Swift Runs The Heart (17 page)

Bas didn't release his hold on her but he did loose it, holding her within the circle of his arms as he assumed his business face. “So, my little colonialist, what must be done?”

Geraldine wasn't sure she completely trusted the switch of mood, too aware still of the blaze of light in those clear blue eyes of his. Nevertheless, she forced herself to ignore it and the delights of his arms about her as best she could. Too many others were depending on her presence of mind, but she could no more deny the heavy feeling of regret in her heart than she could bring herself to move away from him.

“First, you must warn as many as possible. Then, secure your own premises.” She began to reel off a list of things to do to ready the town.

Two hours later, the dust was churning up the street with choking clouds. Dusty Dunstan was living up to the name so often cast upon it. They had warned as many people as possible. Some, experienced old hands, had taken heed; others ignored Bas, intent on moneymaking or preparing for the goldfields, while the patrons of the bars and taverns took delight in adding comments to whichever side of the argument appeared to be winning, only becoming concerned if there was any suggestion they curtail their own activities. Even Bas had left the dining room and bar of his saloon untouched, contenting himself with warning Molly and the barman to be sure to secure the takings if there was any trouble.

Geraldine glared at him as she listened to the order. He grinned back.

“Much faith as I have in your knowledge of these lands, sweetheart, I draw the line at losing business unnecessarily. Apart from which, I don't dare tell these gentlemen to go elsewhere. Either the staff or I would face their anger, or word will spread that there is no point coming here.”

“It's your business,” she muttered, and was even more enraged at the knowing lift of an eyebrow.

“Exactly, Miss Colonialist, so go finish securing that part of it for which you are responsible.”

She swirled about, hating the smug grin on his face, and stumped back to the kitchen. She was nearly done there, as it happened, and not before time. Dust was billowing through the gaps in the canvas, coating every surface with a layer of fine grit. Her skin felt engrained with it, dry and irritable. Maybe there was something to be said for those who chose to keep on imbibing. At least it would ease the dry rasp growing in the back of her throat.

There was a sudden crack of the canvas wall. She jumped, then hastily stowed the last of the dry goods in the heaviest barrel she could find. Another crash of the kitchen door, this time flying back against the flimsy walls as it escaped the hands of the new invader of her stronghold. Bas suddenly filled the space, a new look on his face.

“What the Hell are you doing here still?”

She stood stock still, stunned by the anger in his voice - and the underlying current of fear.

“Come on, woman. God knows you were right, but do you have to stay and prove just how dangerous this place is today?” His arms reached out to grab her. “It's like the worst of the furies out there, and if this place collapses, you'll be buried under it.”

He threw her the shawl she kept on a hook behind the door. “You'll need this. There are stones and God knows what else flying around out there.”

Obediently, she took it, wrapping the thick woollen folds around her head and arms. She didn't doubt what he said. She had seen too many such windstorms to underestimate the sheer amount of debris that would be stirred up outside.

It still literally took her breath away when she dragged the door open. Gravel, tussock and stray washing littered the air, roiling through the town in a vindictive whirligig. Despite the thick cloth, she could feel the harsh sting of stones flying against her arms and body. Head down, she thrust doggedly into the maelstrom. Bas quickly materialised beside her, an arm protectively about her, guiding her towards the hills on the far side of the street. He had to shout to be heard above the roar.

“There's a small cleft in the hillside just behind Jim's bakery. You should be safe from this gale there. Safer than here at any rate.”

They thrust forward, fighting across the roaring gusts as they forced a path to the refuge. It seemed to take an interminable time to cross those bare yards. All around her, others tried to make headway for shelter or desperately sought to protect goods or business premises. Already, the canvas and lightly framed buildings were showing signs of submitting to the battering forces of nature. She dare not look at Bas. He had but his jacket on, collar pulled protectively up and one arm held up to shield his face. Her eyes stung from the grit and her thick skirts were plastered to her legs as the wind shoved at them first this way, then that, periodically sneaking under the weight of her petticoats to expose her legs to its furious onslaught.

After what seemed an eternity, they reached the bakers shop, or what was left of it, then finally the blessed solace of the cleft in the hills. There was still dust here, still riffling gravel and grass flying, but gone was the tearing fury.

Bas shoved her as far back as he could into the protective folds of the land. Others were here too: a mother and two small boys; a new chum, fresh to the diggings; and an old man. More were pushing in every minute. Bas pushed them aside and found her a secure place near the back, well out of harm's way.

“Stay here. I'll be back soon.”

She looked at him and her hand reached quickly up. “You've been hurt.” Her finger traced the blood dripping from a graze on his cheek. “You can't go back out into that.”

“It's nothing, and I have to go. There's Molly and the girls to fetch and any others who need help—and no, you are not coming with me. I don't care how familiar you are with such hellish visitations. Just this once, let me be safe in the knowledge that no harm can come to you.”

Then he was gone and Geraldine hunkered down, a worried frown creasing her mouth. It grew more pronounced as time went on. The wind continued unabated and still there was no sign of Bas. She huddled tight into the slope of the hill. Their small refuge was crowded now and the scream of the wind could be heard above the fearful silence of the people, struck dumb by the onslaught of nature.

Many of the new arrivals showed the marks of their battles to reach this place. A graze there, a bloody gash there. A man holding an arm awkwardly and a woman hushing the shocked whimper of a small child, too frightened to give full voice to the horror engulfing it.

Geraldine watched them all from her safe spot at the rear, Bas ever-present in her thoughts. Gradually the sights and sounds around her penetrated beyond the worry that encompassed her. Bas was not back yet, but she could help the man next to her. She had grown up in a part of the world with little of the medical help taken for granted in the more settled places these people called home, and knowing what to do in the face of illness or injury was a necessity. Her mother had taught her all she could in the years that had been granted her and after her mother's death, the whalers and early settlers' womenfolk had taken her under their collective wing and passed on their own skills, both European and Maori.

Given her childhood training, she could no more ignore the cries of the wounded than she would her own family's. Driven by instinct alone, she stood blindly and reached out to the nearest; a man nursing a nasty blow on his head that oozed redness.

She ran through the usual procedures: check that his wits were not addled by the blow, carefully press on the bony skull underneath to ensure there was no break, then stanch the bleeding as best she could with a strip of flannel torn from her petticoat. Once he was made as comfortable as she could manage, she moved on to the others. The child was but frightened and a song from its mother gradually soothed the gulping sobs. The gash would need proper stitching once the storm was over, but for now she bound it tightly to stop the bleeding. The awkwardly held arm was broken and the only splints to hand to fix it still were a couple of strips of framing, grabbed in an urgent dash into the maelstrom by a courageous youth. It was the best she could do for now. The rough, one-time physician who passed for medical help in these parts would need to reset it later, if any of his supplies survived.

So she moved through the crowd, her actions setting off those others among them with similar skills. From a cluster of terrified individuals, they became a group intent on surviving. Yet always one part of her brain kept watch. Here was Molly stumbling in, then the chef, then the girls, one by one, but no Bas. All they would answer to her queries was “He's gone to fetch the rest. He's fine.”

Still she waited. How much time had passed she didn't know. Half an hour? An hour? It seemed forever. He should have returned by now. Then she could bear it no longer. Cautiously, she inched towards the edge of the cleft. Surely the wind was less? Telling herself it was ending, she wrapped the shawl about her, fastening it securely round her head and arms.

Then she was out in the open. Devastation faced her, and choking clouds of dust and gravel. What little she could see of the town was destroyed. Even the false strength of the shop frontages was gone, wooden fa
ç
ades falling flat once the flimsy rear structures were blown away. Head down, she ploughed onwards. She was sure this was the way to the saloon.

Then a sound, a faint shout above the roar. She stopped, listening.
Over there.
Could it be? As if answering a siren's call, she moved forward. A flapping spectre rushed towards her, then materialised as a sheet of torn canvas, narrowly missing her in its tumbling rush.
Nearly to the sound
. A body, tapped under wooden boxes and the collapsed remnants of a building. Frantically, her fingers tore at the entrapping debris, oblivious to the bleeding scratches inflicted on her. Then she slumped. It was a stranger. But again the old patterns took over. She pulled at the boxes and canvas, tugging then at the man to free him. Hunkering down with her back to the wind, she ran knowing hands over him. No serious injury, but he would move very slowly for some weeks. Valiantly, she struggled to help him stand, then moved slowly back to the sheltering hills. There, she passed the weight to welcoming arms and returned again to the wild streets.

The storm must pass soon. Surely it was dying down. She sought again, following the sounds of more shouts and soft whimpers. Strangers again, rescued out of duty, however much she wished to ignore their calls and seek the one voice she wanted above all.

Then the lull was cruelly over. A brief respite only, as if the wind had been gathering its forces for a final thrust at these puny invaders. She pushed forward but could not prevail; the wind was too much for her failing strength and she was forced into a despairing huddle, only able to thrust her back to the fury and double over, her head thrust to her knees as all the discarded flotsam of the township careered towards her. It was all she could do to stay crouched in that spot, blinded to the fury about her. There was no way she could have seen the open trunk hurtling toward her, the contents long scattered over the township.

It struck with a thud, sending her sprawling into the dirt. She thought she heard a shout, then came the lid, shutting closed as the trunk tumbled upright. It caught her right on the side of her head and blackness descended.

She came to slowly. Something was heavy on her legs and a persistent tugging pulled at her arms. Weakly, she batted out. Then the words seemed to make sense.

“Shh, sweetheart, be still. I've got you safe.”

Later she would remember slowly rolling over, opening an eye in painful enquiry. “Bas?” Then confused images. Dragging, a stumbling walk. His voice again. “We should be safe here.” Then panic as his arm shifted.

“Don't go!”

“Never again, sweetheart. Not after today.” And the soft promise in his voice settled something in her. She was only aware of the sudden clenching of his arms as she slumped against him. Then the darkness took her again. But it was a warm haven this time, guarded by the strong promise in his voice. She had found him and he had her safe.

When she came to again, the sounds that had haunted her for so many hours now were blessedly gone. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the light, making out the shapes around her. Then her nose recognised scents. The hot dustiness overlaying everything, the acrid sharpness of spilled alcohol, the sticky sweetness of injury. Overriding everything, the warm, musky scent of the man whose arms cradled her still. Recognising it, something relaxed again in her. Then the memory of reality intruded and she struggled for escape. He had suffered the burden of responsibility for her quite long enough and surely must be wishing rid of her.

“I'm all right now,” she told him, futilely trying to brush away his arms. “Thank you for your kind assistance,” she tried next.

“Sit still and wait for the doctor to check that head of yours,” he responded sternly.

But embarrassment was riding her. “Please. Let me go. The other girls – you must have to check on them too?”

“Molly can do that.”

“The others need you. I'm sure there are others who need you more than I.”

The ready smile touched his lips. “You are very eager to be rid of me, sweetheart. Not even a ‘thank you' for my gallantry to salve my pride.”

Geraldine was by now desperate to be out of his arms. It was just too pleasant lying there, and to be the object of his mirth only reinforced her need to escape. She looked about her, searching for a point of normality.

“Where are we?” she asked, to distract him.

“I'm not surprised you don't recognise it. Welcome home – or at least, what's left of it. But thanks to your forewarning, there is more of my saloon left than any other large building, and we have emergency supplies available. François is currently out back fixing up the camp oven, while the doc has commandeered the dining area as an emergency ward and Molly's girls for helpers.”