Mary Brock Jones by A Heart Divided Page B

grateful for Georgie’s chattering litany of complaints as they walked together into town. It saved her having to say or think anything.
    Sadly, it took little time to tidy away her small business. The assay office next door was glad of the extra space and readily paid for her canvas walls and furniture. She had bought them with the earnings of her first morning’s work. Did Philip not know where the real wealth of this place lay? She stood in the doorway, her pitiful pile of books and writing tools stacked beside her. Across from her, the street was lined with businesses—hotels, general supply stores, a draper and the inevitable banks—all rudely built, all vigorously busy and prospering. These were the men who would make their fortunes here, not the hordes of miners.
    In her brief time here, she had already seen too many come with dreams in their eyes and watched others leave, broken and worn out. The small purse of gold nuggets saved from her work was probably more than most of the miners would leave here with. Including Philip , said her honest heart.
    Queenstown was bigger than this place, she had heard. She squared her shoulders. She had started a business once; she could do it again. How many times in her life before had she done what was needed to get by? This was no different. If only it were not so much farther away…
    “All set, then?” A warm, deep voice behind her answered her forbidden thought, and she turned slowly to face the big, solid man behind her, suddenly shy, for what reason she could not fathom.
    “Mr Reid.”
    “My name is John,” he said gruffly. “Grant me that at least.”
    She nodded, a warm blush on her cheeks. “John.”
    “I called in to the Johnston’s. Mina said your brother is still sleeping.” He held up a basket. “She sent lunch down for you.”
    “Thank you. That is kind of her.” She looked in the basket, saw it was piled high, then took her courage in both hands. “There’s more than enough here for two. Would you care to join me?”
    A soft light entered those grey eyes. “More than I can say.”
    She let him take the lead after that. He held onto the basket and drew her hand into the stewardship of his arm. She did not protest, even when he led her away from the town and up the small hill behind the Johnston’s hut.
    “It’s a bit of a climb, but the view’s worth it.”
    She had to agree when he finally pulled her up the last few feet of scrub and tussock. It was not high, the sounds of the camp still reached here, but looking down on the busy scene below was like looking at a separate world. They were in their own aerie, safe from intrusion or observation. She let out her breath, unaware till then that she had been holding it in. Here, with John Reid beside her, she needed no defences.
    Mina’s picnic beckoned. She smiled and undid the bundle, spreading the rough linen cloth on the ground as a tablecloth and taking pleasure in setting out the contents: fresh bread slices with new-made butter, thick slabs of cold mutton, pickles and, as a special treat at the end, a handful of plump dried raisins for each of them. To drink, there was Mina’s own root beer, still cool inside its stone bottle.
    John waited till she had arranged all to her liking, then stretched out on the ground beside her, taking the sandwich she prepared for him. At the end, she lay back beside him, fully replete and utterly content as his strong fingers played with the escaping strands of hair at the base of her neck. It felt so good to lie there, to pretend this moment need never end. Sanity could wait.
    But not forever. Reality niggled at her peace and demanded she push up and away from his beguiling touch. She sat up reluctantly, tidying her hair of the odd twig and stray grass as she resolutely pinned back the errant strands. She refused to look at John, but his hand lay stilled on the ground where she had lain.
    “I must go. Philip will want to put some miles at least behind us