Free Swift Runs The Heart by Mary Brock Jones Page A

not, she amended. Even brief acquaintance told her that Bas Deverill would do exactly as he saw fit, whatever she might think. No, if she returned to the goldfields, she must avoid any contact at all with the bright-eyed Englishman.
    If? No - when she returned to the Dunstan. That was a solemn vow.
    She sat forward and looked out the window in earnest. The sun was not yet up, but already the long summer day was making its arrival known. Light filtered over the flat plains and etched shadows onto the hillside. The track ran across flat land here and the horses quickly picked up speed. Her first impulse had been to jump out, but one look at the swiftly passing ground told her that she would only injure herself and bring down a welter of unwanted questions when the coach turned back for her. She tried to remember the track ahead from her journey up from the coast. There was a small stream to be forded, where they must slow, then no more stops till the ferry across the Manuherikia, an hour or more distant. They would have to stop there. It would be a simple matter to then say she had changed her mind, collect her luggage and meld into the drifting hordes of miners. For the first time in days, a very pleased smile lifted her face and heart.
    In the meantime, there was time to shut her eyes before they reached their stop. The long, sleepless night caught up with her and she lay back against the hard squab. She was not alone. Only the vigilant eyes of the trooper kept watch in the silent coach.
    An abrupt, lurching shudder woke her. Then an unmistakeable sound from outside. Gunfire! She had always been able to wake quickly and now sat up and swiftly looked about. At the door, the guard was lifting his carbine and seeking outside for targets. A thud, then a splash. The black shape of a body falling past the window. Round and tall. Joe, the driver. Then more splashing. He was still alive. Without thought, she thrust the door open and clambered out to look for the man. It was still only half light and she kept close to the shadows cast by the vehicle.
    They were in the middle of the ford she had remembered earlier. The reason for the sudden stop was soon obvious. One of the front wheels was buried deep in a hole. The coach was stuck fast. Then she saw Joe. A large, dark shape, head-down in the water beside her. A leg flailed weakly, then stopped. She thrust towards him, ignoring her soaking skirts, and tugged at his body to pull him over and lift his head from the water. Even in the gloom she could see the fresh blood welling from his shoulder.
    There were frightening pings and splashes in the water around her. They were being shot at still. She could not stay here. Desperately, she tugged at the unconscious man, towing him back to the safety of the coach. The water was only a couple of feet deep and not sufficient to help float a big man. She strained to tug him over the rocks but all she could manage was to get him to the door before her strength gave way. Then a hand reached down. The young man had woken and realised what was going on.
    â€œHis shoulder’s hit,” she whispered. “Can you get him under the arms?”
    â€œJust a minute. I’m coming down.”
    He slithered into the water beside her. Between them, they levered the heavy body of the driver onto the floor of the coach. Bullets slammed into the water beside them and into the body of the coach. Both climbed quickly inside as answering shots rang out from the guard crouched against the far seat and from the roof. So the other guard was still alive, but for how long? She could only hope the baggage would give the man some protection.
    She ripped a strip of flannel from her petticoat, screwing it up and wadding it down on the driver’s shoulder to stop the bleeding. Another strip tied it down but still she could feel the warm dampness of continued bleeding.
    â€œStop firing. You can’t hold them off. Let them have the gold. It’s not worth