Free Across the River by Alice Taylor

It was a wonder she did not stay on to discuss the fire, but she had probably figured that he needed time to himself after the upset. As he lit his pipe for a relaxing smoke, he decided that after a little rest he would go out and do a bit of gardening. It might do him good.
    He must have dozed off for a while until he heard a heavy footstep on the path outside. When he saw Matt Conway passing the window, a suppressed anger that had been smouldering since that morning roared through him. He reached back and pulled out his shotgun that he used for shooting rabbits and the odd pheasant from the press beside him. When Matt Conway opened the door, he was looking into the barrel.
    “Easy, old man,” he growled, showing no semblance of fear. “I’m not going to do you any harm.”
    “You’ve done enough harm for one day,” Jack told him in a voice trembling with anger. “Get out of here or I’ll spatter your brains all over that wall.”
    “Don’t do anything stupid, old man,” Conway warned.
    “If I finish up dead, you’ll finish up in jail.”
    “I’m sorely tempted,” Jack told him, “but you’re not worth it. Just don’t move one inch further into this kitchen. What do you want?”
    “I want my meadows back.”
    “They’re not your meadows. Will you ever get that into your thick skull?”
    “They’re mine by right.”
    “That they’re not,” Jack said, “and how come that now all of a sudden you’re stepping up the pressure to get them back when you’ve done nothing with the last eight years?”
    “She’s of no consequence. She’s not a Phelan. It would be no good to get them off her, but the young fellow is back now, another Phelan just like the grandfather before him. I’m going to get them back off him.”
    “That you’re not,” Jack told him with determination.
    “I can do worse than last night,” Conway threatened.
    “Two can play that game,” Jack told him.
    “Some people are better at it, and some of the things I have in mind will make the meadows look like a very cheap price to pay.” Conway smiled, and then he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him. Jack felt the blood thumping through his head.
Ease down
, he told himself,
or you’ll get a stroke or a heart attack or some other shagging thing.
    Half an hour later when Kate came in, he was still sitting with the gun across his knees.
    “Jack, what are you doing with the gun?” she demanded in amazement.
    “God, Kate, am I glad to see you,” he told her. The very sight of her was a comfort to him. She was the daughter he never had and they understood each other completely. Dark and vivacious as a child, she had grown into anattractive, vibrant woman with a down-to-earth common sense that brought things into perspective. She was just what he needed now.
    “I heard about the fire — the whole countryside is talking about it, of course — but what’s with the gun?” she asked, taking it off his knees and replacing it in the press.
    “Sit down there, Kate, until I tell the whole story.”
    She drew up a chair beside him and he told her from the very beginning: from the actual saving of the hay and how good he had felt about it, right up to Matt Conway’s visit. He filled in all the details because he wanted to get them all clear in his own mind and talking to Kate was almost like talking to himself.
    “This could get nasty,” she breathed.
    “It could indeed,” he agreed. “I’ll have to tell them below about he coming here and the threats. That’ll drive Peter and Davy mad altogether.”
    “Martha is right, they’ll have to be very careful not to get drawn into anything that they can’t get out of,” Kate said.
    “You’re right,” Jack agreed, “but in another way I’m nearly more nervous of her.”
    “If Martha moves, she will be deadly, silent, and she won’t get caught,” Kate told him.
    “I know, but I’m still a bit uneasy about her,” Jack said.
    “Well, don’t be,” Kate advised.