by Pam Hillman
“Caleb?” Tiberius’s heavily accented voice pulled him back to the task at hand.
“Sorry, mate.” Caleb hoisted Reggie’s limp form higher. “I was woolgathering.”
“I should say so.” The Moor’s gaze shifted in the direction the women had gone. “A pity that we have been on board ship for three months and now we’re honor bound to take this one on a fool’s mission.”
Caleb grunted, in full agreement with Tiberius.
“I heard that.” Reggie roused, found his footing. “Go on with you all, then. Chase your skirts. I can find Bloomfield’s office with my eyes closed.”
“Your eyes are closed.” Caleb chuckled. “But if you could be so kind as t’ open them for a wee bit and point us in the right direction, we’d be much obliged.”
Reggie squinted, then pointed toward the row of buildings tucked against the hillside. “It’s around the bend there. James Bloomfield, Esquire. My father’s lawyer.”
They led Reggie in that direction. The boy had told them of how he’d come to Natchez to deliver a load of cotton for his father, of heading to an establishment called the Blue Heron, then waking up aboard ship, with no memory of how he’d gotten there.
It was a common enough tale, one that Caleb was all too familiar with himself. In his three and a half years crisscrossing the Atlantic, fighting in Africa, slashing his way through the jungles of South America, he’d been conscripted more than once. In the beginning, he’d embraced his lot with gusto, not caring whose flag he served under, which captain he answered to, nor even what kind of cargo the ship carried. If he signed on for a voyage willingly, he could jump ship whenever and however he pleased without fear of repercussion.
Until the next time he was hauled up the gangway with a knot on his head.
His was a hard life, with no guarantee he’d see the next sunrise, but it was better than working in the bowels of the earth back home in Ireland.
But young Caruthers’s pining for his plantation home, his mam and da, and his younger brother had put a damper on Caleb’s own wayfaring ways. To his shame, he hadn’t thought much of his own brothers since he’d wiped the dust of Dublin off his boots.
Caleb pushed thoughts of his brothers to the back of his mind. Surely, after all this time they’d managed to better themselves and find their way in the world, or in Ireland at least. They weren’t his responsibility. And he’d paid Caruthers back for saving his life. He’d gotten the lad to Natchez. He’d hand the landlubber off to the lawyer, then go back to living from day to day, port to port, going wherever the wind pushed him.
And maybe then the niggling sense of loss and guilt that bubbled up every time Caruthers spoke of hearth and home would go north with him and leave Caleb in peace.
Because there was no way he could go back home. Not after the things he’d done.
He scowled at the signs over the doorways. While he couldn’t read worth spit, he could decipher a letter or two and could muddle his way through. And if all else failed, the type of clientele usually gave a strong indication of what kind of establishment he was entering.
But he’d never had need to find a lawyer’s office. And Reggie wasn’t much help. The lad was barely conscious.
A man staggered out of a nearby tavern and bumped into Caleb, too far gone to take offense or blame Caleb for his own clumsiness.
“Could you point us toward Bloomfield’s?”
“That way, my good man.” The drunk pointed. “Next to the Black Horse Inn.”
Without further ado, he continued down the street. Caleb and Tiberius headed toward the inn, Duff following. Moments later, they passed the tavern. To the left was the burned-out shell of a warehouse, and to the right a small building tucked against the base of the cliff. A sign showed that the proprietor wore many hats, but the one that caught Caleb’s eye was a pair of scales, the symbol of justice.
“Reggie, lad, we’re here.”
Caleb rapped on the door. A raspy voice bade them enter.
An older, bald man with round spectacles glanced up as they entered, his eyebrows raised, assessing gaze going from one to the other in rapid succession. His attention ricocheted back to Reggie like shot from a cannon. Lunging to his feet, the portly gentleman rounded the desk.
“Young Master Caruthers. You’ve returned.” He clasped Reggie by the shoulders, looking him up and down. “And not a minute too soon, from the looks of you.”
Reggie gave the ghost of a smile. “Thank you, sir. Have you had news of my father? Is he well? My mother?”
Bloomfield’s face clouded. “I’m afraid I have bad news. Please, won’t you have a seat?”
A pall quickly descended over Reggie’s homecoming as Bloomfield shared that both his father and his mother had passed from this life to another since he’d been gone. Reggie’s shoulders slumped, and Bloomfield patted him awkwardly. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such tidings, son. But, my dear boy, your parents would be pleased to know of your safe return.”
“What of my brother? And the plantation?”
“Your brother is married and, with the help of your uncle, running Caruthers Estates.”
“Married? But Weston’s hardly more than a child.” Reggie struggled to his feet. “I must get home posthaste.”
“You’re in no shape to travel.” The lawyer’s shock mirrored Caleb’s own thoughts on the matter. “Surely a few more days won’t hurt.”
“I’ve been away too long as it is. I must see how my father’s holdings fare. I’ll need horses, provisions. Could I impose on you to make the arrangements?”
“I cannot persuade you to delay?”
“No, you cannot.”
“I see. In that case, I’ll take care of everything.” Bloomfield steepled his fingers. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, you would be wise to join yourself to one of the parties heading north. The highwaymen are in fine form and any lone traveler is asking to have his head bashed in.”
“Of course.” Reggie winced. “I’m all too familiar with the tactics of the lawless sort without the benefit of friends to watch my back. That’s how I woke up with a splitting headache in the hold of a ship eight months ago.” His gaze swept over Caleb, then moved on to Tiberius and Duff in turn. “Will you accompany me? I’ll make it worth your while.”
A week’s worth of travel —make that two —would mean the ship would likely be gone by the time they returned. But none of them would even be alive if it hadn’t been for Reggie. A landlubber he might be, but he’d risked his own life for theirs.
Caleb didn’t hesitate. “You have me word. And no compensation will be necessary.”
“Aye,” Duff muttered from his spot by the door.
Tiberius didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. The four of them had formed a tight bond, odd as it seemed. They’d see Caruthers home, then make their way to the nearest port.
“Thank you.” Reggie turned to the lawyer. “My apologies, Mr. Bloomfield. I should have introduced my companions. Without them, I would have expired these many weeks past. This mountain of a man is known simply as Tiberius. Not his given name, but none of us can wrap our tongues around his native dialect. The quiet one is Henry Duff, and the dark Irishman is Caleb O’Shea.”
“My pleasure, gentlemen —” Bloomfield broke off midsentence, brow furrowed. “O’Shea? Would you be related to Connor and Quinn O’Shea?”
Caleb stilled. What did this man know of his brothers? The last he’d heard from Connor he’d been in the Carolinas, and Quinn and the little ones back home in Ireland.
“Aye. They’re me brothers.”
“Well, what do you know?” Bloomfield smiled. “Your brothers have settled in Natchez. Well, not here, exactly, but about a day’s ride north along the trace.”
“Me brothers are here? In Natchez?” Caleb swallowed. “All o’ them?”
“Last I recall, there were four here in the colonies.” Bloomfield smiled. “Are there more?”
“No. That is all.” Cal
eb couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He hadn’t seen Connor in years, not since his eldest brother had left Ireland, his reputation in tatters. “But how?”
“It’s a long story, but the governor granted your brother Connor a tract of land, and if that wasn’t enough, the lucky fellow married a plantation owner’s daughter. He lives on a plantation called Breeze Hill.” Bloomfield laced his fingers across his chest, looking pleased with himself. “And he’s partnered with Thomas and William Wainwright to start a logging enterprise floating logs down the river. As a matter of fact, Mr. Wainwright tasked me with finding loggers to send to their logging camp. The caravan’s leaving tomorrow. Perhaps you’d like to see your brothers while you’re here?”
Chapter 2
“LYDIA, ARE YOU READY?”
When Lydia didn’t answer, Alanah turned from tightening the girth on her horse. Lydia stared into space, usually busy hands idle. And Lydia was never idle.
“Lydia?”
Guilty black eyes swept up to meet Alanah’s before dropping to the task at hand. Quickly and efficiently, Lydia finished securing the last bundle on the packhorse. “Forgive me. I was daydreaming.”
Alanah’s lips twitched. Somber as the day was long, Lydia never indulged in such fancy. On occasion, though, when she heard a bit of African music or the beat of a Choctaw drum, Alanah caught her humming to the music that lay dormant in her breast.
“About what, pray tell?”
“Nothing, mistress.” Lydia’s mahogany skin flushed; then her broad lips flattened. And suddenly she was back to the practical woman Alanah knew and loved. She jerked her head toward the north. “We must go if we’re going to make it home in time to return Mr. Davies’s horses before dark.”
“I agree.”
“Should we change clothes?”
Alanah shook her head. “No. It’s best if no one knows that Addled Alanah and Looney Lydia made the trip to Natchez this day.”
Muttering at the inconvenience of the layers and layers of petticoats she was obliged to wear while in Natchez, Alanah eventually managed to swing her leg over the saddle. A sidesaddle would have made her guise more believable, but Mr. Davies didn’t own a sidesaddle, and she wouldn’t know how to ride one if he did. Besides, once she was astride and her voluminous skirts arranged, one could hardly distinguish what kind of saddle was beneath the yards and yards of cloth.
Soon, they left Natchez behind, keeping off the main route. Riding single file, they traversed the narrow trails that only locals knew and used, avoiding the much more widely traveled Natchez Trace.
They didn’t stop for the noon hour but continued on. Thankfully, they encountered no one on the trail, not even the highwaymen.
Alanah glanced over her shoulder at the packhorse. The small mountain of supplies might have to last for months. The fall months provided ample opportunity for forage, but she’d be hard-pressed to make another trip when her uncle returned home. She supposed it was too much to hope he remained on the preaching circuit until after the first frost.
Wincing, she glanced heavenward, silently asking God to forgive the thought as quickly as it formed. Her uncle might not be much of a provider, but he did care for her, and his presence would keep her safe from the riffraff that frequented Cypress Creek. If he’d been home when Micaiah Jones first came to Cypress Creek, things might have been different.
She swallowed, wishing she hadn’t let her thoughts wander down the path that led to her sister’s disappearance. Even her uncle’s presence wouldn’t have been any match against Micaiah and his band of river pirates.
Hours later, she breathed easier. Only a few more miles and they’d be home. They’d return the horses, store the supplies, and —
A faint yell brought her up short. As one, she and Lydia pulled the horses to a halt. In the distance, she heard crashing, cracking limbs, followed by the thud of a massive tree slamming against the earth. Her mount shied at the sound, then stood quivering. She soothed the skittish animal with one hand even as the other reached for the bow slung over her back. “What was that?”
“Dead tree, perhaps?”
“Perhaps, but —” Alanah broke off as the sound of sawing reached them. “Listen. Someone’s clearing land.”
Lydia’s eyes widened as a second shudder shook the ground. “More than one someone. No one man fells another tree that quickly.”
Alanah dismounted, and Lydia shot her a glance. “What are you doing?”
“There’s no creek here. No stream. Why would anyone build a cabin here?”
Lydia joined Alanah, and they crept forward, their attention on the sound of sawing. A third tree fell, then a fourth before they ended up prone atop a ridge overlooking the wagon road that snaked through the woods.
Three, four —no, six crews of men were strung out, each sawing a massive tree.
She watched as one after another, the trees toppled, each crash thundering through the quiet woods. The sawyers moved on, deeper into the forest, while more men led teams of horses forward, hitched the logs with massive hooks, and pulled them out of the way.
“It is true, then.”
Alanah glanced at Lydia. “What’s true?”
“Men —wealthy men —are cutting a path from the trace to the Mississippi River. There, they will cut more trees and float them downriver to Natchez to build bigger and bigger houses for other men who have more coin than they know what to do with.” The scorn in Lydia’s voice showed how she felt about such extravagances.
A knot clenched in Alanah’s stomach as she eyed the freshly cut swath that widened the faint trail along the ridge toward home. “That means they’ll come to Cypress Creek.”
“Perhaps.” Lydia’s gaze met hers, the black depths filled with concern.
Darkness had fallen by the time Alanah and Lydia reached home. Thankfully, nothing had been disturbed, except that the goats ran amok. They’d managed to break through the wattle fencing —the third time in less than a week.
Working quickly, they unloaded the packs and stored most of their supplies in the root cellar dug out of the hillside, where the outlaws who dotted the hills and hollows around Cypress Creek wouldn’t find them. Not that Alanah really expected anyone to steal their food —they were too frightened of the two crazy healers to do that —but she didn’t want to take the risk of storing everything in the cabin.
While Lydia rounded up the goats, Alanah shucked out of the fancy dress she’d worn to Natchez. Every time she wore the dress, she wondered about the woman it had belonged to. She ran her hand over the soft, satiny material, remembering the day Micaiah Jones and his men had landed at the dock, flush with their latest haul on the river.
She and her sister had stood by in rags, watching from behind the safety of a grove of trees overlooking the landing. Lydia had shooed them back up the path toward home, but not before Alanah had seen the pirates toss a trunk to the shore, where it burst open revealing a treasure trove of women’s clothing.
The dresses had lain there in the dust and dirt until nightfall, the highwaymen, cutthroats, and river rats who spent their ill-gotten gain in the tavern not caring one whit about a few women’s fripperies.
Alanah and Betsy had scuttled down to the docks after dark and scooped up the pretty clothes, stuffed them in the trunk, and lugged it all back to the cabin.
And that’s when the trouble started.
Oh, not that very day, but later, the day Micaiah had seen Betsy in her finery.
Stomach churning as it always did when she thought of Betsy, Alanah thrust the dress in the trunk and slammed the lid. Then she donned her ragged brown dress and dug her fingers in the cold ashes heaped on the side of the fireplace, Betsy’s plight all the more reason to keep up the guise Uncle Jude insisted on.
A rap at the door had her scrambling to finish transforming herself from a proper lady to a slightly deranged healer. Quickly she dumped the last of the ashes on her head, then took both hands and plunged them through her hair.
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br /> Ashes rained down all around her.
Satisfied that her unruly locks and soot-stained face would scare even the hardiest highwayman away, she flung open the door. The saddler’s boy stood a few feet shy of the porch. “You’ve come for your father’s horses?”
The boy shook his head and backed away, his dirt-encrusted face no mask for the fear that rounded his eyes. Alanah softened her tone. “What is it, Billy? Speak up now.”
“Papa sent me for Looney Lydia. There’s . . . there’s been a . . . a knifing at . . . at the tavern. There’s a lot of blood.”
A knifing? Blood? Alanah’s head started buzzing. Turning off thoughts of the injury itself, she started making a mental list of all the supplies they’d need. Moss. Catgut. Bandages. And Lydia could use the new suturing needles they’d gotten from Mr. Weaver just today. Something for pain and fever.
Billy was still standing there, waiting. She waved him away. “Tell your father we’ll be there directly. And take the horses with you.”
The boy sidled to where the horses were ground-hitched next to the barn, took the reins, and led them away, giving Alanah and the cabin a wide berth. Alanah chuckled. She hadn’t meant to frighten the child, but her disguise and unhinged behavior were the only things that kept her alive in a burg as dark and evil as Cypress Creek.
Alanah stepped to the edge of the porch. “Lydia —”
“I heard.”
Hurriedly, they packed their supplies and took the moonlit path along the ridge to the settlement. If it could be called that. There wasn’t much in Cypress Creek that could be called a permanent dwelling of any kind, except the tavern. And the men who frequented the shacks and shanties along the waterfront weren’t looking for permanence.
As they neared the tavern, they spotted the injured man sprawled on his back in a ditch. Even in the faint light, Alanah could see the sheen of greasy, worn buckskins, matted hair, and a long, scraggly beard. The prone form looked like any number of river pirates and riffraff that paraded through Cypress Creek day in and day out. Mr. Davies knelt beside him, Billy hovering close to the stable.
