by Pam Hillman
Lydia crouched down, examining the man. “He’s bleeding bad.”
Stomach churning at her first glimpse of a knifing, Alanah concentrated on Mr. Davies. “Do you know him?”
“No. But I didn’t figure he needed to die just because nobody cared enough to see that he lived.”
“You have a compassionate heart, sir.”
He chuckled. “As do you. In spite of this ridiculous disguise you insist on wearing.”
“You know why I look like I do.” Alanah spoke softly, lest others were near.
“Aye. That I do, missy. That I do.” He motioned to the stranger. “Billy, help us get this feller to the stables —”
“The stables?” Alanah asked. “Isn’t there somewhere else better suited?”
“Perhaps. But I don’t dare take him into my own home. He’s liable to slit my throat and the wife and kids’ as well.” He wagged his finger under her nose. “Same with you and Lydia. Without your uncle around, you don’t need the likes of this one up at your place either. If he has friends, they’ll find him in the stable by and by.”
Alanah knew he spoke the truth, so she didn’t argue. The four of them hauled the man to the stables and laid him on a makeshift table. By the feeble light of a half-dozen candles and Mr. Davies’s single lantern, Lydia went to work on the unconscious man, washing away the blood. Alanah leaned in, determined to learn everything she needed to know about taking care of injuries.
Alanah blinked as the red swam before her. The jagged edges of flesh came into focus, then blurred again.
So much blood.
“Sutures.” Lydia’s voice seemed to come from far away.
Alanah shook her head to clear it.
“Yes, of course.” She rummaged through the pack, her fingers closing on the carefully hoarded box of curved needles. She selected one, threaded it, and handed it over.
Her mentor nodded at the patient. “Hold him.”
Anxious to please Lydia, Alanah reached out and pressed the slick flesh together. Suddenly it was all she could do to keep her hands in place, and she couldn’t bear to watch. She drew in a breath and locked gazes with a curious horse peering over the stall gate. But the animal did little to engage her attention. Desperate to take her mind off what was going on at her fingertips, she focused on Mr. Davies, standing close with the lantern held high. “We saw the loggers today,” she blurted out.
He threw her a sharp glance. “Where?”
“Along Gridley Ridge, about five miles to the east.”
“Well, I’ll be. I heard they were cutting a path through the woods but didn’t believe it.” He shook his head. “It’s gonna spell trouble.”
Lydia kept silent, but her dark eyes flickered toward Alanah, the frown between her brows clearly telling Alanah that she agreed with him.
“The river pirates?”
“No. They went north. No one’s seen them since —” Mr. Davies broke off, and an awkward silence filled the void.
“Since they took Betsy.”
“Yes, miss.” He cleared his throat. “There’s been talk. People are afraid that an open road will bring more travelers this way, more purses for the river pirates to steal. And many are afraid they’ll come back.”
If Micaiah came back, would he bring —?
“Alanah, pay attention.” Lydia covered Alanah’s hands with her own, pressed the flaps of skin together.
“Yes, Lydia. Sorry.”
Without the distraction of the conversation, all she could think about was how Lydia’s needle tugged against the man’s flesh. She could feel the jerk and tug —
In. Out. In. Out. A tug. A pull.
Her breathing grew shallow. What was wrong with her? Spots flashed before her eyes, and with horror, she realized that if Lydia didn’t hurry up, she was going to pass out right there in the middle of the stable, shaming them both.
In. Out. In. Out. A tug. A pull.
“There. It is finished.”
Alanah dropped her hands, moved away without looking at the injured man. She felt clammy all over. She collapsed on the hard-packed dirt, leaned against the rough wall, the satchel next to her. She took a deep breath, wiped the needle with shaking hands, and carefully packed it away. Then she rummaged through the pack, hoping Lydia didn’t notice how long it took her to organize the contents of the bag.
“Alanah, what do you recommend we give our patient for pain?”
Finally something she could manage without fainting. “Magnolia bark tea.”
Lydia nodded, looking pleased. “Very well.”
They’d just spooned the last of the warm tea down their patient when a commotion at the wharf drew Mr. Davies outside.
“Alanah —” he turned back, his face ghostly pale in the flickering candlelight —“it looks like Micaiah’s men. They’ve returned.”
Alanah surged to her feet and moved toward the barn door on unsteady legs. She hardly dared to hope . . . “Is Betsy with them?”
“I —I can’t tell from here —”
Alanah heard no more as she lifted her skirts and ran toward the dock.
Her heart hitched as she spotted a slight figure huddled on the flatboat. There was no mistaking her sister’s riot of golden-brown hair splayed against the rough timbers of the boat.
She came to a halt, searching for Micaiah. When she didn’t see him, her attention settled on his cousin Elias. She forced words out of a mouth as dry as cotton. “I’ve come for my sister.”
Elias’s gaze raked over her, but he stepped back and waved her forward. “Take her.”
Before she lost her nerve, Alanah clambered aboard. With blood on her hands, soot on her face, and wearing little more than rags, she looked like the crazy woman the river pirates believed her to be, and they parted ranks for her.
Quaking with fear, she hauled her sister off the flatboat.
When she’d put some distance between them and the gawking cutthroats, she hugged her sister, then held her at arm’s length and ran her gaze over her frame —thinner than when she’d left —bone thin, as a matter of fact. But there was more. Betsy wouldn’t look at her. “Are you all right?”
Her sister didn’t respond.
Alanah tipped Betsy’s chin, and fear roiled in her stomach. It wasn’t the filthy, tattered shift she wore, and it wasn’t her bare feet, or even that her hair hung tangled and matted down her back. It was her eyes. Flat, lifeless. She looked —
Alanah shook her head, refusing to dwell on whatever had happened to her sister in the last six months. Betsy was alive. Micaiah Jones could have killed her. But for whatever reason, he hadn’t, and she’d come home. That was all that mattered. For now.
“Come. Let’s go home.”
“But —Micaiah.” Betsy’s panicked gaze whipped around. “Where’s Micaiah?”
“I don’t know. Let’s get you home.”
“No. I can’t leave Micaiah.”
Alanah gaped at her. “Betsy, Micaiah kidnapped you. He stole you away. Look at yourself. You’re skin and bones. He —”
“No.” Betsy jerked away. “I want Micaiah.”
Alanah’s heart squeezed into a tight, fear-filled ball. “Betsy . . .”
“Betsy, sugar, give Lydia a hug.” Lydia pushed in front of Alanah, who stood frozen in shocked silence as Lydia gathered the frail form in her strong embrace.
Quietly and efficiently, Lydia calmed Betsy.
Gripping the hilt of the knife at her waist, Alanah faced Elias Jones. “Where’s Micaiah?”
“French Camp.” Elias looked her up and down, more bold than the rest. Behind her, Lydia shook the small gourd at her waist, and Elias’s gaze darted toward her. The gourd meant nothing, but the pirate blinked, the ominous sound doing its job of instilling fear into the man. “He knifed a man and is to stand trial for murder.”
“No!” Betsy’s wail curdled Alanah’s blood.
Lydia shushed her and turned to lead her away.
“She’s been like that the whol
e way. Silent as a tomb for the most part, then screaming like a banshee the rest. Glad to be rid of her.”
“Yet you brought her all the way from French Camp?”
“Aye. We brung her. And nary a one of us touched her.” Elias spat a stream of tobacco juice that splattered into the dirt. “Micaiah would have our heads if we did. She’s his woman.”
As good as dead, Micaiah Jones still held sway over this lawless cutthroat.
Chapter 3
BEFORE DAWN, the Wainwright caravan was ready to go, and Reggie was determined that they not be left behind.
Caleb helped Reggie into his saddle, and the young plantation owner clung to the saddle horn with the same tenacity he’d clung to Caleb when the wind-whipped waves had threatened to tear their small boat apart off the coast of Africa.
“Should I tie you t’ your mount, lad?”
“You might have to before the day is out.”
“Aye.” Caleb arched a brow. “It seems likely.”
Arms folded, Tiberius glared at his own mount. “I will walk.”
Scowling, Caleb looked from one to the other. “A wagon would make more sense for the lot o’ us.”
“Wagons are for women and children.” Reggie adjusted his seat and grinned. “Climb aboard, Tiberius. I’ve never known you to back away from anything.”
Tiberius approached the horse as if he were stalking a tiger. Caleb held the horse’s head until the tall, muscular Moor climbed aboard, his ascent similar to scaling the rigging on a ship, but not nearly as graceful. Caleb tried not to laugh since he didn’t relish the thought of Tiberius kicking him in the teeth. Adjusting the leathers, he grabbed the big man’s boots and shoved them into the stirrups. Tiberius grabbed the horn in a death grip.
Caleb pried one of his ham-like hands loose and pressed the reins into his grasp. “It’s like riding the rigging. Just keep your feet in the stirrups and hang on.”
Hours later, Caleb grimaced and shifted in the saddle, the old wound in his thigh cramping. He rubbed the gnarl of scars, trying to ease the pain.
He’d made sport of Tiberius, but the truth was he’d only ridden a horse a few times himself. Even as he squirmed in the saddle, an older, distinguished man rode from the head of the caravan.
He turned his mount and fell into place beside them, his gaze landing first on Reggie, Tiberius, then Caleb. “Caleb O’Shea?”
Caleb nodded. “Aye.”
“Thomas Wainwright. I own land north and west of Breeze Hill.”
“My brother’s plantation?” Even speaking the words twisted Caleb’s insides up. He could hardly fathom Connor owning a plantation. Surely everyone was mistaken, and either this Connor O’Shea was someone else entirely or the plot of land was so insignificant it wouldn’t feed a pig in a poke, and the whole thing was Bloomfield’s and now Wainwright’s idea of some kind of cruel joke.
But they’d mentioned Quinn and the boys.
Nobody in the colonies would know that much about him and his brothers, unless they were telling the truth.
“Well, actually, Breeze Hill belongs to Connor’s father-in-law, and my grandson will inherit it. Connor is simply managing the place for the foreseeable future.”
Ah. The truth comes out. An O’Shea who’d risen in the ranks of the landed gentry would have been laughable. Connor was no more a landowner than —
“However, Breeze Hill is just a drop in the bucket to the much larger tract of land called Magnolia Glen, the plantation the governor granted to your brother. An amazingly fertile valley in the wilds beyond Breeze Hill. Your brother Quinn has taken over management and is doing a splendid job of it. Too late for much of a cotton crop this year, but next year should yield a bountiful harvest.”
Caleb’s head was spinning. So it was true. Still, he’d have to see it to believe it.
As the horses plodded along, Wainwright peppered him with questions about his travels. “So you’ve been to Africa, have you?”
“Aye, I have.”
“Fascinating.” Wainwright’s attention strayed to the dark forests around them, to the swamp, then the bluff high above their heads on the right. “Was it very different to Ireland and to what you see here, then?”
“Some. The trees and undergrowth are different. Snakes this big.” Caleb cupped his hands in a circle, then patted the scimitar strapped to his waist. “I learned t’ keep a weapon handy. Good for snakes, both the slithering kind and the two-legged ones.”
“Impressive.” Wainwright eyed the deadly blade, the twin pistols tucked securely in his waistband, close at hand. “You’d do well to keep your weapons at the ready here as well. Highwaymen lie in wait for those who’ve sold their wares in Natchez and New Orleans.”
“Bloomfield said as much.”
“Earlier this year when their leader was killed, the rudderless cutthroats disbanded, and we thought we’d eradicated them. But the attacks have become more frequent and even more savage in the last few weeks as travel along the trace has resumed.”
“Then why no’ chase them down, attack, and get rid o’ them?”
“Things are never as simple as they appear.” Wainwright motioned toward the head of the caravan. “My wife and daughters are in the carriage up ahead. Sometimes protecting what you have and those you love is the better choice than chasing off after a villain.”
“And sometimes hiring others t’ do the task is the solution.”
He’d battled alongside Tiberius and his countrymen, fighting off marauding bands of Arabs and Turks whose sole purpose was in stealing, killing, and raping the country and its inhabitants.
At first Caleb had relished his role as protector, savior, and soldier of fortune, but eventually he’d had enough of the horrors of war and returned to the sea. At least at sea, men butchered men, not women and children.
But even there, he’d had his bellyful of unscrupulous captains, slave ships, and pirates, all trying to outdo, outlast, and outlive the next man.
He’d left Ireland to escape poverty, to escape oppression, but he had escaped nothing. He’d run straight into more of the same everywhere he turned: in Africa, in the Atlantic and the Arabian Sea, and now it seemed in the wilderness surrounding Natchez.
No matter the land, the evil in the hearts of men was the same.
“Yes, sometimes taking the fight to the enemy is the only solution.” Wainwright rode along without saying anything more for another hour before motioning to the road ahead. “We’ll be at Mount Locust soon. There’s a road that leads to a small settlement on the river. We’ll save time going that way, then cutting across to the logging camp.”
“We are no’ going to the plantation?”
“Not if you want to see your brothers. Unless I miss my guess, Connor and my son, William, are hard at work cutting a swath through the woods toward the river.”
“I see.”
“We’ll need to look lively when we separate from the main party. We’ll be considerably less in number and an easier target for attack.”
They approached the cutoff, and the lead buckboard carrying Mr. Wainwright’s family pulled out of line. Four wagons loaded with supplies for the logging camp fell in behind the first. The indentured servants and freemen Bloomfield had secured for the logging operation rode the string of draft horses trailing the caravan.
Caleb itched to see the grand plantation his brother had married into, but more importantly, he wanted to see Connor, Rory, and Patrick.
As for Quinn? He’d just as soon take another tack around the Horn of Africa before seeing that one.
But first, it was time to say good-bye to Reggie and Duff.
The four friends pulled to the side and let the rest of the travelers pass them by. Reggie, looking like death warmed over, rode close and clasped Caleb’s hand. “Godspeed, Caleb.”
Caleb scowled. “You should have stayed in Natchez, lad. Or at the very least stay here until you gain your strength back.”
A sad smile lifted Reggie’s lips and he
shook his head. “I could no more stay in Natchez knowing what I know about my family than you could fail to travel north with me after finding out your brothers are within a few hours of where we are right now. Besides, Duff will see that I make it home all right.”
Caleb cleared his throat and turned to Duff. “Watch over the young whelp, will ya?”
Duff just grunted, which was his nature.
“Don’t worry so, Caleb. We’ll be with the party the entire way, and there are inns every fifteen to twenty miles. We’ll be fine.”
With nothing more to say, the four of them parted ways.
Caleb and Tiberius followed along behind the logging crew, both lost in their own thoughts. Tiberius shifted in the saddle. “How long will you stay?”
“Here with my brothers?” Caleb shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“It’s good that you’ve found your family again.”
Caleb sighed. He’d kept little from Tiberius and the others, but he hadn’t told them of the bitter feelings he’d left behind in Ireland. The shock of discovering his brothers were here in the flesh had yet to wear off, and he was unsure of his welcome.
But he’d see Connor, try to make amends.
As much as he was able.
Keeping low to the ground, Alanah crept forward.
She’d spotted the highwaymen as they flitted through the trees like ghosts. But they weren’t apparitions; they were flesh-and-blood men, hot on the trail of those who risked their lives traveling the wilderness roads.
She knew what these men were up to. She knew what they were after, and it wasn’t wild game to fill their empty bellies, but coin to fill their pockets and their lustful hearts. They stalked human prey on the trail a stone’s throw from where she lay.
Pulling her tattered garments around her, she burrowed into the dirt and leaves, her brown skirt blending in with the debris-strewn forest floor. Digging her fingers into the dark, loamy earth, she smeared handfuls over her face and hair for good measure.
