by Bonnie Leon
“Weston Douglas?” His voice echoed. He glanced up at a ceiling two stories above him. “Mr. Douglas. You here?” No answer. John moved to the table, wondering if Douglas might have left a note of some kind. There was nothing. He’s here . . . somewhere. “Douglas!” he shouted.
In the silence, the click of a pistol hammer being drawn back reverberated throughout the huge chamber. Every nerve in John went taut. He forced himself not to grab his own pistol and slowly turned toward the sound.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” The man’s voice sounded malevolent.
John’s eyes probed the dimness. He moved toward a stack of crates, thinking they might provide cover in case he needed it. “Stay put,” the voice demanded.
John stopped, and deciding he ought to play dumb, asked, “Mr. Douglas? It’s just me, John Bradshaw. No reason to fear. I’m not an intruder. I’ve come to sign the papers for Margaret.” He took a step away from the table and its light.
The sound of his footfalls echoed, and Weston Douglas stepped out of the shadows. He held a pistol in each hand, both pointed at John.
“I daresay, firearms aren’t required,” John said.
Weston smirked, his dark eyes reflecting the flicker of the lantern light. “You’re here to sign papers, eh?” He chuckled. “You’ve no idea, do you? Margaret told me what a fool you are. I didn’t believe her.” He grinned. “After what happened in London, you ought to know better.”
John’s ire blazed. “What is it you want?”
“I’ve already got what I want.”
“And that is?” John wondered where Quincy was and hoped he was close. He forced himself not to look for him and kept his eyes on Douglas.
Douglas moved a step closer. “Well, there’s Margaret. She’s mine, along with her assets and properties.” He tightened his hold on the pistols. “That fool cousin of yours left her. Didn’t have a brain, couldn’t see what a prize he had.” He grinned. “Not that she can’t be difficult from time to time, yet what a beautiful trial she is.”
John’s wrath raged inside him, but he maintained a calm exterior. “She’s my wife, so you have no claim to her assets. And I’m not a wealthy man, so there’s very little to fight over on any account.”
A shadow fell across Douglas’s face and his eyes narrowed. “She’s your wife in name only. She doesn’t care a whit about you, never did. She was happy when you were thrown into prison and happier yet when you were transported, figured she’d be rid of you.”
One lip lifted in derision. “’Course when she found the posting, that changed everything.” His expression took on the look of someone remembering a special event. “She came home that day beside herself and in a rage. You were so far away. But then we came up with a plan that would give her what was rightfully hers.” He looked straight at John.
“What are you talking about? What posting?” John continued his ruse, hoping he and Quincy could still catch Douglas off guard.
“The old man’s death and the notice of an inheritance for his long-lost nephew, John Bradshaw.”
“My uncle? He’s dead?”
Douglas laughed with mirth. “He’s in the ground all right. And he left everything to you.”
John could feel blood pulsing through his head. He wanted to pummel the man standing across from him. Where was Quincy? “So, that’s what Margaret wanted. All this time?”
“What else would she want from a man like you? You’re nothing but a farmer who lives at the end of the world.” He sniggered. “She’s been counting the days until she can sail for London. In less than a fortnight, we’ll be departing, she a grieving widow and me . . . well, I’ll be comforting her.”
“You think so, eh?” John’s rage grew. “So, with all you know of her, you think you can trust her? Why would she share her fortune with you, eh?” A flicker of doubt crossed Weston’s face, and John grinned.
He squared his jaw. “She loves me.”
“She’s fooled others, why not you?”
Douglas glared at John. “We’re two of a kind. We understand one another—we’d never swindle the other.”
“You’re sure of that, eh?” John allowed a taunting smile to touch his lips.
A muscle twitched above Douglas’s left eye. “I’m sure.”
John shrugged. “I’d say you’re a fool, then.”
“Shut up! Just shut up!”
John stared at his adversary. “And what do you have in mind for me, eh?”
“You’ll be found along the wharf . . . the victim of some drunken sot looking for a few pence to pay for his grog. Margaret and me will be free to enjoy your uncle’s fortune. Might even be able to get a few pounds out of that miserable farm of yours.”
“You’re despicable, the both of you.”
“That we are.” Weston laughed and then stopped suddenly, moving his guns higher and looking down the barrel of one of them. “Now move to the door. Can’t have your blood making a mess in here.” He motioned toward the door. “Move.”
John walked slowly toward the door, berating himself at having let Douglas better him. He hoped Quincy was close by.
“I’ll take real pleasure in this. I’ve given up a good deal—left my home, crossed more than one ocean, lived in this stinkhole of a—”
“And yer ’bout to be even more miserable,” Quincy said, stepping into the light, his pistol trained on Douglas. “Just as soon as we turn ye in to the authorities.” He grinned.
Shock registered on Weston’s face as he looked at Quincy. “What are you doing here?”
John pulled his pistol out of its holster and aimed it at Douglas. “I may be a fool, but you’re a horse’s behind. You think I’d meet with the likes of you without a plan? I knew what you and Margaret were up to.”
Weston kept his weapon pointed at John. “You’ll be dead before your friend can fire his weapon.”
“Maybe so, but then you will be too. Quincy’s a fine shot. You’ll meet your Maker, that I can guarantee.”
John took pleasure in the fear he saw in Douglas’s eyes. “I’m looking forward to seeing Margaret when she finds out just where you two are truly heading in less than a fortnight. It won’t be London, I can assure you.”
Weston licked his lips and glanced at Quincy, then back at John. “It was all her idea. I never meant you any harm. I was just going along with her. You know how she can be.”
Beads of perspiration popped up on his forehead and upper lip. “What if we make a deal? You keep your fortune and Margaret. And I’ll be on my way—no harm done, eh?”
“No harm done?” A guttural sound came from deep in John’s throat. “If you think I want her, you’re daft.” Fury came from inside, and his voice dripped with venom. “You’ll be going nowhere, except prison.”
His eyes glinting in the lantern light, Douglas glared at John. He fired one of the pistols. Something struck John’s left arm. Pain seared his flesh. Douglas turned toward Quincy, but before he could discharge the second gun, Quincy shot him in one knee. Douglas dropped to the floor, hollering and holding on to his blood-soaked limb.
Quincy closed the space between him and Douglas and grabbed the man’s pistol. Moving to John, he asked, “Ye all right?”
“I am.” Still gripping his pistol, John moved to his opponent.
Writhing on the floor and clutching his leg, Douglas looked at Quincy. “You blew my knee apart.”
“And I’ll do more than that,” John said, standing over the contemptible man. He pointed his pistol at his head. “I’ve a shot left.” He savored the terror on Douglas’s face.
“Don’t shoot me. You’re a decent chap. I know your kind. Killing a defenseless man will haunt you.”
“You don’t know me. And the death of a man like you would never haunt me.”
“Have mercy. I beg you. Margaret beguiled me. She has power over men. You know how she is.”
“John, leave this to the authorities,” Quincy said.
“He deserves death.”
“He does at that . . . but not at your hands.”
“Please. Don’t kill me.” Douglas’s face dripped with sweat and his eyes bulged with horror.
“Why should I let you live?” John pulled the hammer back.
“I . . . I have some holdings of my own. I’ll sign them over to you.”
“I’m wealthy beyond my dreams. I’ve no need of your money.”
“John,” Quincy said. “Turn him over to the constabulary.”
John’s wrath billowed like gathering storm clouds as he stared at Douglas. He pressed his finger against the trigger. “He’s done enough harm. No reason to leave him to do to someone else what he planned for me.” Wanting to fire the weapon, he kept the gun pointed at Douglas, but finally lowered the pistol, unwilling to let this man hurt him or Hannah any further. “No one will take me for a fool again. Not ever.”
Douglas let out a breath and closed his eyes.
“Ye’ll be all right while I get the constable?” Quincy asked. “Yeah.” John sat on a crate, cradling his wounded arm.
“I’ll bring a doctor for ye,” Quincy told John.
“Don’t leave me with him,” Weston begged.
Quincy stared at Douglas and shook his head. “I can’t control him, whether I’m here or not.” He grinned at John. “And I can’t report what I don’t see.” He walked out.
With Douglas in the Sydney Town gaol, John still had Margaret to deal with. The doctor had seen to his arm and suggested he rest, but John couldn’t wait. He and Quincy had set out immediately for Parramatta.
Using his good arm, John turned his horse toward the center of town. “I’ve got to see Hannah.” Lord, forgive me, but I’m happy. I’m thankful to be free of Margaret. Now Hannah and I can begin again. His mind worked over the previous months. He’d shut Hannah out of his home and out of his life. Now could they truly begin again? Things will be set right once I deal with Margaret.
He’d had time to consider his circumstances, and John’s anger had dissipated. The humiliation needled him, but he knew that would fade. All he needed was a few minutes with Margaret to give her a piece of his mind and he’d be right as rain, especially once she was on her way to gaol.
He moved up the main street of Parramatta, his anticipation growing. Hannah was waiting for him. He imagined what lay ahead for them; they’d be together again. He could already see the relief on her face when he told her all was well. He looked at Quincy. “So, you’re sure Hannah’s at Lydia’s?”
“She is.” Quincy grinned. “She’ll not move until she hears word of your well-being.”
“I have to see her before we go to the farm.”
“Figured so. And Hannah will be glad for it.” Quincy pulled back on the reins. “I’ll see that a constable goes to the house with us. He can bring Margaret back.”
“I won’t be long,” John said. He rode on to David and Lydia’s. As he got closer, the pain in his arm eased. All he could think about was seeing Hannah—his wife, Hannah.
She must have been watching for him, because she ran onto the street before he even made it to the apothecary. Her eyes went immediately to his bandaged arm. “Oh John, are you all right?” She hurried to him.
“It’s nothing.” He smiled, his insides warming at the sight of her. She was his.
“What happened?” Lydia asked, joining Hannah.
“Quincy and I had a meeting with a weasel.” John grinned and climbed out of the saddle, careful not to use the injured arm.
“Oh John. Did he shoot you?” Hannah moved closer.
“He did. But the doctor took care of it. I’ll be fine, no damage really.” He longed to put an arm about Hannah and pull her close. He dared not. They weren’t legally husband and wife, and no one in town had any idea of what had happened. “He’ll not give us any more trouble. He’s in gaol. We’re on our way to see Margaret. It’s time she paid consequences for her sins, as well.” He caressed Hannah’s cheek. “I’m sorry for all she’s done to you and to Thomas.”
For a moment Hannah leaned into his hand, and then stepped back. “So our fears were true, then?”
“Yes. All of it. The plan was to kill me and take the inheritance. But it’s over now. Everything will be fine.” Love shone in Hannah’s eyes. He took her hand. “We can be together again.”
“John, we’re not married.”
“We’ll find a way.” He smiled. “Soon we’ll be together.”
Hannah’s chin quivered and her eyes brimmed with tears as she gave him a nod.
“Now, I’ve got business at the farm. Margaret’s been free long enough.”
24
Uncertain of how she ought to feel, Hannah glanced at John, who sat beside her. Everything was different now.
He smiled at her and she could feel a blush heat her face. He lifted the reins and hurried the horses along. She liked the strength in his hands. What am I to do, Lord? What does all this mean? Are we to go back to what we had? John was making a go of it with Margaret. He must have loved her, at least a little.
Quincy rode alongside the buggy, a smile on his lips. Hannah wanted to rejoice, but so much had happened between her and John that she doubted stepping back into a life together would be easy.
The miles passed slowly and yet too quickly. It was time to end this ordeal, but was there any possibility of a truly happy conclusion? What if Margaret refused to go? What if she fought arrest? Hannah imagined the ugly scene and felt weary. She was tired of the struggle and no longer had the energy to hate. She’d had enough of that.
She gazed at the river. It flowed quietly toward the ocean without struggle, accepting its course. It didn’t rail against the choice made for it but instead accepted and even relished its path.
Hannah knew that’s what God had wanted for her—to trust him and the direction he’d taken her. Instead, she’d fought to hang on to what she’d had, fought despair, and fought the hatred she felt for Margaret. Now . . . she was simply worn out. She knew what waited for Margaret, but surprisingly felt no satisfaction.
Anyone locked away in a New South Wales gaol was to be pitied. She glanced back at the wagon driven by a constable. He’d be the one taking Margaret back to Sydney Town. Hannah remembered the beastly conditions—filth and fear and no end to hopelessness. Like a heavy weight, sorrow pressed down on her. She took in a slow deep breath. She may have walked away from prison, but it had not left her.
As she thought about all that had transpired and about Margaret, she realized the woman must be terribly unhappy. She can’t possibly possess a shred of peace. Has she ever known tranquility?
John turned to Hannah. “You look troubled. Perhaps you should have stayed at Lydia’s.” He rested a hand on Hannah’s. “I can take you to the Athertons’.”
The baby kicked, as if knowing its father was near. “I’m fine,” she said, laying a hand on her abdomen. Was it truly possible that she and John would once again be a family? It feels like a dream, she thought, a shiver of joy touching her heart.
The wagon following groaned and rasped as it dropped into a hole and then found its way out. What would become of Margaret once she was locked behind the gates of prison?
Perhaps I should talk to her, remind her of God’s love. Even as the thought came to her, Hannah knew Margaret would never listen to her. Still, the idea lingered. Without hope in Christ, Margaret had no hope at all.
“John, I’ve been thinking . . . would you mind if I spoke to Margaret before you do?”
“Why would you want to do that?” Before Hannah could answer, he continued, “I completely understand your need to tell her how you feel. What she did was beyond reproach. And I’m sorry for what happened. But I don’t think it would be a good idea. It will only make everything uglier.” He grasped her hand. “I don’t want you to go through any more.”
She liked the feel of his callused palm. It was strong and sturdy.
“However, if you must do this, I understand and support you.”
/> “I hated her, especially when I found out she wanted to kill you.” She glanced at their clasped hands. “And I’m within my rights to speak my mind. But that’s not what I want.”
John gave her a puzzled look.
“I’m not angry anymore. I know it’s hard to believe—I’m not sure even I believe it—but I feel pity for her more than anything. Not just about what’s ahead for Margaret but for how wretched her life must have been, how she must feel inside. I can’t imagine living without love. I doubt she knows what it is.”
John looked stunned. “She doesn’t deserve your pity, Hannah. I expect she keeps company with the devil himself,” he sputtered.
Hannah knew he was right, but God was doing something inside her, and she dare not ignore his leading. “Can you imagine how lonely she must be? And afraid.”
“Margaret afraid?”
“Even the most brutal are frightened by life. Possibly more than the rest of us.” Hannah gazed at the hills rolling away from the road. “God loves Margaret. I’d forgotten that.” She squeezed his hand. “If he does, shouldn’t we?”
John gazed at a small bird flitting among dry grasses. With a shake of his head, he said, “You take all the fun out of retaliation.” He grinned. “I had a tongue lashing all prepared.” His tone turned serious. “She deserves hell, you know.”
Hannah rested a hand on his arm. “We all deserve death and hades.”
John nodded solemnly. “All right. You can talk to her, but I’m going with you.”
“No. I have to speak with her alone. If we go together, she’ll know her plot has been discovered, and she’ll instantly get her back up. If that happens, I won’t have an opportunity. She won’t hear a thing I have to say.”
“I don’t know, Hannah. I understand your heart, but she could do most anything. I don’t want you in danger.”
“Please, John. There may be no other opportunity. We can trust God. He’s never let us down before.”
