Page 8 of A Treacherous Treasure

She ran as fast as she could. Was she about to be murdered just as Arthur was?

O God, save me, help me.It was all she could think, just,God save me. God help me.The words reverberated in her head even as her blood raced through her veins and she kept running.

Tree limbs clawed at her hair and her dress. Soon she would reach the other side of the small wood and be in a clearing once again.

Should she try to hide here in the woods? Once she reached the clearing, he’d have another clear shot of her. And he might even have run around the lower side of the trees and be waiting on her on the other side. Oh, why had she not run the other way, toward home!

Her heart pounded so hard she could hardly breathe. Her chest hurt with the effort to force in the air, but she kept moving toward the tree line, but veering to the left, staying in the cover of the trees as long as she could.

Finally, she emerged into the open field, running through the rows of mounded dirt.

The sound of the gun firing behind her made her knees go weak. A shudder shook her whole body. He was shooting at her again.

She felt no searing pain and did not hear a repeat sound of the gun going off, so she kept running, still praying,God, help me.

She’d heard her husband talk of a gun that would repeat without having to stop to reload. If that man had that type of gun, he would surely kill her.

Suddenly, she saw a horse and rider ahead of her, coming toward her at a fast trot. Would he try to kill her too?

She recognized him as Thomas Westbrook and ran toward him.

Chapter Three

Thomas heard a gunshot, and a flood of urgency swept over him.

The sound transported him to the battlefield. He was being shot at again. His heart thumped hard against his chest and sent the blood flowing to his head.

But he was not on the battlefield. He was on his own land in the quiet countryside. And the sound came from toward the Heywood estate.

If Arthur Heywood were still alive, he’d say it was his old childhood friend shooting at some birds, and very near Thomas’s property line, if he heard the sound correctly. But it could not be Arthur. Indeed, why would anyone be shooting birds on his property, when he was just shot and killed two nights ago?

Another gunshot rang out. The feelings swept over him again, but he did not feel them as acutely this time.

He turned his horse in the direction of the sound and urged him forward.

Thomas had set out on a quiet ride to sort out his emotions about Arthur Heywood’s death—in truth, to ask God to help him forgive his former rival for his treachery of a few years before. He had not expected to hear gunshots or to have these heart-pounding memories flood his mind, taking over his self-control, at least to some extent, and forcing him to relive moments on the battlefield that hadn’t affected him this much while they were happening.

He rode hard. Would he find the person who shot Arthur?

As his horse topped a ridge, he saw a woman running across a field, holding up her skirts, a look of fear on her face. As he drew near, he recognized Arthur Heywood’s wife—now his widow.

And then he saw a man running behind her, holding a rifle, who suddenly stopped.

She had almost reached him when she said, “A man . . .” She bent forward, obviously trying to catch her breath.

Thomas came close to her and dismounted from his horse.

“Mrs. Heywood?”

“He’s trying to kill me.” She gasped, pressing her hand into her side.

“Who’s trying to kill you?”

“The man behind me.” She turned to look. “He was chasing me. He shot at me twice.”

No one was there. The man must have moved back into the small stand of trees.

“Who was he?” Thomas reached into his saddlebag and extracted the pistol he had brought with him.