasingly as he saw the telltale blush on her cheeks.

  He hadn’t really answered her question, not in any way that satisfied the small but insistent voice deep in the centre of her heart, but she had lost her nerve.

  “We better get going,” she said gruffly, keeping her head ducked and refusing to speculate whether that knowing smile was on his face. It didn’t seem to worry him. He merely held her back while he cautiously checked the street outside. It was too early for anyone to be about, and silently they let themselves out the front door. Even so, Bas kept close to the shadows cast by the shop frontages. The bright flares of the previous evening were long extinguished and a gloom had settled on the town in the scarce light of a nearly-new moon.

  The street was empty except for the coach readying for departure a few doors up. The driver was checking the traces and horses’ hooves and just as they neared a pair of men arrived carrying a small chest. Geraldine watched curiously. This was not the regular gold shipment, but she had no doubt the small chest did contain gold. The two men wore long greatcoats, but there was a definite bulge on each hip. She guessed that underneath the coats would be found the uniform and weapons of a mounted trooper, including the sword they wore when on escort duty. She had seen enough of such men in Dunedin since the first gold strike in Otago to be very familiar with the formidable members of the mounted police force called in to keep order and secure the gold shipments in the turmoil of the rushes.

  Presumably the safe in the local bank was overfull and the excess was being shipped discreetly out with the passengers on Cobb and Co.’s regular coach run. The settling of one of the troopers up by the driver’s seat and the second inside the coach confirmed her guess. There were only two other passengers waiting to alight; a young man dressed like one who had made some fortune and was now on his way home and an older man who kept touching his waistband. Probably some kind of trader or bank official. Did the man realise how obvious he was when he checked what had to be a money belt?

  Bas paused in the shadow of a store, awaiting the coach’s departure she supposed, before they moved. There was no way to pass by it by without attracting attention. Then Bas made his move. Why? The driver was still completing his final check on the luggage. Surely he could have waited a few minutes more? For a space, she thought of staying where she was. It was only fear of being left behind that drove her to follow him.

  Bas seemed not to notice her hesitation, taking her by the arm to steer her past the pile of boxes stacked outside the next doorway.

  Then suddenly his arm clamped down on hers. Before she knew what she was about, he had steered her into the ope
n street and right up to the coach door.

  “Here’s your last passenger, Joe.”

  “Is that you, Bas?” the man said. “Was wondering where you had got to.”

  Geraldine tried to swing around, scarcely able to believe what was happening, but Bas kept a tight hold on her, tossing her bag up to the driver and then hustling her into the coach.

  “One day you’ll thank me, sweetheart,” he said. Then she was pushed down on a seat, the door was shut behind her and the coach had moved off before she could so much as catch her breath.

  She tried to sit up, just as the coach gave a mighty lurch forward, throwing her back into her seat. The driver had kicked the horses to a gallop. No doubt bribed to by Mr Bas Deverill, she fumed. She struggled up again, getting her head out the window of the bouncing coach enough for a backwards glance. A lone figure stood in the street, staring after her. One arm began to lift in farewell, but then she saw him thrust it down, ramming both hands into his pockets as he stood there, legs braced, watching her leave.

  Another bump and she was flung back into her seat. When she finally managed to struggle up again, the couch had passed the last of the tent shanties and rounded a corner. If he had been still there, she could not see. The one street of Dunstan town was gone from sight.

  She slumped back. She had lost her dreams, her hopes of independence, and something else she dared not put into words. Something – or someone.

  Her fellow travellers were quiet. The young man and the trader sat opposite, leaning back into each seat corner and already slipping back into sleep. The trooper sat beside her, eyes scanning the countryside out the window, but he was as silent as the two sleepers. She shut her eyes. Sleep was an impossibility, but mouthing polite nothings to complete strangers was beyond bearable right now.

  How long she sat, a prey to despair such as she had never given way to before, she could not say. Why this feeling of utter defeat, she knew not. She had lost her mother, then her father and home in all but name after his second marriage, yet always some part of her had refused to lie down. It had made her life with Aunt Shonagh difficult, but that she had expected. Both aunt and niece possessed a stubborn and independent core. It was the only thing they shared, and at least gave a sense of belonging that had buoyed Geraldine through the wearying days in that oppressive household. Now, she seemed to have nothing to hold to. Bas had cast her adrift and she did not know now where to turn for hope. He had won.

  The words blasted a shock through her. Her eyes snapped open and she glared out at the passing flats. Bas had won? What an idea. There was nothing personal in the man’s actions. He had merely done what seemed most sensible and convenient to him. She was a magnet for trouble in the town so he had put her on a coach, no doubt telling himself that it was in her best interests and she needed to leave for her own safety. Well, she had not given him the right to make such decisions and he would soon find out what she thought of such cavalier action.

  Or maybe not, she amended. Even brief acquaintance told her that Bas Deverill would do exactly as he saw fit, whatever she might think. No, if she returned to the goldfields, she must avoid any contact at all with the bright-eyed Englishman.

  If? No - when she returned to the Dunstan. That was a solemn vow.

  She sat forward and looked out the window in earnest. The sun was not yet up, but already the long summer day was making its arrival known. Light filtered over the flat plains and etched shadows onto the hillside. The track ran across flat land here and the horses quickly picked up speed. Her first impulse had been to jump out, but one look at the swiftly passing ground told her that she would only injure herself and bring down a welter of unwanted questions when the coach turned back for her. She tried to remember the track ahead from her journey up from the coast. There was a small stream to be forded, where they must slow, then no more stops till the ferry across the Manuherikia, an hour or more distant. They would have to stop there. It would be a simple matter to then say she had changed her mind, collect her luggage and meld into the drifting hordes of miners. For the first time in days, a very pleased smile lifted her face and heart.

  In the meantime, there was time to shut her eyes before they reached their stop. The long, sleepless night caught up with her and she lay back against the hard squab. She was not alone. Only the vigilant eyes of the trooper kept watch in the silent coach.

  An abrupt, lurching shudder woke her. Then an unmistakeable sound from outside. Gunfire! She had always been able to wake quickly and now sat up and swiftly looked about. At the door, the guard was lifting his carbine and seeking outside for targets. A thud, then a splash. The black shape of a body falling past the window. Round and tall. Joe, the driver. Then more splashing. He was still alive. Without thought, she thrust the door open and clambered out to look for the man. It was still only half light and she kept close to the shadows cast by the vehicle.

  They were in the middle of the ford she had remembered earlier. The reason for the sudden stop was soon obvious. One of the front wheels was buried deep in a hole. The coach was stuck fast. Then she saw Joe. A large, dark shape, head-down in the water beside her. A leg flailed weakly, then stopped. She thrust towards him, ignoring her soaking skirts, and tugged at his body to pull him over and lift his head from the water. Even in the gloom she could see the fresh blood welling from his shoulder.

  There were frightening pings and splashes in the water around her. They were being shot at still. She could not stay here. Desperately, she tugged at the unconscious man, towing him back to the safety of the coach. The water was only a couple of feet deep and not sufficient to help float a big man. She strained to tug him over the rocks but all she could manage was to get him to the door before her strength gave way. Then a hand reached down. The young man had woken and realised what was going on.

  “His shoulder’s hit,” she whispered. “Can you get him under the arms?”

  “Just a minute. I’m coming down.”

  He slithered into the water beside her. Between them, they levered the heavy body of the driver onto the floor of the coach. Bullets slammed into the water beside them and into the body of the coach. Both climbed quickly inside as answering shots rang out from the guard crouched against the far seat and from the roof. So the other guard was still alive, but for how long? She could only hope the baggage would give the man some protection.

  She ripped a strip of flannel from her petticoat, screwing it up and wadding it down on the driver’s shoulder to stop the bleeding. Another strip tied it down but still she could feel the warm dampness of continued bleeding.

  “Stop firing. You can’t hold them off. Let them have the gold. It’s not worth our lives,” called the young man.

  A hardened veteran of the goldfields, the trooper looked at him briefly then continued firing. “You think they will let us live afterwards?” he said, without taking his eyes off their attackers.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s light enough to see their faces, that’s why. You think they want witnesses left behind?”

  The young man gulped, then reached for his satchel on the seat. He pulled out a pistol and began firing out the opposite window. The trooper glanced over, gave a short nod of approval, then returned to his vigil.

  “And you?” said Geraldine to the older merchant. “What do you intend to do?” But the man said nothing, quivering into his corner in terror. She shot him a look of disgust, then bent again to her patient.

  “Pass me your sword,” she whispered to the trooper. “I need it to cut off his jacket,” she added, as he did not respond.

  The man kept looking out the window, eyes seeking shapes in the growing light and firing the occasional shot. “Help yourself,” he said. She reached over, pulled back his coat and slid the well-honed blade from its sheath. The trooper kept firing, intent on their defence. She ripped the thick cloth of the driver’s coat and shirt, baring the shoulder to allow her to loosen the strips she had tied there earlier. Now uncovered, she could
see where the bullet had entered by the dark welling coming from the entrance wound. There was nothing she could do here to remove the bullet,; she could only hope to stop the bleeding. She repositioned the wadding squarely over the wound, then retied the flannel strips tightly over it, tugging the ends round his back to anchor the bandage firmly down. Thankfully he was still unconscious, but his breathing was harsh as she hauled him round and she was relieved to hear it settle once she finished.

  She sat back, keeping her head low, and looked up. The older man was huddled on the only piece of floor left. On either side of her, the two others kept up their firing. One of the trooper’s arms hung uselessly at his side. He had his weapon tucked awkwardly under one leg while he reloaded with his other hand and mouth.

  “Pass it here,” she urged quietly. He looked startled, but she reached for the weapon and bullets and swiftly reloaded. He nodded acceptance and after that would pass it swiftly to her as he alternated between carbine and pistol.

  Still the fusillade continued from the outside. There had been silence from the roof of the coach for some time.

  “There’s only one round left,” she said finally, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.

  “That’s it for me.” said the young man at the same time.

  “Surely someone must have heard all the firing and come to investigate?” asked Geraldine.

  “Sorry Ma’am, but not likely,” replied the trooper. “Setting off gunshots is pretty common round these parts, especially if someone’s been celebrating a big strike. Pass back my sword. No offence, but I doubt you are skilled at its use in close quarters.” There was a hint of a brave chuckle in his voice and Geraldine smiled gratefully at him. All hope was not lost yet. He fired his last bullets and then tossed his carbine over to the young man. “Here, this will swing a fair wallop against them. You take my pistol, Ma’am. Hold it by the barrel and hit any attackers with the butt.”