Witch's Harvest (18 page)

There was a note in his voice that irked her. She said quietly, 'Please don't refer to my husband like that.'

'I'm sorry.' He looked repentant. 'I guess I can't get used to the fact that you're really married to the guy.'

Nor me, Abby thought bitterly, but she remained silent.

'Another no-go area, huh?' Link raised his hands in mock surrender. 'But you can't blame me for wondering. Everyone likes a

mystery.'

Abby drank some beer. 'I don't see what's so mysterious about two people getting married,' she returned composedly.

'No.' His eyes remained on her face, openly speculative. 'Except there are people around, myself included, who would swear

Vasco's
noiva
was called Della. Unless, of course, that's your middle name.'

'No,' she said, 'it isn't.' She kept her voice steady. 'I think there's been some confusion somewhere along the line.'

'Well, the name came from Vasco himself, so he must be the one who's confused,' said Link drily. 'Perhaps it's one of the

penalties for falling in love.'

'Don't you have first-hand experience?' Abby tried to steer the conversation into safer channels.

'No,' he said. 'I've always moved around too much, I guess. It's not easy to form a commitment to someone when you don't

know where you'll be the next week, let alone the next year.'

'But you're settled here, aren't you? You have your work…'

'I have a job that's running out fast,' he corrected. 'Gerulito isn't even pretending to take an interest any more. He wants to sell,
and go. He was in Manaus a few days ago, trying to fix up a deal, but it didn't work out. The Black Widow nearly hit the roof

when he told her,' he added with a reminiscent grin.

'Why did she do that?'

He shrugged. 'Maybe she isn't ready to give up yet.'

Abby touched a drop of moisture on the outside of her glass. 'Laracoca is a beautiful house.'

'It's that all right,' he agreed. 'But I wasn't talking about Laracoca. It's your husband she wants,
senhora
, or she did. Maybe after
the big row she had with Gerulito, she'll cut her losses and go back to Sao Paulo. She's not the kind who'll stand in line for a

man. She likes to call the shots.'

Abby thought of Luisa's forceful, triumphant beauty, and felt a little sick. 'I'm sure she does.' There had been a note in Link's

voice which had puzzled her, and she gave him an uncertain look. 'Does that upset you?'

'It's not my place to be upset,' he said shortly. 'I'm the hired hand, and she's never let me forget it—not for a minute. Well, I don't
stand in line either.'

Her brows drew together. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be,' he said. 'I have no illusions. I never did.' He gave her a considering look. 'Life can be easier to take that way, Senhora
Dona Abigail. Maybe you should let a few of your illusions go too.'

'I don't think I have that many.' Abby took another look around the bar, her feeling of unease deepening as she encountered the

glances of the two girls sitting at the bar who were the only other women there. They were garishly dressed and crudely made

up, and beneath the cosmetics their expressions were not friendly.

She pushed her glass away. 'I think I've outstayed my welcome here.'

Link followed her glance, groaning slightly. 'I'm sorry, I really shouldn't have brought you here, but in a place this size there isn't
that much choice. Come on, and we'll get something to eat.'

When they went outside Abby found the rain had stopped at last, although the wind was blowing in swift, warm gusts. Link took

her to a street stall sheltered by a makeshift awning where a plump woman served them bowls of a thick yellow soup tasting of

shrimp and garlic.

'
Tacaca
,' Link told her with amusement, seeing the faint apprehension on her face. Try it—it's good.'

And after the first tentative mouthful, she discovered it was. As they ate, Link chatted lightly about the places he had visited, and
the other work he'd done, but he included few personal details, she realised. He was a loner, certainly. The career he had

chosen revealed that. Even if Luisa had been attracted to him, she wondered whether he would have stayed. But then everyone

was different, she thought as she scraped out her bowl. Not everyone was like herself, committed to one man come hell or high

water, and that was probably a good thing. She banished the thoughts that were beginning to crowd in on her. It was safer and

better to think about someone else's problems instead of her own.

She was quite aware she shouldn't be here with him like this. Speculative glances were following every step they took. But that

was inevitable when they were so obviously not Brazilians but strangers—outsiders. She found herself wondering what they

would have made of Della. What they might still make of Della, she reminded herself painfully.

Using Link's company as a barricade against her own wretchedness clearly wasn't working, and common sense told her that

she should scrap any idea of accompanying him to the film show and request, instead, to be taken back to the
fazenda
. But
there was nothing for her there except emptiness and loneliness. At least she could keep the inevitability of that at bay for a little
while longer.

The film show was an experience in itself. A tin shack, Link had told her, but he had exaggerated. The building consisted of a

corrugated roof held up on rickety-looking poles, and the audience sat on benches staring at the elderly screen. Everyone at the

settlement seemed to be there, the women on the benches with their children beside them or on their laps, the men lounging at

the back smoking. The programme began with a newsreel. In between a lengthy piece about a new hydro-electric plant, and

some Middle Eastern troop movements, Abby caught a glimpse of the Princess of Wales looking ravishing. One day, a lifetime

ago, she had stood at the front of the crowd to watch the Royal bride pass by, on her way to St Paul's. She thought of London,

and the smell of the streets after rain had washed them, so different from the dank, heavy smell from the surrounding forest

here. She took a quick, unsteady breath. There were so many things she could not find it easy to forget, and that was the least

of them.

The newsreel was followed by a serial, set in the days of the fabulously wealthy rubber industry in the last century, and

featuring a heroine whose stupidity and innocence seemed equally impregnable as she resisted the advances of the rich and

handsome hero in order to fulfil some vow of entering a convent.

If only it was as simple as that, Abby thought with a sigh.

'Had enough?' asked Link, aware of her sudden restlessness.

'No,' she said. 'We may as well get our money's worth.'

The film was
West Side Story
and it was obviously as familiar to the rest of the audience as it was to herself. She wished it had
been a more cheerful offering. As the story moved on to the in-evitable tragedy at the end, she felt answering tears sting at her

eyelids.

'You're very quiet,' Link observed afterwards as they walked to the jeep. 'I wanted you to have a good time.'

'Oh, I did,' she assured him with false brightness.

He smiled. 'Sure.'

There was silence between them as they drove away from the settlement. Link's attention was fixed frowningly on the road, and

it needed all his concentration, Abby thought, wincing, as they encountered yet another pothole.

Wearily she made herself relax, allowing her lashes to droop on to her cheeks. Time seemed to pass, and she was aware of the

jeep slowing, drawing to a halt. She opened her eyes, sitting up with a jerk. 'Are we there already?'

But they didn't seem to be anywhere in particular. The jeep's lights were illuminating the road, and the clustering trees—no

lamplit windows or other sign of habitation.

She looked at Link warily. The evidence seemed to suggest the unthinkable, but she still couldn't believe it.

He didn't look back at her. Still gripping the steering wheel, he said flatly, 'I told you in the bar the job was running out. I'm not
waiting around for it to happen. I'm leaving, and soon. What I need to know is—do you want to come with me?'

She gasped. 'Are you crazy?'

'Some of the time, but not now,' he said. 'So what next? Are you going to tell me you're married? I know that. Are you going to

tell me you're happy? Because I don't believe it.'

Abby was shaking inside. 'I don't understand any of this.'

'Yes, you do, honey,' he corrected. 'I'm making you a proposition. We've both lost out in Riocho Negro, so why don't we leave?'

He turned and gave her a level look. 'You're not fooling anyone with that marriage of yours, Senhora da Carvalho. Oh, sure,

Vasco played the part of the loving husband the other night, but that was because he knew Luisa was doing a number on you.'

She ran her tongue round dry lips. 'Did—Luisa put you up to this? Does she want me to go so she can have Vasco?'

'Hell, no!' He sounded genuinely surprised. 'Since the row with Gerulito, she knows better than that. No, you've intrigued me

since that first day, Abby. I've never seen any newly-wed girl look as untouched as you do.'

Colour flared in her face. 'That isn't true…'

'Oh, stop kidding yourself.' Link spoke quite gently. 'You can't keep many secrets round here, and you and Vasco haven't been

using the same bedroom since you got here. Add to that the little discrepancy over the names, and we have ourselves quite a

story.'

Abby pressed her hands against her burning face. 'Well, please don't waste any sleep over it,' she said angrily. 'I—we're

perfectly content…'

'You may be, honey,' he told her drily. 'But I can guarantee Vasco isn't. He's in no all-fired hurry to come back from Manaus, is

he now? Don't you want to know why?'

She shook her head wordlessly, terrified of what she was going to hear.

'Abby.' Link reached out a hand and stroked a strand of her soft hair. 'What's the point of sticking your head in the sand? The

guy's cheating on you. Gerulito saw him coming out of the best hotel in the city with this dazzling blonde. He couldn't believe it.

Most men would be content to bring back one European chick, but two?' Link shook his head.

Abby said through stiff lips, 'You don't know she's European. She could be—be one of those girls…'

'A hooker?' he supplied. He shrugged. 'Maybe, but if so, she travels a long way for her tricks. Gerulito was so fascinated he went
into the hotel and asked who she was—spun the clerk some story.' He paused. 'It seems she's a Senhorita Westmore from

London—making an indefinite stay.'