He’ll soon be meeting his Maker. He’ll soon be meeting his Maker. Douglas’s words echoed in Hannah’s mind like a taunting lyric. Alarm shouted at her. If John were dead, Margaret would receive his inheritance, unencumbered.
Hannah pressed down rising panic. She had to do something—now.
I should have known. There were signs. Oh Lord, why didn’t I see?
Rage momentarily replaced Hannah’s panic as she envisioned Margaret and her cruel plan. It was unspeakable. How could anyone do something so heinous? She gripped the papers so tightly she crumpled them. Loosening her hold, she tried to read the top document again, but tears blurred her vision and dread, like a rogue wave, washed over her.
I’ve got to find John.
Hannah shoved the papers back into the packet. I won’t let them hurt him. I won’t. She tied the string, nearly snapping it as she pulled it tight. Douglas and Margaret are odious human beings. Monstrous. John is a good, kind man. How can that woman even consider doing such evil against him?
Clutching the packet against her chest, Hannah pushed off the bed. Margaret couldn’t know she’d been here. Fighting against an urge to hurry, she set the documents on the table, then moved through the house, checking each room to make certain it looked just as it had before she’d arrived.
She’d left the sewing basket on the chair. Putting it to rights, she set it on the floor where she’d found it, then returned to the bedroom. The bedspread was rumpled. Had it been that way before she sat on it? Most likely not. She smoothed it and then moved to the bureau and the armoire, tidying the clothing so they looked untouched. With one last look about, she grabbed the packet off the table and hurried to the front door, nearly at a run.
Stepping onto the porch, her eyes went to the road, afraid she’d see Margaret’s buggy. It was empty. Praise you, Lydia. She knew her friend was working hard to give her as much time as possible.
There was no activity at all. Hannah grabbed the basket of preserves from the table and hurried down the steps. Where would John be? Most likely he’s somewhere on the property.
Hannah turned her gaze to the pastures. Was it possible he was close by? After placing the basket in the buggy, she headed toward the barn. “John! John!” she called. There was no response. There were so many places he could be, where should she look? How would she ever find him? If only he’d come home.
Not sure just what to do, Hannah fought against rising panic. She couldn’t take the buggy. It wasn’t made to travel the hilly, uneven grasslands. I can’t wait for him, either. I’ve got to speak to him before Margaret returns. She could imagine the scene between her and Margaret should the despicable woman come home now. She wasn’t sure she could trust herself not to retaliate right on the spot. If only I had a pistol. The thought stunned Hannah. She’d actually considered murdering Margaret. She’d never felt that way about anyone. Lord, forgive me. And help me leave Margaret to you.
Forcing thoughts of retribution from her mind, she shaded her eyes against the sun and wondered if Quincy might be nearby. “Quincy!” She scanned the property.
When there was no reply, she lifted her skirts and ran to his cottage. She knocked once, and when there was no answer, she opened the door and looked inside. The small house was surprisingly tidy, though sparsely furnished. There was no sign of Quincy. Closing the door, she sprinted to the barn. She could take Claire. Stepping through the open doors, darkness and the smell of hay enveloped her as she strode toward the stalls. Her mare stood in the darkness.
“Oh, Claire.” The cinnamon-colored horse looked hot and miserable. Hannah ran a hand down the front of her face. “Would you like to go for a ride?”
The horse nickered as if understanding the invitation.
Hannah ran back to the buggy, climbed in, and drove it to the barn, pulling it to a stop in the shade behind the building. Hopefully, if Margaret returned before she found John, she wouldn’t see it.
Leaving the horses in their harnesses, she filled a pail with water and gave them each a good drink, then went to the tack room and grabbed a blanket and a bridle off a hook on the wall.
When she returned to Claire, memories of outings she and the horse had taken assailed her. Until this moment, she didn’t realize how much she’d missed riding. The mare tossed her head in greeting. “It’s so grand to see you again,” Hannah said, stroking the side of the animal’s face, then caressing her soft lips. “You’ll help me find John, won’t you?”
After placing the bit in the mare’s mouth and settling the bridle over her face and ears, she draped the blanket across her back and then hurried to get the saddle. It was heavy, but Hannah managed to lug it from the tack room to the stall and then hefted it onto Claire’s back. She hooked the left stirrup over the saddle horn, and then, winded, she leaned against the horse to rest. She could feel her child kicking its protest at so much activity. Knowing she’d been pushing herself harder than she ought, she pressed a hand to her abdomen. Was she risking this child’s life? Closing her eyes in prayer, she beseeched God, Please help me, Father. I must find John. Don’t let any harm come to this baby. Taking a deep breath, she straightened. Everything will work out fine. I’m not alone.
Pressing against Claire’s side, she pulled the cinch tight, then dropped the stirrup back in place. She led the mare to the barn door and peered out, afraid she’d see Margaret driving up the lane. How much time before she returned? How would she ever find John and get back without being discovered? She knew Lydia planned to extend the visit as long as possible, but even Lydia had her limits. Please, friend, work your wonders and keep her busy a good long while.
After making sure Claire had a drink from the trough, Hannah pushed into the saddle, more easily than she’d expected, and nearly toppled off the other side. It had been too long since she’d ridden. Adrenaline hummed through her. With no thought to whether her skirts looked decent or not, she set out. Her mind was on John. Where would he most likely be?
Lord, tell me where to go, she prayed, her eyes roaming over nearby pastures and hillsides. Where are you, John? Where?
The stock pens lay to the west. He might be there. She turned Claire in that direction and gave her a gentle kick, holding the reins loosely. The horse was ready to go and with a flick of her tail loped off, finally settling into an easy rhythmic gallop.
The minutes passed, but Hannah saw no one. Where are you?
Soon Claire was in a lather and Hannah’s skin and clothing were wet with perspiration. The sun’s heat cooked the earth and every living thing on it. Hannah soon realized she’d made a terrible mistake. She’d seen to watering the horses but had overlooked her own needs. She’d forgotten to bring water. With each passing minute, she felt hotter and her thirst intensified. Her head throbbed and she longed for something cooling. Still, she continued on.
Even though the urgency to find John had not diminished, Hannah knew she must slow to a walk. She couldn’t risk damaging Claire or even killing her by pushing too hard.
In the distance, she thought she saw something through the haze. Two men worked at a stock pen. Oh, let it be them! In the rising heat waves they were only shadows, but who else could it be?
With a click of her tongue, Hannah leaned forward in the saddle and Claire stepped into a lope. As she approached the men, Hannah could see it wasn’t John and Quincy. She didn’t recognize them. They looked like they could be prisoners, with their tattered clothing and suspicious gaze. Why had John hired such impoverished men? Could she trust them?
They might know where John is. She gently kicked Claire and moved forward, fear feeling like prickles of cold in the heat. What if they were escaped prisoners? She kept moving. She had to know if they’d seen John. She studied them, looking to see if they had weapons.
As she approached, the men stopped their work and watched her approach. Neither of them spoke. Alarm clanging in her mind, she moved toward them.
When she was only a few yards from them, she reined in Claire. Her mouth nearly too dry to speak, she said, “I . . . I’m looking for John Bradshaw. Have you seen him?”
The shorter of the two asked, “John Bradshaw?” He tipped his hat up. “Don’t think I’ve met him.”
“What about Quincy? Have you seen him?”
“Quincy.” The man nodded and his posture relaxed. “Yeah.”
Hannah was encouraged.“So, you’ve seen him,” she said, her voice laced with anticipation. He didn’t reply. “Quincy, you’ve seen him, then? Where?”
The other man spoke up. “He put us to work and then rode off.”
“Do you know where he was going?”
“Said he had to check on a mob of sheep up that way.” He pointed to the north. “Figured he’d be back by now.” He wiped his shirtsleeve across his wet forehead.
Hannah felt jubilant. At least she knew what direction to head. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t know if I’d take off in this heat, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying. It’s real hot.”
“Thank you for your concern. I could use something to drink.”
“Wish we had something. But we finished off the last of our water awhile ago.”
Hannah brushed aside disappointment. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She turned Claire toward the north and rode on.
Although she knew what direction to head, the open landscape was frighteningly empty. Hannah glanced at the sun, hoping it would help her keep her bearings and continue in the right direction. I’ll come upon him soon, she told herself, trying to quiet her uneasiness.
Her thoughts turned to Margaret’s betrayal. How will I tell John? She could imagine what she’d see in his eyes—another wound to tear him down. Margaret must have no heart, she thought, hatred for the woman burning like a hot coal in the pit of her stomach. She was so convincing.
Hannah contemplated what she’d say to Margaret when she had the opportunity. In her mind, she could see how she would approach her and exactly what she would say. Resentment and rage flamed, becoming more powerful as the image took hold. It would be gratifying to tell her what she thought. I won’t harm her, Lord, but I need to speak my mind.
The truth of God’s Word penetrated Hannah’s loathing. She understood that when bitterness was allowed to fester, it could become a vicious and devastating disease of the heart. She knew she should forgive Margaret and Douglas. But for now she relished the hatred and held onto it and wondered what Margaret might be capable of if she’d planned her own husband’s murder.
Thomas! The little boy’s trusting face came to Hannah’s mind. Was he in danger? If Margaret didn’t love John, how must she feel about Thomas?
Like a fire out of control, fury burned hot in Hannah. It raced through her. She’d tried to be kind; she’d accepted Margaret and had graciously given the woman what she thought was her rightful place at John’s side. And she’d fought against hatred, but now . . . now she had reason. This is righteous anger, she told herself. Even God allows righteous anger.
The sun’s heat grew more intense, but Hannah kept searching. Each acacia, each gum tree beckoned her to seek refuge in the shade of its limbs, but she forced herself to continue. Her mouth and throat were so dry that each time she swallowed it felt as if dust coated her throat. The pounding in her head grew worse, but she dare not stop.
Hannah stared at burnt fields with rising waves of heat dancing above the cooking grasses. Show me where he is, she prayed. Help me find him. Please.
She kept moving, wondering if she was still heading in the right direction. Was she lost?
A new kind of fear set in. Would she perish on the empty grasslands? No one knew she was here.
Water. If only I had a bit of water. Verses from Psalm 42 meandered through her mind. “As the deer pants for the water brooks, so pants my soul for You, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.”
Hannah closed her eyes. Had she ever sought God as intensely as she now longed for water? No. Until now she’d not fully understood the magnitude of the image of thirsting for God.
Forgive me, Father. She smiled. And now that I understand the meaning of the Scripture more clearly, please show me a way to safety.
Her head pounding and feeling faint, she stopped and patted Claire’s neck. “I haven’t done us in, have I? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to get us lost.”
It was then that she saw a dust cloud in the distance. Could it be a mob of sheep? Perhaps John was there. With renewed hope, she moved toward it.
Soon she heard the bleating of sheep and watched as bundles of moving wool appeared from the cloud. In the midst was a man on horseback. “John! Thank the Lord!”
She hurried toward him, but it wasn’t John. It was Quincy. Was John with him? She peered through the dust and dirt, hoping to see him, but he wasn’t there. Disappointment washed over Hannah, but only for a moment. At least she’d found someone. She and Claire wouldn’t perish, not today anyway.
Quincy cantered toward her. “Hannah, what are ye doing all the way out here?” he asked, hauling back on the reins. “Ye look done in. Ye’ve had too much sun.” He climbed down from his horse, lifted a flask that had been draped over the saddle horn, and opened it. “Here, ye best have a drink.”
Hannah took a big gulp, then another.
“Not too much, now. Ye’ll make yerself sick.” Quincy took the canteen. “Let me help ye down.” He draped the flask over his shoulder and assisted Hannah from her horse. “Ye come out ’ere with no water? Ye daft?”
“Evidently so,” she answered, then explained, “I was so distraught that I forgot. I didn’t think of it.”
Nearly overcome by the heat, she swayed and kept hold of Quincy’s hand. “Thank you. I’m not sure what I would have done if I’d not found you.”
“’Ere, let’s get ye out of the sun.” Quincy held her arm and guided her toward a lone acacia.
Still hanging onto his hand, Hannah sat and leaned against the rough bark of the tree. “Thank you. I’m obliged.” She closed her eyes, savoring the relative coolness of the shade.
Quincy gave her horse a drink, then sat across from Hannah. He lifted off his hat, and swiped back damp hair. “Now, tell me why yer out ’ere by yerself. It’s a foolish thing to do.”
“I know that now, but I thought John might be with you.”
“Ye came all the way out ’ere looking for John?”
“Yes. I must speak to him. I’ve discovered something, something horrible.” She pointed at the horse. “In the pack . . . there are documents.” Her voice cracked.
Quincy offered her another drink and she took it, the wetness soothing her parched throat.
“What papers could be so important that ye couldn’t wait ’til he got back?”
“Where is he?”
“Sydney Town.”
“Sydney Town?”
“Don’t look so panicked. He’ll be back tomorrow. Ye can talk with him then.” Quincy eyed Hannah. “What is it? Ye look scared out of yer wits.”
“They’re going to kill him.”
“Who?”
“Margaret and that Mr. Douglas.”
“Weston Douglas?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Never met him. But that’s who John went to see.”