Swift Runs The Heart (18 page)

She struggled up again, ignoring the momentary dizziness, and this time Bas acceded, after a brief tightening of his arms about her. Or had she imagined that? Then she gazed about her, leaning lightly on his arm for support.

Beneath the wreckage, yes, she did recognise this place. There was the bar, still standing, but littered with broken bottles and smashed mugs. Only the tattered remnants of the walls remained, but half of the front wall still stood, propped up by a judiciously placed wagon to provide some shelter. The other tables had all been upended and tied down beforehand, and now were righted and covered with bandages or injured people. Others sat or lay over most of the remaining floor space, shocked into apparent lifelessness. A few bustled about the far corner, where she assumed the doc must be ministering to those most in need of his services. She looked back at the rest of the patients, some with legs stuck out awkwardly; a small boy whimpering piteously in his mother's lap; a dancehall girl clutching a dirty rag over the vicious gash in her cheek.

Her head cleared and guilt struck her. Gingerly, she felt up her skull. Searching fingers soon found the tender swelling on the back of her head and dizzy stars shot across her eyes as they momentarily pushed too hard. But the search reassured her. A nasty bump, which would be painful for some days, but there was nothing seriously wrong with her. A bit of care when trying to move would be better used than the sudden rise she had just attempted, she amended some moments later. Cautiously, she held still as a bout of light-headedness caught her.

“Careful.” Bas's hand shot out to steady her. “You're as white as a ghost.”

She welcomed it for a moment then put his hand firmly aside. “I'm fine now. The doctor will need help. Thank you again for your kind help, but I must detain you no longer. You must have other matters to attend to. If you will excuse me?”

For an instant, she saw a rare wave of anger wash over his face; then it was replaced as suddenly by his ever-present dry humour. “I must have much to atone for,” he murmured cryptically, then stood aside to free her. Still, she felt his eye on her all the way as she walked across to the doctor's area.

What had made her offer to help, she wondered, as she felt the dizziness threaten again. She found herself remembering her Aunt Shonagh's assessment of her mother: “Wild and fey. No notion of propriety at all.” It had always irked her, the constant carping about her mother, but now she began to wonder if there had not been some truth in it.

For she must have inherited a tendency towards illogical impulses from somewhere, the present case being a prime example. The doctor did need help, which she was experienced in tendering, but at the moment she was in no condition to help anyone. Common sense said she should lie down quietly to recover from the blow on her head, but common sense had never met a tall, blithe-spirited Englishman, whose arms were too inviting for any woman's peace of mind.

Her hands automatically set to the tasks the doctor detailed, but her mind was elsewhere. He had not left. There was water to fetch and a dwelling to put right, and it seemed that Bas must stay here to do it. A silly fragment of befuddled hope wished it were because he kept watch over her but that was too pleasant a thought.
You're in love with the man
, she scolded silently, and determined not to look towards him. She would not look for his cheerful smile or listen for his wickedly scathing retorts as he chivvied a battered workforce to restore his premises to rights.

“Here, John, those are flasks of whiskey, not gold. Liquid gold is to be handled a sight gentler than a shovelful of dross, which is all you deserve to find in that claim of yours if you smash so much as a flagon of my precious stock. What do you say, boys?”

A hearty cheer of assent brought forth a sheepish grin from the miner sorting out the cases of liquor from a tangle of canvas and wood. With light-hearted banter, Bas soon dispelled the shock of disaster that had fallen on them all. Try as she might to shut out the sound of his voice, she could not; it lifted her spirits as much as it did the others, and she soon gave up the fight, finding herself listening for his latest quip as yet another hurt man appeared in front of her and a blinding pain caught her brow as she bent too quickly.

By late in the afternoon, most of the hurt townsfolk had been attended to, only a trickle still seeking out the doctor. Geraldine was increasingly forced to admit the foolishness of her charitable impulse. She was too aware of Bas's presence to give way publicly to the pain and weariness beating at her, but more and more she found reason to disappear round the corner of the crude shelter. For water, fresh bandages, a breath of air. Whatever she could think to say to cover her absence as she shot outside, to slump against the far side of the wagon, close her eyes tight and breathe slowly in and out as she fought off the threatening waves of blackness.

”You've had enough. I've told the doctor I'm taking you away to rest,” said a too-well-known voice.

She opened her eyes slowly. She hadn't heard him approach, and now he was crouched in front of her. His face said there was to be no argument, and in truth, she had none. Grateful, but angry that she could not stop the brief thrill of excitement that shot through her, she gave her hand into his and let him help her up.

“Where are we going? Everything is blown down.”

“Molly has been busy. We have a sleeping hall erected already. This is the goldfields. Buildings are put up and taken down within hours. Give this town a day and it will be business as usual.”

She smiled at the cheerful amusement in his voice and relaxed. This was the quick-spirited employer speaking. He had not guessed her secret then, for he did not sound like a man warding off the unwelcome attentions of a lovesick young woman, or, worse still, one bent on taking advantage of those feelings. Not that she would put it past him, she admitted ruefully, fully alive to the character of her beloved. It made no matter. His desire to fully benefit from whatever snippet of goodwill life should throw at him was one of the things that made her love him so. It was also something he must never guess.

“That's better,” he said now. “Frown lines don't sit well on such a beautiful face, and they seem to dwell on yours too often of late.”

Which brought the furrows right back again, until she caught sight of the roguish twitch of his lips. She carefully lifted her head in denial, then slipped her hand into his, her good humour restored.

Even the pain in her head seemed to have eased under his light raillery, and she started to look about the township. Everywhere were signs of the wind's passage. The streets were littered with the flotsam of nature and the private lives of the inhabitants. Shirts from washing lines hung drunkenly over broken piles of hoardings, splattered with the dust and vegetation hurled down from the gorge. The butcher was already busy trimming off the dirt splattered over his wares, and Geraldine made a note to remind François to cook the meats particularly well for the next few days. An overturned bag of flour, knocked sideways by flying debris, spoke of food shortages and a killing to be made by careful storekeepers, who would no doubt increase the price of their wares in response. She would have to impress upon Bas the importance of continuing to provide substantial meals for their own customers or she would find her stores rapidly depleted as he took advantage of the shortages to turn a tidy profit.

Then she smiled, surprised at her musings. Only a short while ago, misery had threatened to overwhelm her. Now, a short stroll with Bas Deverill, the comforting pressure of his arm to lean on and his tall, wiry body beside her, and her whole outlook had changed. It would not do, and hastily she drew them both to a halt, attempting uselessly to withdraw her arm from his.

“Thank you for your concern, Mr Deverill, but I feel much better now. I can make my own way from here. If you will furnish me with Molly's direction?”

“Wouldn't dream of expecting that of you, sweetheart,” and Bas settled her hand back on his arm. She glared at him, trying her hardest to look determined and formidable. It was very difficult, given the laughter in his bright eyes.

“You must have other matters to attend to.” she tried.

“There has been enough done for now,” he shot back, “and you have reminded me of my duty once today already.”

Even when he frowned, she discovered, gaiety clung to him. She made a last attempt to destroy her pleasure and save her sanity.

“I don't need your help any further, however.”

“Maybe, but I do need to see you safely installed under the protective care of the nearest thing to a mother hen I know of. Molly may not have a heart of gold, but if she knows it will be to her benefit to ensure that you are safe and cared for, then you can rely on her services absolutely. Now, come along sweetheart.” This time, while one of his hands still held firmly to hers, his near arm shot round her waist and pulled her gently into his side. A shocking intimacy that could only be excused in such a public place by the undoubted weakness of her battered body. She must be developing a brazen streak, she decided, finding this new posture far too pleasant to be repulsed. With a silent shrug to the fates, she let herself be drawn onwards.

It was still a slow passage. She was tired, hurt and also thoroughly enjoying the necessity of leaning into his side as he steered her about the various obstacles that impeded their way. The street had filled up again with people and there were numerous calls from Bas of “make way, there. The lady has suffered a nasty blow to the head and is not strong on her feet,” to be answered by amused quips or knowing looks from the miners.

Well, she would be safely ensconced in her kitchen again tomorrow, and since the only people she saw there were the workers and inhabitants of the saloon, she was not concerned with the possibility of scandal or recognition for now.

“Have a care, sweetheart,” said Bas, as he suddenly pulled her back from a pile of canvas and wooden rubbish flung out from a damaged shop front. He turned to admonish the unfortunate owner, curtly enumerating his multiple inadequacies in language so to the point that Geraldine could only grin in admiration. So involved in the altercation were they that neither noticed the trio of men who suddenly swung round the corner of the nearby sod-walled bank. Bas and Geraldine, after one last volley from Bas, turned to continue just as the group reached them and Geraldine found herself flung against a large and distinctly odorous body.

“Watch it, lady,” growled a familiar voice. Geraldine immediately ducked her head, but too late. A big hand shot out to her arm and another shoved her chin up.

“Well, well, I never. The red-haired beauty. I've been looking for you, lassie.”

“Get your hands off her, MacRae.” All trace of lightness was gone from Bas's voice.

“So that's who's been hiding her. I should have known it, Deverill. You always were too greedy by half. Not enough you should ruin my little scheme; you also have to steal off with the best-looking woman on the Dunstan. Well, I'll be relieving you of her.”

“I don't think so,” growled back Bas. “I'll say it for the last time. Get your hands off her, MacRae.”

Black Jack looked at his fellows. Big men as rough in appearance as he. “I don't fancy I will, Deverill.”

The two men moved closer, one reaching his hand out to shove Bas in the chest. Suddenly Geraldine saw there was a gun in Bas's hand – from where, she could not have said. At the same time, his lean arm shot out, fist clenched, and one of the men reeled back, clutching a blood-splattered nose.

“Back off, MacRae, and take your thugs with you.”

“You wouldn't dare, you upstart lordling.” MacRae began to pull tightly on Geraldine's arm, tugging her away from Bas. A shot rang out. The pressure on her arm eased and Geraldine could only stare in horror at the blood splattering her sleeve and skirt. MacRae slumped to the ground and his companions were left standing threateningly beside him.

“He's only injured,” said the cool voice of the Englishman. “So far.”

Time hung suspended. Geraldine stood still, too scared to move lest she precipitate disaster.

Then abruptly there was movement all about her. Miners rushed forward, grabbing the thugs.

“You're not wanted here, boys. Get going and take your boss with you.” It was Sergeant Braddock, towering over the other men. “And holster that weapon, Bas,” he ordered. “There's been enough chaos today without you starting a broil.”

Reluctantly, the two men reached down to pick up their groaning boss. Braddock stepped forward, pulling at MacRae's shirt and casting an expert eye over the wound. “No real damage, but you better get the doc to look at that. Looks like the bullet went clear through. Good shot, Bas.”

Bas nodded wryly, but at the Sergeant's stern look, refrained from speaking.

Braddock then turned to the rapidly gathering crowd. “That's enough. It's all over. The rest of you must have something better to do than stand here gawping. Like setting this town to rights. As for you, MacRae. Get to the doctor, and then I want you out of town as soon as you can travel. I've warned you already, I don't want you round here. Unless you'd like to stay and answer some questions about a number of incidents these past weeks?”

MacRae was white but not cowed. He moved to leave but first turned to glare at Bas. “It's not the end of this, Deverill. Enjoy the lady while you can. I'll be back – and next time, I'll have the gun.”

Bas watched grimly till he was gone. One hand held firmly to Geraldine and she could feel the tenseness of the muscles in his arm. It was not till the bulking figures had disappeared from the far end of the street that she felt any easing in his arm, though little of his tension showed on the face he turned to her. “Shall we continue our promenade, sweetheart, now that this rude interruption is over?”