Dash and Dingo (25 page)

“It all depends on Tassie, doesn’t it, mate? But you might say this whole territory is a barrier.” Dingo looked back over his shoulder. “You’re still game, aren’t you?”

“Of course!” Henry said stoutly. “So have any men—any white men—

been where you’re taking me?”

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“Well, yeah. My dad, my brothers, and me,” Dingo said offhandedly.

“Jarrah knows this place like the back of his hand.”

Henry wondered, if that were the case, why Jarrah hadn’t accompanied them, but he didn’t like to ask. Besides, Jarrah had his wife and kids depending on him. Suddenly Henry felt a bit sad to realize that if he did go missing in the wilds, the only one who might truly mourn his loss was the man he was trailing after. He imagined his mother shedding a decorous tear at his memorial service while his father sat grim and unmoved beside her, irritated at Henry’s carelessness by way of supplying suitable remains to be interred in the ancestral mausoleum. His father would be further outraged that Henry had underperformed professionally as well, leaving no tasty epitaph to sum up his worthiness to bear the name of Percival-Smythe. At least his nephew might think of him fondly even as his memory faded in time.

Before he could begin to feel too sorry for himself, Henry shook his head at his morose fancies and smiled. He dug a biscuit out of his pocket and started to munch on it. It might be quite a while until Dingo found a spot he deemed suitable to make a fire.

Even though there was no visible sun through the trees to help Henry guess the time of day, Dingo seemed to be on top of it at all times. He knew when to break for elevenses—“Gotta let you have some of your traditions,” he told Henry with an affectionate smirk—and when to stop for lunch.

It would probably have been late afternoon when they reached their first watery obstacle, and Henry was so exhausted he was as irritable as a child.

“We should cross now,” Dingo said, surveying the swift moving water dubiously.

“In the morning!” Henry snapped. There wasn’t even a word for how tired he was, and besides, he was weary of Dingo always making all the decisions. Wasn’t this meant to be a partnership? His feet hurt, and he suspected that Dingo knew it and thought he was the best joke going.

“My dad said never to leave food on your plate because you don’t know if you’ll get another meal tomorrow,” Dingo insisted.

“Fine, that’s good to know. No doubt he also said a stitch in time saves nine, but I’m not crossing that river tonight.” Henry sat down and started to unlace his boots.

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“Aw, Dash, you’re no fun when you’re a cranky pants,” Dingo

observed with his annoyingly cheerful grin. He put his rucksack down and started rooting in the food bag for his metal kit. Henry almost smiled to see it; that was where Dingo kept the matches, so possibly it meant that now they could have a fire. “My
mum
was in charge of teaching me to sew. What me dad
meant
by that—” He stopped short when he was interrupted by a dull roaring sound. “Oh fuck.”

Moving faster than Henry would have thought such a big man could, Dingo grabbed for Henry’s boots and tossed them away from the river. “Move your arse! It’s a flash flood!”

Henry threw his jacket where the boots had landed and snatched at his rucksack. It was heavy, but he swung it by one of the straps and managed a fair toss. He grabbed for Dingo’s pack, seeing the other man was still fumbling for something.

“My compass!”

“Dingo! No!”

The wall of water was upon them so quickly that Henry barely had time to jump clear with Dingo’s pack. The compression of the walls of rock upstream released just as the river reached their clearing, so the water surged past them at breakneck speed.

Dingo made a snatch for the heavy bag, overbalanced, and fell into the angry river, disappearing into the yellowish dirty foam.

“You fucking thrill seeker,” Henry growled. He took off his glasses and folded the temple pieces, hanging them carefully on a branch of a nearby tree, before he threw himself into the racing water without hesitation, kicking strongly for where he saw the blur of Dingo’s sandy head bobbing.

He managed to grab Dingo’s collar and held his head above the water.

The current was so powerful he knew he would never be able to swim for shore with Dingo’s weight dragging him down. He just hoped that the surge of water would subside and they would eventually wash up somewhere—as long as they weren’t slammed into a rock first.

Henry thought he heard something and realized that the crazy Aussie was singing! Something dirty by the sound of it, but the roar of the water snatched the words away from him.

The current slowed at a bend in the river, and Henry desperately kicked for the shoreline. His arm and shoulder ached from holding onto Dingo, and with his last ounce of strength, he shoved the other man toward the sand.

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Henry managed to grab onto to a rock and crawled out himself, panting for breath. When he could speak, he observed in a calm manner, “You’re a fucking idiot, Dingo; you can’t swim.”

“Who says I can’t swim, mate?” Dingo looked a bit like a drowned rat, with wet tufts of hair sticking up on his head, but his grin was as cheerful as ever. The water had almost torn the shirt off his back, and Henry noticed that this time his hands trembled as he buttoned it up. It was one of the first times his cockiness was betrayed by his body. He bent over suddenly and threw up water onto the sand. “Sorry,” he apologized politely, brushing his hand over his mouth.

“
You
said you couldn’t swim,” Henry fumed. “Why the fuck did you jump in?”

“My fire-starter kit,” Dingo said, holding up the battered box. “I’ve got my compass in there. We’d be lost without it.”

“We’d be dead if that water was a little higher,” Henry snapped.

“If we get lost in here, we’ll be dead as well,” Dingo said grimly. Then he collected himself and gave a rakish wink. “Besides, you couldn’t bear to let me drown.”

Henry wanted to smack that ever-so-charming smile off Dingo’s face.

“How do we get back to our stuff? We’ve got your fucking important box, but no food.”

“See, that’s why I was saying we should cross the river before nightfall,” Dingo said.

“Don’t blame me for this! You didn’t say
that
; you said I needed to eat my vegetables or some such.”

“You’re cute when you’re angry, you know that?”

That goddamn smile once more. Refusing to allow himself to be

seduced by it yet again, Henry took a look at the roiling water. “I don’t fancy another swim in that. I’m not sure I could make it across.”

“Tired out already?”

Dingo’s eyes were bright with mirth, and Henry had to clench his fists by his sides to control his temper. Maybe the only way to get rid of that insouciant expression was to kiss it off, a thought that had the power to cheer him insensibly. “Oh, I could make it by myself, but I don’t think I could haul your worthless carcass across again.”

“No worries,” Dingo said. “Follow me.”

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“To the nearest ferry? Or are you going to build a bridge?” Henry got to his feet wearily, reflecting that while in the water, boots might have been a hindrance, but on land there was an argument to be made for them. And without his glasses, he was practically blind, reduced to following along behind Dingo like a puppy.

After crashing through the brush for over an hour and sitting down to extract a thorn from his foot, Henry was hot, sweaty, and disgruntled. But he wasn’t stupid, and he knew just what Dingo had in mind. They didn’t dare wander away from the river to find an easier path; if they were going to retrieve their possessions, they had to get back across.

“We could just sleep on this side tonight and cross in the morning,” he muttered.

“Because the gods have promised the water will recede by morning and we can just wade across?”

“Always have to have the last word,” Henry grumbled.

“You’re kind of the same yourself, Dash,” Dingo said.

“That’s not my name.” He wasn’t sure why he was dragging up that old argument again, but he felt like he wanted to take something away from Dingo, as the man always seemed to have some unnatural power over him.

It might have worked at that. For a moment, Dingo looked away. His face was expressionless, but it reset to normal when he looked back.

Henry swallowed, hating that he might have hurt him, but looked longingly at their packs on the opposite shore. “The water’s still running too fast to swim across hauling dead weight.”

“That’s why we’re not going to try,” Dingo announced. “Keep going.”

“My feet hurt.”

“You said that earlier.”

“I just had blisters then. I wish I had my boots. Then it wouldn’t matter that I can’t see where I’m stepping.”

“Want me to carry you, Dash?”

“No!” But he wondered what Dingo would do if he had answered yes.

He probably would have, just to prove a point.

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“Right then, keep moving.”

Feeling contrary, Henry wanted to remind Dingo again that his name wasn’t Dash, but it just didn’t seem worth the effort, particularly as Dingo and everybody else in this blasted country went right on calling him Dash anyway.

He plodded on behind Dingo, grateful that the other man seemed alert, because if the famed Tasmanian Tiger emerged from the brush right then, intent upon making him its next meal, Henry thought he might just have laid right down and sacrificed himself. After he got over the excitement of seeing one alive, that is.

“Right, here we are,” Dingo said.

“Where?” Henry lifted his head, just in time, for Dingo pushed him into the river and jumped in himself.

“Swim for the other side,” Dingo managed before his head slipped under the water.

Henry reached for him, grabbing his hair. Dingo had been clever in choosing where to enter the river again. The current shot them around a curve and directly to the bank on the other side. When he was ten yards from shore, Henry knew he’d be able to make it, even while dragging Dingo along with him.

To his surprise, Dingo shook himself free and swam easily to shore on his own. He hauled himself out and turned to give Henry a hand.

“You lied!”

“About what?”

“You said you couldn’t swim!”

“Well, I couldn’t when I first went in, but after watching you, it didn’t seem like such a difficult task.” Dingo grinned. “I’m a quick study.”

“I’ll bet,” Henry muttered, but this time he didn’t want to hit Dingo for his insufferable ways. He wanted just to rest against him, hearing his heartbeat beneath his ear. But all he said was, “I’m starving.”

“I’ll cook.” Dingo struck his battered tin box. “Got my matches.”

“They’re probably wet,” Henry said, glad to be contrary about

something
.

“No worries, I’ve got my Aussie-bow just in case,” Dingo said, in no way discomposed. He went into the brush and came back with a few dry branches and some leaves. “Help me drag that deadfall over here.”

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“We don’t have any way to chop it up,” Henry countered.

“What a bloody sad-sack you’re being! We don’t have to, we’ll just feed one end into the fire,” Dingo said. “By the way, present for you!”

He pressed something into Henry’s hand, who breathed with relief at the familiar form of his glasses. He put them on, relieved to be able to see his surroundings once again.

“Now you can see my pretty mug again,” Dingo winked at him.

“See it to give it a black eye,” Henry muttered.

“What, and wreck this handsome face? Oh, Dash, you wouldn’t want to do that.”

Silently, Henry stamped on his boots and went to help the man who was still laughing at his own humor.

Dingo’s matches did prove to be dry, thanks to the rubber gasket fitted to his precious box, and he coaxed the twigs to catch fire. Branches were added, and once they were crackling and snapping, Dingo artfully laid the end of the young deadfall onto the fire.

Then he stood up and started stripping off unconcernedly. Henry reflexively looked away out of long-standing habit but couldn’t help sneaking a glance. Dingo in motion seemed to be made of pure muscle, moving with a masculine grace as he hung his wet clothes on bushes to dry. Henry once again took notice that his skin was a beautiful bronze all over with no tan lines, except for faint ones by his feet. He wondered if Dingo ran around naked often. Probably had since birth, a real bush baby. He ducked his head to hide his grin, amused at the thought of Dingo as a little feral child of nature, raised by tigers and devils.

“You better get them wet duds off, Dash.”

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

“You’ll mildew if you stay wet, and you’re something of a damp squib already. Besides I want a look at that foot of yours.”

Henry hadn’t even thought that Dingo had noticed when he picked up the thorn. He undressed, following Dingo’s lead in using the bushes as an impromptu dry line, and went to dig in his pack for his other pair of trousers.

“Don’t bother putting on your tux for me, old boy,” Dingo said in perfect, haughty society tones.

Henry had to laugh; Dingo sounded so like his pompous uncle Ferdy.

“We’re dining informally tonight?”

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“From the tin, as it were.” Dingo held up a tin of beans. “But first, your foot. You can’t hike if it gets infected, and I’ll leave you behind if you can’t walk.”

“Sure you will.” Feeling a bit self-conscious but oddly free without his clothing, Henry sat on a convenient rock, sighing as he took his weight off his foot.

Dingo squatted on his haunches and lifted the injured foot with gentle hands. Henry wanted to cross his legs, but Dingo had one of them in his firm grip.

“There’s a tip of the thorn still in there,” he said. “I’m going to have to cut it out.”

“Go on,” Henry said.