Authors: Bonnie Leon
She’s nothing like Hannah. Hannah would gladly have ridden
with me.
That kind of thinking served no purpose, so John turned his mind to the business at hand. Before having a look at the cattle, he had stops to make at a couple of businesses in town. His last visit to the port city, he’d had several inquiries about tools. He could do with a bit of extra cash, so he hoped to make some deals before returning home.
This close to the ocean, the river widened into several tributaries, wandering and making it less defined. His mind wandered as well, to Thomas and the quiet afternoons they’d spent fishing. He hadn’t seen him as often as he’d like, not since Hannah had moved to the Athertons’. He missed the lad and often wished he still lived at the farm.
He couldn’t bring himself to take Thomas from Hannah. She had so little. And Thomas loved living at the Athertons’. He and Perry had become good friends, and Thomas was proud of his toolmaking skills. Jealousy jabbed at John. It was foolishness, he knew, but emotions were sometimes hard to manage.
When John approached Sydney Town, he urged his horse to a faster pace. He didn’t want to miss his meeting with Weston Douglas. If he didn’t hurry, the man would have gone home for the evening and John would miss him. He kicked his mount in the sides and settled into a relaxed gallop.
His eyes moved to the hill above the port and stopped at the prison. His stomach tightened. He remembered it all—the food deprivation, illness, brutality, and the fear that he’d never share his life with Hannah. And now, even with all of God’s blessings, his greatest fear had come to pass. He’d lost her.
Heavy of heart, he turned his eyes to the port. Two ships lay at anchor, and for a moment, he wished he were setting sail, going anywhere except here, someplace where he didn’t have to think about Hannah and didn’t have to try to love Margaret. Like a dark mist, sorrow settled about him. There was no place he could go that his love for Hannah wouldn’t go with him.
He turned his focus to the road leading into town. It was lined with simple homes, some of them barely more than hovels. He slowed to a walk. A little girl worked beside her mother in a garden patch. Dirt smudged her face and her hair was a tangle, but her blue eyes were vivid and they widened innocently as she watched him pass. John smiled and tipped his hat. She hurried to hide behind her mother’s skirts. Gazing out at him from safety, she smiled and her blue eyes danced with delight.
Perhaps I’ll have a daughter one day.
The idea pleased him. With Margaret it would be possible. He envisioned what his daughter might look like, then realized the picture in his mind was one of a tiny Hannah. Misery tightened like a band about his chest. He and Hannah would never have a child.
“John! John!” a voice called from behind him.
He turned to see someone coming toward him, riding hard. As he drew closer, he realized it was Quincy—his horse was in a lather, and its sides heaved as it sucked in oxygen.
He’d never
run a horse so hard without just cause
.
Quincy pulled up alongside John. “I’d started to think I’d never catch ye. Ye’ve come a good long way since I saw ye this morning.”
“What’s wrong? Has something happened at the farm?”
“No.” Quincy was breathing hard as well. “Not easy to catch up to ye.” He lifted his hat and wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. “Thank God I found ye and yer all right.” He resettled the hat.
“What do you mean? Thank God I’m all right?”
“Hannah came to the farm today . . . looking for ye. Said that Douglas is planning to kill ye.”
“What? Why would he kill me? I don’t even know the man.”
Quincy reached into his pack and took out the documents Hannah had given him. “Hannah found these. Ye best read them.” He handed them to him.
John opened the envelope and scanned the contents while Quincy gulped water from his flask. Screwing the cap back on, he said, “Seems yer wealthy, but what good is money if yer dead, eh?”
John’s heart quickened. He glanced at Quincy, not yet ready to discuss theories. His uncle had died. He’d not seen him since he was a boy. A flash of memory brought back an afternoon picnic and a new fishing pole he’d been allowed to use. At the end of the day, his uncle had given him the pole.
John looked at Quincy. “I haven’t seen my uncle since he moved to France. I was just a lad.” He felt a pang of loss. “He was a good man.”
He looked at the documents. “Where did Hannah get these?” “They were in Margaret’s room.”
John considered that, then asked, “How did Hannah get them?”
“It seems she and Lydia had some misgivings about Margaret and Mr. Douglas, so they did some checking and found out that . . . well, that yer wife and him are . . . very well acquainted.”
John knew the implication and could feel the familiar heat of betrayal. “What do you mean?”
“They’ve been seeing each other in a familiar way.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“I do. I trust Hannah. And she said that she, Lydia, and Dalton went to Sydney Town and found letters written between the two. And it was clear they were up to more than just business. It also seems they figured on coming into a good deal of money . . . just as soon as Margaret’s husband died.”
The words didn’t penetrate at first, but when they did, John felt a tremor of shock move through him, and then the old bitterness and hatred erupted. “Not again. I let her do this to me once. What a fool I am.” A malevolent rage took hold of him.
“You’re not a fool. She was convincing. Even I thought her a good sort.”
Slapping the papers against his leg, John rumbled, “I should have known.”
“Well, yer a wealthy man, that’s a good thing, eh.” Quincy offered him a slanted grin.
“Wealth has nothing to do with money.” He gritted his teeth. “That’s all she wanted—the money. Get rid of me, and she and her Mr. Douglas can have the whole lot to themselves. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Would seem so.”
John shoved the papers back into the envelope, tied it off, and pushed it into his satchel. “We’ll just see how Mr. Douglas figured on doing me in. I’m sure he has a plan.”
Wearing a vicious smile, John added, “We’ll give him his chance, eh?”
“I’ll be here, if ye’ve a need,” Quincy said. “Ye can count on me.”
John knew he was walking into trouble, but he relished the coming conflict. Weston Douglas needed to be put in his place, and he was the one who should do it. He’d deal with Margaret later.
Hoping not to attract attention to himself, he walked casually across the street and headed toward Weston’s office. The interior was dark, but something had been posted on the door.
A note, instead of Weston Douglas, waited for John. He snatched it from the peg that held it in place, then read,
I
apologize, John, but I was called away. I’ll be at the Reardon
warehouse at the wharf. You can find me there. I’ll be working
late, so come by anytime.
He’s waiting for me. A deserted warehouse is as good a place
as any to do me in.
The murkiness of dusk settled over the town. John looked at Quincy, then glanced up and down the street. Was Douglas watching? Was he waiting to ambush him as he made his way to the warehouse?
Crumpling the note, he threw it to the ground and walked back to Quincy. “He’s not in the office.”
“Where’s he gone to?”
“He’s at the Reardon warehouse. And that I’m to meet him there.”
“Strange place to be doing business, especially at this time of night.”
“My guess is he’s up to some kind of dirty business. Something he’d like to keep hidden.” John pushed his hat up with his thumb. “He’s waiting for me. And the warehouse is part of the plan. No one about down there this time of night and nothing to tie him to me. It’s the perfect place for murder—no witnesses.”
Quincy rubbed at a two-day stubble. “This is getting out of hand. We need to get a constable.”
John worked the idea around his mind. Quincy was right, but he wanted a face-off with Douglas—without the law looking on. “We don’t need the constable just yet.”
“I understand yer need for revenge, and Douglas deserves it, but it’ll only bring more trouble. Ye’ll not get satisfaction. If ye don’t end up dead, yer likely to end up back in gaol.” He glanced up the street, shrouded by shadows. “Let the law take care of it.”
John looked straight at Quincy. “I’m going. Are you coming with me?”
Quincy swept his hat off and slapped it against his thigh. “I believe in ye, John, but Douglas could do ye in before ye even catch sight of him.” He looked at the darkening street. “There’s no reason to risk yer life. Don’t be a fool.”
John’s irritation spiked. “I’ve been a fool. Now it’s time I gave Douglas what he deserves. I’m going whether you like it or not.”
“And if ye die? What about Hannah and Thomas?”
“I’ve got to do this if I’m to face them. He’s a snake who’s done his best to tear my life and my wife and son’s apart. Now he plans to kill me. What kind of man would I be to back down from the likes of him? I’ll not add more shame to what I already carry. I’m dealing with him . . . and then Margaret. They’ll both get what they deserve.” As John spoke, rage stormed inside of him.
“The hate in ye is powerful, it’s lying to ye and it’ll destroy ye.” Quincy laid a hand on John’s shoulder.
“That may be, but I’m not ready to let it go. This is mine to do.” A wave of memories of wrongs done assaulted John— betrayal, degradation, hope, and then more treachery. “I’ve no choice. I’ve been a gentleman long enough.”
It’s time I take my
revenge.
“I can’t let go, not tonight. Retribution is mine. I’ll be going with or without you.”
A candlelighter moved toward them, illuminating the main street of Sydney Town as he went.
“All right, then. I’m with ye.” Quincy’s eyes narrowed. “Have to admit I wouldn’t mind having a go at him myself.” He glanced toward the wharf. “What’s yer plan?”
“I’d like to get my hands about his neck, but as much as I’d find pleasure in killing him, I won’t . . . not unless I’ve no other choice.” He grinned mirthlessly. “I’ve a few things to say to him. And I’ll be glad to give him the scare of his life.” John’s voice was terrifyingly cold.
“I’ll go ahead of ye and do my best to see that yer not ambushed.”
“No. I go first. If he sees you, we’ll give ourselves away. He knows you work for me.” John looked toward the quay. “Leave enough space between us so if he’s watching he won’t see you.” He gripped Quincy’s forearm. “I’ll know you’re there.”
John set off down the street, Quincy lagging behind. More than once John’s hand found his pistol, tucked into its holster. The feel of the wooden handle strengthened his resolve.
I’ll kill
him only if I have to
, he told himself, but he couldn’t rid his mind of the idea of retribution. He craved it.
Each step brought a reminder of a wrong done, and his rage grew. He and Hannah had endured months of anguish because of Margaret and Douglas. And Margaret had taken him for a fool—again.
She’ll not get away with it this time. I’ll see to it.
His mind flashed on Hannah. Margaret had not only misused him but her as well. The thought turned his stomach; he could taste the bitterness of her deceit. And poor Hannah, she didn’t deserve such treatment. She’d done nothing but love him. She’d even risked her life by staying beside him when the quinsy struck. Where had Margaret been? The truth hit him. She’d been with Weston Douglas.
Thomas came to mind.
I should have listened to him. He
knew.
In his mind, he could see Margaret’s brown eyes and auburn hair that had once so beguiled; they were no longer alluring.
She’s hideous, evil, heinous.
Moving down empty streets, John continued toward the quay and whatever lay in wait for him. Darkness shrouded him. There were few streetlamps in this section of town. As he approached the port, a hot wind carried the odor of raw fish and of the foul mud left behind as the tide receded.
Glad for the darkness, John walked with confidence, outrage fueling his need for a confrontation. Approaching the warehouse, he slowed his steps. Lantern light glowed from inside.
Douglas must be here.
He moved to the door, then stopped and listened. No sound came from inside. He glanced up the street, but couldn’t see anything, not even Quincy. Still, he was confident his friend was there, ready to help if needed.
He put his hand on the doorknob and felt a flush of fear. His life might end here. His hand found his pistol and rested there a moment while he contemplated whether to withdraw the weapon or not.
No
, he decided.
I don’t want to give away
what I know too soon.
He let his hand drop from the pistol, turned the doorknob, and pushed the door open. It creaked on rusted hinges.
He peered inside. There was no sign of Douglas. A table sat on the wharf side of the large warehouse. A lantern flickered in the middle, its light casting shadows over stacked crates and bags of grain and other goods. John stepped into the room and pulled the door closed. Its complaining rasp echoed.
Most of the warehouse lay in darkness. Douglas, most likely, hid somewhere inside. John’s skin prickled with gooseflesh and his hand returned to his pistol for a moment. Where was the man? John edged in, looking about, his eyes probing dark corners.
“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.