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NINE
They hid in the bushes, overlooking the millpond, while they waited for William Steel to leave. He seemed to take forever loading up the flour sacks. Grant grumbled that there would be none left for them to steal, and Harlow hushed him before Stan could say anything. At least two of them had their heads on straight. Wystan seemed to have retreated in his own little world again, daydreaming about what he might do if his wife were still alive, no doubt.
Finally, William loaded up the last sack and climbed aboard the boat himself. Stan almost cheered aloud as they steamed downriver.
"Now?" Grant asked, his eyes shining with eagerness.
"No, you idiot. We wait until sundown," Harlow snapped.
The sun was an especially slow snail tonight, of all nights, when everything Stan wanted was so close he could almost grasp it.
"All right, just like we agreed. We three see what is in the mill, while you, Stan, go steal yourself a bride," Harlow said grimly.
Stan nodded, then darted away, keeping low so as not to be seen, as he rounded the campsite. The grey canvas tent drooped in the moonlight, as if it, too, was miserable that Carline was forced to live in such squalor. Why, the stone cottage he and his cousins had built on the land that Peel had given them was far superior to this...he could not even call it a hovel, for to do so would be an insult to the sturdiness of such a structure.
The tent looked like one gust of winter wind would blow it over. Perhaps that was why William meant to sell her to some York farmer – so that she might not spend another night beneath canvas. Perhaps he did care for her welfare, after all.
But he could not care for her anywhere near as much as Stan did, and Stan would give her everything her heart desired, if it was to be found in the colony.
He crept up to the tent, then slipped inside, searching for Carline's bed. He found beds, all right, but both of them were empty.
She wasn't here. That meant she must be in the mill.
The mill his cousins meant to plunder...
Stan broke into a run.
A gunshot echoed through the bush, followed by two more. He thought he heard Grant's voice, but he could not discern the words.
Stan ran faster. He did not know how Grant had gotten his hands on the weapon, but he was as reckless a shooter as he was about everything else. What if he accidentally shot Carline? Stan would never forgive himself if she got hurt.
He rounded the mill, staying close to the shadows that hugged its walls as he searched for the door. Locked, thank goodness – if she was hiding inside, she was safe.
He put his shoulder to the door, heaving against it with all his weight, but the wood didn't budge. Australian hardwood was a match for the most solid oak at home.
A rustling sound above made him look up. A flash of silvery white, nay, silver, before...
BOOM.
Pain blasted his shoulder, setting his whole arm on fire.
Stan dropped to his knees, before he pitched forward, unconscious before his face hit her threshold.
