Mary Brock Jones (31 page)

Half an hour later, they were ready to go. She checked the sun, shining weakly through a break in the cloud cover. Still an hour before midday, she guessed. Plenty of time, she told herself. She sat on the pack horse and followed behind the boy, Thomas, slumped into her coat to make herself as invisible as possible in the busy street. Then they were out of the hustle and headed up the hill. Only then did she breathe easier. She was on her way to Philip.

“What are you doing here,
mon ami
? Nessa went home with the young Cooper boy hours ago.”

“She did?”

Jacques looked at him strangely. “You did not send the boy?”

“No, they weren’t home to send. Both boys left home at daybreak with their father. They were picking up a load of nails and fencing wire from Galloway Station.”

“But,” Jacques paused, “the mam’selle, she told me the boy was here. Me, I did not see him. He is too young to come in here, that one, and knows it. I did not think it strange he should be waiting outside.”

John was getting a sick feeling in his stomach. Jacques must have felt the same. He strode out with John and by mutual consent they split, each taking opposite ends of the street.

The sick feeling got no better as John heard “No” after “No” when he asked about Nessa.

“Not seen her since this morning mate.”

“Dunno”

“You want to keep a closer eye on that one, boyo. She’s a right looker.”

John’s fist connected with the packer’s nose. “Don’t bother coming to me for your mutton. Or any place I supply,” he snarled at the man, and was thoroughly satisfied with the sickly shade of green the man turned. John’s run was the only source of meat around here.

“I’ll be moving on right away, mister. Just don’t mention this to the other run holders, hey?”

John nodded a curt agreement, the momentary satisfaction lost in his growing worry.

He saw Jacques hurrying down the street to meet him. The man had news, it seemed. He broke into a run to meet him.

“She’s headed out to Campbell’s with young Thomas,” Jacques croaked out between gasps. “The tackman saw them leave. Tried to warn him off, he said, but the boy, he said Miss Nessa had told him you agreed to it and would not listen.” Jacques cursed. “He is not yet eighteen. He’s never ridden that track.”

Then Jacques stopped and both men looked up to the hills. There was a dirty grey bank of cloud descending. Already the top of the nearest slope was hidden by the chilling blanket.

“I’ll start immediately.”

Jacques nodded. “Take Jean-Claud. His horse is the steadiest. I’ll get food and blankets ready.”

John chafed at the delay but knew it was necessary. If—no, when—they found Nessa and the boy, the pair would need heat and food urgently. Did she have no idea how cold it got up there? And the risk to the boy?

Finally, they were ready.

“Bring him back safe, m’sieur,” the Frenchman said. He did not speak Nessa’s name. John understood. What in blazes had she been thinking? Was she so blind to everything but that precious brother of hers that she could do something like this?

He had always known of the part of herself she kept buried—the part of her that prodded her to break free of the constraints of her life, that let her make love to a man she refused to marry, the part that now drove her to risk a boy to save her brother. Young Ward had been safe enough where he was, if only Nessa had trusted in John’s good sense.

He muttered to himself, becoming angrier and angrier at her. Yet deep down, he knew it changed nothing. The anger only masked the fear that drove him up the hill and on to the grey, cold slopes. No matter how stupid, how reckless, how
thoughtless
her actions, he loved her and would do whatever it took to keep her safe.

For half an hour they plodded up the hill, letting their horses follow the best route. Jean-Claud looked back only occasionally and said nothing.

Nessa had a lot of explaining to do … when they found her.

They passed The Spring, a small store with a couple of shacks nearby at the start of the main track proper. The storeman came out in surprise.

“Where are you going, boys? It’s no place for man or beast up yon this time of day.

“Did you see a boy and a young woman head past here earlier today?”

The man nodded yes. “But that be just before lunch. They’d be at Campbell’s by now, since they have’na turned back … if they got through up there.”

Did the fool have to say that? “Maybe not. They thought it would be clear on the top, it seems.”

The man stared. “I did warn them. It takes more than a few spits of rain to melt that old glacier.” He went back inside, shaking his head in disbelief.

John and Jean-Claud exchanged a glance, then set their horses up the slope again.

“Nessa knows about the musterers’ hut this side of Old Man Rock.”

Jean-Claud barely grunted to show he had heard.

They were in the clouds now and could see no more than a few yards ahead. The way was rough, and his horse stumbled. They pushed on. How much time had passed, he did not like to contemplate. His horse trudged on, trusting blindly in his master to bring him home safe.

A stone clattered down the hill. He froze.

That stone had rolled down the track. From above them.

“Jean-Claud. Stop. Can you hear anything?”

They both pulled their horses to a halt, straining to hear through the thick mists.

Scrape. Thud.

“Did you hear that?”

Then, the unmistakeable sound of a horse’s hooves, sliding over rough ground. No, two horses. But another sound. Was it someone walking?

They both leapt from their horses and hurried forward, pulling their animals after them.

A shape, two shapes, emerging from the grey. Two horses, laden with heavy packs. On the lead, a body lay slumped against the horse’s neck. One person only. Was that Nessa? But no, the shape was wrong, the shape and the way it sat. Then who was it on the other side of the horse?

They had been heard. The horses stopped and the second person walked around in front of them.

John had never covered ground so fast. His own horse forgotten, he ran up the slope and grabbed her in his arms.

“Don’t you ever frighten me like that again.” His hands raked up and down her back, pulling her in close. “Are you all right? How could you have been so foolish?”

For an instant, she gave in to him and slumped in his arms. Then she began to struggle and pulled him towards the boy. “Please. I’ve got to get Thomas into shelter.”

Jean-Claud had already got to the boy and was lifting him carefully down in his big, strong arms. He gestured to John, who hurried to fetch the blankets from his horse.

“What happened, mam’selle?”

Nessa drew herself up at the anger in the French-Canadian’s voice, but her shoulders were hunched in defence. The man’s face said too clearly what he thought of her at this moment.

“His horse lost its footing in a drift, and he fell off and hit his head. He was only unconscious a short time but he got wet as well. He’s too cold.”

Jean-Claud nodded. “I’ll get up first then you pass the boy to me,” he said to John. “The store at The Springs is near enough and has a fire going.”

John did as ordered, both leaving Nessa to stand holding the horses. “You go first,” he said, once the boy was settled in the big packer’s arms and wrapped in another blanket. “We’ll follow on behind with the rest of the horses.”

Jean-Claud nodded, then glanced at Nessa. “It’s your business, m’sieur. She did the right thing in the end, but tell her not to come back to Jacques’ tomorrow.”

John returned the nod grimly. The packers made good friends but the worst of enemies, and Nessa had just made them that. He watched carefully till he was satisfied Jean-Claud had the boy fully on the horse and could manage the short trip to the store. Then he turned round to face Nessa.

She was not quick enough. She grabbed at her coat, pulling it close, but he still saw the fine tremor she could not control. He swore and marched back to her. “How wet are you?”

She shook her head. “Not badly.”

It was a lie. He could feel it in the shivering she could no longer control. He thrust off her coat and grabbed at her skirts. They were icy and clinging to her legs. Ignoring her protests, he lifted up the skirt and checked her petticoats. Wet through, all of them. But at least she’d had the sense to put a woollen one on. Using his body as a shield from the worst of the wind, he ruthlessly flung up her skirt and broke the strings of the clammy cotton outer petticoats, leaving her in only the woollen one. She was also wearing woollen breeches and good thick boots, he noted, doing his best to ignore the shapely, long legs sheathed within them. Now was no time to let his lust run free—
not till he had her warm and alone somewhere
, he amended.

“Come on. Let’s get you under shelter.”

“Thomas. I h-have to…”

“We’re going to the store. You can see him there. Then I’m taking you home to Ada.”

She did not protest, and that worried John more than anything else. He dragged the second blanket from his horse, wrapped it round her, then lifted her up into the saddle of her mount. It was tired but would make it.

“You hang on tight,” he commanded. Her fingers were barely able to hold the reins. He cursed as he saw her futile attempts to obey. “You’re going up on Ned with me.”

She made no sign as he lifted her down, but he could feel the slump and how dangerously close she was to giving in to her tiredness and the cold. He pushed her onto Ned’s saddle, gathered the reins of the other two horses, then mounted up behind her.

It was only half a mile at most back to the store, but the nightmare of those yards would never leave him. The other horses were too worn from their adventure to do more than plod slowly after him. He could not hurry them, as every fibre of him urged. Nessa had slumped into his shoulder, and he could feel her drifting in and out of sleep. She was fighting it, jerking up each time he felt her head fall down onto his chest, then she could fight it no more, and he felt her full weight fall back against him.

He shook her, dragging her back to consciousness. “You will not fall asleep, damn you. You stay awake and live. You owe me that.”

“Why?” she whispered once.

“You have to be awake for me to yell at you, sweetheart,” he replied, his heart breaking.

They got to the store. Nessa looked at it and wished she did not have to go inside. She clung to John. She was warm enough here … so warm, so safe, cocooned in the curve of his body where she did not have to feel anything outside. Leave me. Let me stay here. They had stopped, and the door of the store opened.

John felt the tension in her. At least it was keeping her awake.

She was staring at the door.

“No one is going to say anything to you while I’m here.” If he had to threaten every packer with starvation, he would make it true.

He dismounted, then took her in his arms and strode inside. The room was crowded. Jean-Claud had the boy Thomas wrapped in a blanket by the fire and was holding a steaming mug to the boy’s lips.

“How is he?” John asked, shouldering his way through and commandeering the other side of the fire. There were looks, mumbled complaints. One look at his face silenced them. Only Jean-Claud stood firm.

“She’s as wet through as the boy, and as near to a goner. She gets the fire and a hot drink. Don’t make me fight for this.”

The big French-Canadian met his eyes then returned to forcing the hot liquid down the boy’s throat and rubbing him briskly on the back. He did not move back, but neither did he stop John taking a chair on the other side of the fire for Nessa. A rich odour came from the mutton broth bubbling in the camp oven over the fire. John lifted the spoon off its hook, grabbed one of the mugs from the mantle and ladled juices into the cup, then he forced Nessa to sip it slowly, just as Jean-Claud was doing for the boy.

It was too hot at first, and she turned her head away weakly. Slowly, it cooled a bit, and he got the whole mug down her. He stirred the fire, getting the coals burning as brightly as he could, then turned her chair to the flames, spreading the coat out to dry and rubbing her hands as he waited for her clothes to dry. He could not dry out the underskirts as he knew was needed—not in a room full of men—but he had to get her warm enough before he risked putting her on the horse again.

The hum of voices in the rest of the room had begun to rise again, the hostility of the speakers clear.

But she had brought the boy back. And at what cost to herself?

“How is he?” he said gruffly to Jean-Claud.

“He’ll do.”

“The horses are outside. I’ve asked Stan to bed them down and keep them here till I can return to collect them. At my cost.”

Jean-Claud did not argue. The boy had slipped into the weary sleep of youth, and the colour had returned to his cheeks sufficient for John to agree with Jean-Claud’s assessment. Beside him, Nessa struggled to sit up. Her colour had returned, and she looked to be about to say something.

Wrong time, love. Far too early for that. John stopped her the only way he knew.

“Here’s your coat, Miss Ward. Time we were on our way.” Before she could do anything else, he thrust her arms into the sleeves, buttoned it up to the throat, pulled her gloves onto her warming fingers and wrapped the blanket around her again.

Then he lifted her up into his arms and made his way out. She was so busy trying to fight him, she forgot about saying anything.

“Put it on my account, Stan,” he said to the storeman on the way out, “including the next couple of rounds.”

The chill atmosphere in the room showed the first signs of thawing, and there was a cheer all round from the other men sheltering from the cold.

The air outside was less welcoming, and evening was coming on. He reckoned they had less than an hour to make it home before night fell and the dark clouds scudding overhead made the path impossible to see.

“I can walk,” said Nessa, struggling to be set down.

“You will lie there and do as you are told for once. It’s only the half-drowned kitten look of you that’s keeping you safe from those men in there at the moment.”