Authors: A Heart Divided
Mary Brock Jones
Mary Brock Jones
From debut author Mary Brock Jones comes a sweeping historical romance about growing up and getting what you really need, set against the harsh landscape of the New Zealand gold fields.
Newly arrived on the Otago Goldfields of 1863, a young Englishwoman is caught between two men: the younger brother who needs her and the man who loves her.
The goldfields are rough and dangerous, especially for a woman, but Nessa’s brother Philip, like all miners, hopes to makes his fortune, and her place is by his side. But the fields hold more than a few surprises, including the acquaintance of Mr John Reid, a local run holder who comes to their aid.
John Reid takes one look at Nessa Ward and knows that he wants her—in his home, in his bed, in his life—but she is hell-bent on putting her brother’s needs before her own. All he can do is protect her as best he can, and never give up hope that she will return his love.
Mary Brock Jones lives in Auckland, New Zealand, but her childhood years in the stunning Otago region of the South Island live on in the romantic adventures of her heroes and heroines. When not fending off the demands of two eternally hungry cats or being towered over by her four grown sons, much to their endless amusement, she writes historical romances and science fiction.
With thanks to all those who have helped me on my journey to publication: the wonderful Kate Cuthbert, my publisher, who said yes; my copyeditor Laura Daniel for her endless patience, everyone at RWNZ for their support and help; and most of all my family—my parents who brought me up to love books and my husband and sons who put up with me forever disappearing into the stories in my head.
Thanks also to the Department of Conservation, the New Zealand Historic Places Trust and all the committed locals of Otago who keep alive the places and stories of the Otago Gold rush.
John Reid’s home is loosely based on Mitchell’s Cottage, a preserved stone cottage and outbuildings at Fruitlands, just south of Alexandria, Otago. It was actually built twenty years after the gold rushes began, but there are similar ruins dating from the time of the rushes scattered throughout this naturally treeless region. I stood in the front door of Mitchell’s cottage one sunny day, looked down into the lovely valley below, and knew I had to put it into a story.
To my husband and sons, always
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM ESCAPE PUBLISHING…
Otago, New Zealand. January 1863
It was the girl he noticed first. At any other time of day, travellers would have passed by unnoticed, another group of hopefuls straggling to the goldfield, but evening was coming on, and John Reid stood on his front porch, as he did every day at this hour, pausing from the work of the day to take in his new world before darkness drove him inside his small home.
A sudden spark of light from the dying sun caught his attention, and he looked up at the ridge line to the east. The track from the coast crested a rise there, and she stood motionless, her body a perfect silhouette against the darkening sky. Women were scarce in this place, and a woman with a body like that even scarcer.
But it was not that alone that caught John’s interest. It was the way she stood, tugging at his memory in a way he couldn’t ignore. He had stood exactly like that three years ago when he had first crested that same rise and seen this valley. Bought and paid for down country, sight unseen, this was his land to make of what he could. In that moment he had known it was much more. In that moment, he knew he had come home.
And the woman? What did she see?
She was not alone. A man came over the rise and stood beside her, trailing a horse behind him. He said something to her then hurried impatiently down the track, barely stopping to look.
It was a rough track, climbing eastwards from the coast, riven by spurs of rough land where the mountains reached their rocky talons down to the river. Walking consisted of a wearisome struggle up and around the jumble of rocky outcrops and through the creeks that gouged out each hollow. To come over that last steep part and stand looking out over this valley of golden tussocks and open flats was like being granted deliverance. What kind of man was this stranger to ignore such a view?
The man tugged on the horse. It was unmoved, plodding slowly down the rough trail. He could see it was laden with gear. At least they were properly equipped. Too many fools rushed into the wilderness expecting to find supplies and stores such as were found in the great European cities. Granted, in the six months since the inland rushes had started, the traders had flocked to the Dunstan, the Arrow and the Shotover fields. You could buy just about anything from them, but at a price few newcomers could afford.
The pair was close enough now to see properly. The woman was young, barely in her twenties. And the man with her looked a youth, no more than eighteen, he’d guess. So maybe not husband and wife. His interest grew.
She was saying something to the boy. He shook his head, but still she continued speaking. Then he saw her thrust her hand first up the long path leading west to the Dunstan field, then back to his home. John eased farther back into the shadow of the doorway, not wanting to be seen watching. The young man was talking now, an angry arm waving at his house and his head shaking vehemently. She spoke again; again he shook his head and began to move on. She stood watching, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
John was surprised by a sudden spurt of anger in himself. Still he kept hidden, but he saw her give a long look to his cottage—almost as if to a place of refuge. She had every right. Humble by the standards of the house of his birth it may be, but here in these barren wastes of Otago the simple cob house was as rare and worthy as any fine manor at home.
He had built it with his own hands from mud and straw and scarce timber packed in from down country and sited it with careful deliberation. Up the slope but not too far from the creek, facing to the northwest in this land where the north side was hot and the south wall chilled. The morning sun warmed his kitchen through a small window then tracked round to beat on the mud bricks through the day, till it slowly fell behind the hills at the end of the valley.
His cottage’s charms made no difference to the woman. She slowly turned her head away and began to follow the young man, taking the horse’s reins from him and leaning wearily against its flank.
Did they know they were unlikely to make any other settlement before dark? The nearest was the mining camp at Butcher’s Gully, but even that would take another two hours or more, and the track past his valley was rough again, with plenty of holes to trap the unwary.
He could let them continue; leave them in their ignorance. They must have a tent and supplies on the back of that horse. Then he thought of the road past his valley and the bleak rise of the land before Butcher’s, strewn with rocks and loose gravel. They might make it to the camp with luck, he supposed. A frown spread across his face. He wouldn’t take a young woman into a place like Butcher’s Gully, even for one night.
The track was bringing them within hailing distance of his cottage. Both walked with heads drooping to the ground and avoiding looking at one another. They neared, then began to pass, still unaware of him. He saw the tiredness in the young woman’s shoulders. There was a shawl slung over her head that hid her face from him. He searched for clues in her body instead and saw beneath the exhaustion a grace of movement that spoke more of the ballroom than the road. His gaze became even more intent.
In a moment, they would pass round a corner of the track and be hidden by the small hillock there. He could forget the couple, remember the shawl covered head and hidden face as an interesting puzzle, and return to the simpler challenge of his newly turned fields. They would be gone from his life, likely never to return.
“Good evening,” he called, stepping out into the twilit night. “Were you in need of hospitality?”
The boy heard him and slowed, obviously annoyed. The narrow-boned face that turned toward him was wary with hostility.
The horse had stopped now too, tugging on the reins held by the woman. It was only that which brought her to a halt. Her face lifted as if dazed from its fixation with the dirt scuffing her boots.
“Thank you, sir, but we can manage,” said the young man. John barely heard him, watching closely as the woman finally turned her face to his.
It was the eyes he noticed first, dark and questioning pools of soft brown velvet. They looked at him in hope above a finely turned nose set over the sweetest of mouths. Small and infinitely kissable, was his immediate thought. Beneath the shawl, an odd tress of rich brown fought to escape the confines of the sombre linen, and all John could think was how his hands longed to release the rest of those strands from their shroud. He would run his fingers through her hair as he bent to cover her lips with his own. As for the roundly swelling form hinted at beneath the serge gown…
Damn, the isolation of this place must be getting to him. He thrust his thoughts aside, trying to concentrate on the young man.
“It’s a long hike from here to the next settlement and you won’t want to camp by the roadside in these days. Not all who come to the goldfields are well disposed to travellers.”
The young man shrugged, obviously suspicious of John.
“Thank you, but we will carry on our way…” he began, but was interrupted.
“What do you mean, sir?” said the woman.
“People have been known to disappear on this road, ma’am,” he said, softening his voice. He had frightened her and was sorry for it, though it was only the truth.
“Philip, please, can we not stop here for the night?”
“Nessa, no. We know nothing of this man!”
“No more than we knew of those men in the hovels in which we slept these last few nights.”
There was a look of surprise on the brother’s face. So the lady was not in the habit of speaking back. Not surprising, given the hint of a pout forming on the youth’s mouth. But tonight was different.
“I’m tired. I want a fire to cook over and a warm bed to sleep in and four solid walls to keep me safe.”
More and more intriguing. He could feel a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he saw the glare she sent the boy. Time to push his claim further.
“I admit it’s naught but a bare bachelor’s comfort I can offer, and normally I would suggest you stay with my head shepherd’s wife, Mrs Cooper, but she’s already full to the rafters with a party of miners who came in some time ahead of you. I swear the woman makes more from providing lodgings than ever her husband could make from digging. It’s the only reason he stays with me, I would guess.”
He was rewarded by the hint of an amused sparkle in those brown depths. The youth was still unconvinced.
“But perhaps you do not care to stay with a stranger. Let me remedy that at least.” He bowed his head. “May I present to you one John Reid by name and this is my humble home and land you are passing through.”
The sparkle flared to fill her whole face. She poked the young man. “Philip, manners.”
Young Master Philip was definitely sulking now. He thrust a hand forward in the barest of courtesies. “Philip Wade, by your leave. And this is my sister.”