Read Online Swift Runs The Heart by Mary Brock Jones - Free Book Online

reply. Despite everything, she still had no intention of climbing aboard any conveyance heading back to Dunedin.
    As it happened, they did not march boldly back into the makeshift collection of dusty canvas erections that constituted the township of Dunstan that December of 1862. Thankfully, Deverill’s streak of practicality overrode the jaunty air of cocksure confidence he carried all through the trek back to town. They came down from the hills late at night and some way to the east of the settlement, slipping into a group of celebrating miners raucously making their way into Dunstan. Just after the first of the canvas shanties had passed, Deverill snatched at Geraldine’s elbow, pulling her abruptly through a gap in the tents to quietly slip through to the insalubrious backside of the township. Soon they came to a new building; mud brick and canvas walls with a plain door set into the rear. He pulled her through it.
    â€œWe’ll stop here tonight. The owner is a friend of mine. There’s a bed in the back room for you.” He indicated a makeshift curtain covering a small alcove. “I’ll doss down in this room after I find out what’s been happening in town since we left. I don’t want to be seen in any place that MacRae might expect us till we’re better prepared. Don’t worry, you’re safe enough here and I’ll be back soon.”
    Then he was gone. Geraldine moved back into the shadows, keeping out of sight and conscious of a prickle of irritation. She was beginning to feel like a piece of stray baggage, forever being stowed out of sight as Bas went on with his life. He was gone long enough for her to start wondering how safe this refuge in which he had dumped her was. She began to explore.
    The back room contained little more than a bed and table, but the main room was an office of some kind. In the sparse light filtering through the blinds from the flaming brands lighting up the main street, she made out a desk covered in orderly stacks of papers and a set of cabinets. The stacks looked to be legal and financial papers, much as she has seen on her father’s desk at home. For want of something to distract her from her worries, she idly picked a bundle up, huddling down below the window where it was lighter so that she could read the contents without being seen through the panes. Then she began to take in the details and her interest grew. Soon she was avidly picking up sheet after sheet. She had spent sufficient time going over accounts with both her father and aunt to gain some understanding of their contents, and was starting to feel decidedly cross. Then a creak of a door sent her scurrying for safety under the desk.
    â€œYou there, sweetheart?” The familiar whisper calmed the thudding of her heartbeat. She crawled out from her refuge, but still kept low.
    â€œWhat took you so long?”
    â€œThings to organise,” he replied, and even in the poor light she just knew he was grinning unrepentantly at her. “Comfortable?”
    He watched her come fully into the open, moving away from the window before standing up to meet his brimming eyes. It was all that was needed to turn the spark of annoyance into a full-blown blaze of outrage. She waved the clutch of papers in her hand at him.
    â€œA petty saloon owner, you let me think! Living hand to mouth and about to lose your sole source of income if we did not hurry back here. Yet by the looks of these, you have interests in every part of the goldfields, and not just selling grog and your arrangements with Molly and her girls. Though the records show that her trade is quite separate from your saloon, despite what you tried to make me believe.”
    He shrugged. “We have a mutually beneficial agreement. She makes money her way, and I make mine my way.”
    â€œQuite a lot of money, by the looks of it. It’s no wonder you’re so worried about Black Jack. You wouldn’t last a day