Swift Runs The Heart (12 page)

She laughed at the sight, then set swiftly about her own business. Soon she had organised three men to help her in the next week. One claimed to have been an undercook in an English gentleman's household, a claim she could only hope to be true. He certainly seemed remarkably ignorant of the ways of the colony.

She saw yet another lost-looking newcomer and set her chin, ploughing determinedly towards him. One more helper and she could face Christmas with some hope of success. The man suddenly turned in his wandering, seeming to be about to disappear into a tavern. Her strides lengthened. No you don't, she vowed.

“Oof”

“Here, watch where you're going.”

A very large stomach met her eyes as she sat back hard on her backside. Swiftly, she scrambled to shove her hat closer over her face as she painfully picked herself up.

She knew that voice.

“Sorry, sir,” she muttered in the deepest voice she could find.

“Should think so. Go back to your mother's skirts, you young idiot,” growled the voice of Black Jack, one long hand sweeping out in a vicious sideswipe. It never connected. A long, thin hand caught it in mid-swipe, the thin fingers exerting a pressure far beyond their appearance.

“Leave the boy alone, MacRae.”

A dangerous silence spread around them. Geraldine groaned silently. Beside her stood Bas Deverill, one hand pulling back his coat and resting on the pistol tucked there. Black Jack glared at it, his own hand moving slowly to his hip then stopping. Geraldine peeped up. Bas Deverill had done no more that flick a glance over the man's shoulder but, as Geraldine discreetly looked that way, she saw two more men lounging against a dray, their own hands stroking long rifles.

“One day, Deverill, you will be alone,” growled Black Jack. He shrugged, breaking the tense deadlock and moved slowly off.

Bas stood to watch him go but as Geraldine made to slip away, one of those deceptively thin hands shot out to grab her. She could have made a scene, forcing him to release her, but he knew full well she dared not.

“An interesting incident,” said a gruff voice. Geraldine looked carefully under her hat, to see a sergeant of the colonial troopers had strolled up.

“Brannigan. Glad to see you back,” said Deverill.

“So I noticed. I didn't know you and Black Jack were acquainted, Bas.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Just see it stays that way. I want no trouble in this town.”

The sergeant stared at Bas, then apparently saw something in the Englishman's face to satisfy him. “If it comes to a killing, make sure it's not on my patch,” he said. His eyes roved over the boy at Deverill's side.

“Another of your strays?”

“No, I just didn't fancy seeing the lad's jaw broken by our mutual friend there.” Deverill's voice gave nothing away, but his hand gave a careless clout to her head, pushing her hat forward and closer over her face in the process.

“One day that long nose of yours is going to get you in trouble,” observed the trooper. Then he nodded coolly and strode off.

Now was her chance, but before the thought had even finished forming in her head, Deverill's hand clamped down hard on her elbow. Geraldine found herself pulled unceremoniously between the nearest tents. “What the blazes are you up to?”

How dare he?
“What business is it of yours?”

“Damned if I know, but for some insane reason, I feel responsible for you. Have you no idea what Black Jack wants to do to you if he finds you?

“Some,” admitted Geraldine, hating the hot blush she could feel spreading over her face.

“So why go about the streets in that ridiculous get-up? Did you really think no one would see the woman under it?

“No one did but you,” she pointed out. “I was only hiring extra staff for this Christmas fling of yours.”

The eyebrow shot up again. It was his ‘gentleman' face. That was all she needed.

“What business is it of yours what I do? Why do you seem to feel impelled to take responsibility for me? Your main concern seems to be milking yet more money from the miners flocking here. Why change that for me?” She stuck her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

“You told me yourself that I owe you a debt,” he said.

“So? I didn't know you then or I wouldn't have bothered.”

“No?”

“No,” she said flatly.

“Still a liar, I see. It changes nothing. Whatever the reason, I do feel responsible for you. Nor do I want to see you fall prey to Black Jack, though I have no idea why.”

For an instant, there was a hint of vulnerability in his voice. Then it was banished, and the sardonic wit was back. “Since, my young friend, you choose to appear as an errand boy, you will have to excuse me if I treat you as one.” Saying that, his hand grasped her elbow again in an unbreakable grip and, to her disgust and the amusement of those they passed, she found herself frogmarched back to her kitchen. Fortunately, after depositing her there like so much flotsam, he took himself off. By the end of that humiliating parade, she was barely responsible for her actions and, before she knew it, the heaviest pan in the kitchen was in her hand. It was well for him he had left so swiftly.

She did not see him alone for some days after. A brief glimpse, once, of a white bandage showing under his collar that made something in her clench tight; terse orders thrown at her when he was with Molly; a sight of his horse disappearing down the street.

“He's gone to check on the new place at Fox's claim on the Arrow,” said Molly to her query. “It's a rich field, that, and more opening nearby. Ripe for the plucking by His Lordship.”

Why that should send her innards into twists, Geraldine could not say.
He tells me not to stray, yet practically invites Black Jack to have a go at him
, she muttered angrily in excuse. And near succeeding too, by at least one story she had heard. But that was not it. The bucket of water in her hand sloshed wildly as she clumped it down on the table.

Stupid thoughts seemed to be forever rising up to attack her lately. To drive them away, she threw herself harder than ever at her work. Theirs was to be the most extravagant, most glorious of all the Christmas revels planned in this heady town, of that she was determined. And if a certain gentleman was surprised by her prowess, so much the better.

She had so little time. The days flew by in a welter of domestic toil, organisation, cooking extravaganzas with her newly acquired team of helpers, and exciting forays into the commercial wonderland that was a goldfield town. She had found at last that world of excitement she had fought for so hard. Dunstan was a merchant's paradise; too many people and too few goods. Most had little money, but those who had struck it rich appeared to want nothing more than to give it away to whichever shopkeeper first took their fancy. Here, a beautiful gown sold for the same exorbitant fee as a plain, utilitarian pair of good boots. The latter was needed for survival, the former only for pleasure.

Each day she ventured into the streets, clad in her guise of a scruffy young lad, face begrimed and chest strapped tight to hide her sex, her eyes sparkling anew as she took in the scenes around her. She had discovered a hitherto unguessed-at talent within her. The shrewd bartering that took place over the least of transactions was Heaven-sent food for her soul. Her voice ringing out in outrageous denigration of goods, she would enter wholeheartedly into the fray.

There was one thing she always did before each foray into the streets; check the whereabouts of Mr Bas Deverill. Fortunately, he seemed to be avoiding her. Since that last, disastrous meeting, he had gone out of his way to avoid the kitchen. Or perhaps he had merely ceased to think her of any importance, she mused one morning, slowly buttoning her coat and pulling her hat down low. At one time…her thoughts flew disconcertingly back to that last night in the miner's tent. The night he had made her feel sensations she had never known before. He had said he wanted her then, but he had been drinking.

Geraldine MacKenny, what are you thinking of!
Her hands shook and a heat stung her cheeks. No. She breathed in deeply—once, twice—it had to be enough, and grabbed at the cold ash to add one more smear to her already dirty cheeks, suddenly needing another layer of disguise. What she most certainly did not need were any improper thoughts troubling her concerning a certain bright-haired Englishman.

Particularly one who had so plainly lost interest in her.

She thrust her chin forward and set out. She was almost set for the party; everything was in order, but there was one more purchase she must make. On a high shelf, hidden in a jar of spices, she kept a small bag. She reached for it now, feeling the heavy chink of coins hidden there. She had little need to spend on herself here, with her food provided and no chance to go shopping in her own guise, so she had managed to save almost all of the wages Bas paid her. She opened it now, counting it over slowly. Would it be enough?

Ten minutes later, she was in front of the shop she sought. It was still there! An elegant confection of the softest green silk moiré. Not too fussy; she knew its graceful lines would set off her figure to perfection. For the first time in her life, she wanted to dress to attract. In this gown, she would be a woman.

She called to the merchant, putting on the hesitant tones of a gauche youth. “Excuse me, could you please tell me how much the green dress is?”

He turned, took one look at the shy youth nervously tugging at his jacket front, and burst out laughing. “Come back, sonny, when you're old enough to afford the kind of woman who could wear that dress.”

She couldn't help it. She blushed, the scarlet wave washing over her cheeks, and hung her head. “It's to send to my big sister, sir – for Christmas. I've got money.”

“Yeah, sure.” And he named a price well beyond Geraldine's meagre savings. Her head drooped and she began to turn disconsolately away.

“Hold on, son,” said the man suddenly. “Damned if I know what it is about you, but it is near Christmas. You got me on a soft day. Let's see how much you got.”

She spread her coins on the counter.

He counted them slowly, one by one, then looked up at her. “Tell you what. You come in here every afternoon for a couple of hours and do some chores for me, and you can have the dress for this much.” He pulled half the coins towards him. “You'll need something left for the rest of your family, I suppose.”

A grin a mile wide spread across Geraldine's face. She looked up and remembered just in time, ducking her head again before the merchant got too close a look at her ‘youth's' face.

“You won't regret this, sir. Thank you.”

All the way home a jaunty hop and skip crept into her steps. Well, she was supposed to be a youth. As to how to fit in working at the merchant's as well as her usual duties - she had managed worse. With the way Bas Deverill was avoiding her, it shouldn't be too difficult. Molly only objected to activities that interfered with the business, turning a diplomatic blind eye to her street forays. She even suspected a certain sympathy from the doughty madam, possibly due to a forthright youthfulness in the woman's own past.

Then she remembered the cause of Deverill's absence, and the glow inside her vanished. All those trips of his to new establishments in the raw townships springing up with each discovery of gold on the Arrow and Shotover Rivers, further west into the forbidding interior. They were even more lawless than the Dunstan by all accounts, and the tracks to them traversed many lonely and exposed miles.

He was gone for a long time on this trip. It was not till Christmas Eve itself that Geraldine saw him again, and in less than timely fashion. She had gone for the last time to the merchant's and was only now returning to the saloon, a large brown parcel held triumphantly under her arm. Then she saw a familiar horse and the well-known upright back of its rider. Quickly, she whipped down beside two canvas stores, standing still a long moment listening for signs of pursuit. A glow of warmth burnt her cheeks and she felt her heart thudding.

He was safe.

No, that can't have been what turned her insides out. She was but glad that he had not seen her—and if she told herself that often enough, she might just believe it. Thus chided, she crept silently home, keeping to the shadows and alert for signs of recognition.

She made it back just in time. Hurriedly stuffing her parcel and jacket high on a shelf, she barely had time to throw her gown on, breeches hidden beneath her skirts, before a well-known tread strode to the door. She grabbed an apron and advanced to the fire, wisps of trailing hair and scarlet cheeks rendering her suitably work-worn.

For once, she would have liked to appear in a better light when they met.

Then he was at the door.

“Molly keeps you busy, I see.” He sounded as near to angry as she had heard him, his light raillery banished for once, but beneath the gruffness she caught a hint of something else, something that startled him.

“Busy enough,” she said, her head ducked to the stew she stirred, fearful of betrayal in the searching scrutiny she longed to give him. That night in the tent – her whole world seemed to have changed since.

“And tomorrow? All is ready?” He still stood at the door.

“Ready enough. Your guests should be well satisfied, sir.”

He had turned, about to leave, but stopped as if shot. Geraldine's head came up sharply as he swung about, eyes challenging her.

“Sir? What happened to Bas or Deverill? Sir?”

“You are my employer. It seems the proper term.”

“Oh, God! Proper? Spare me that.”

“What would you have me call you, then?”

“I don't know. Anything – devil, sweetheart, whatever you like. But I am not ‘sir' to you. The
proper
term – when the way I think of you is so far removed from that. By God, do you despise me so much?”