by Pam Hillman
“Caleb.” The older man inclined his head. “Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Patrick slid out a chair. “Sit here, Caleb.”
Connor cleared his throat. “Ladies first, Patrick.”
“Oh yeah. Sorry, Isabella.”
Connor seated Isabella; then they all took their places. Rory motioned to three empty place settings. “Should we wait for Quinn, Kiera, and Megan?”
“Kiera sends their regrets.” Isabella held up a folded piece of paper. “Quinn couldn’t get away this afternoon. Maybe another time.”
“Can’t get away t’ see his own brother?” Connor growled.
“Connor, please.” Isabella put a hand on his arm. “Let’s not spoil dinner.”
Connor gave her a tight smile, then shifted his attention to Caleb, the pained look on his face making Caleb wonder if there was more to Quinn’s absence than just avoiding him. Before Connor could say anything else, two servants brought in dinner. Isabella whispered to one of them, and she removed the extra place settings.
When everyone was served, Isabella glanced around the table. “So have you made it to the river yet?”
The question put the dinner guests back in good humor. Connor nodded. “Aye, we picked a spot just yesterday. A high bluff overlooking the river.”
“I’d prefer a bigger sandbar.” William dipped into his soup.
“It’s sufficient.”
As Connor and William debated the merits of the site they’d chosen, Caleb dug into the best meal he’d had in . . . well, in his whole life.
“Have you encountered any trouble?” Isabella asked during the first lull in the conversation. Silence met her question, and her attention shifted to each of them in turn, stopping with William. She cleared her throat and slowly, with care, put down her fork. “I can tell by the look on William’s face that there’s been trouble. You might as well tell me what happened.”
“Me?” William looked shocked. “What did I say?”
“You don’t have to say anything, dear William. I can read you like a book.”
“It was nothing.” Connor glared at William as if it were his fault that his unguarded expression had revealed so much so easily. “We were scouting out a permanent site for the logging camp close to the river, and Frank Abbott and Mr. Horne were attacked —”
“Attacked? Are they okay? Have you told Mary?”
“Mr. Horne is fine. Frank was shot, but he’s recovering at Reverend Browning’s, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
“There’s a community there? And a preacher no less?” Isabella’s eyebrows rose.
“Aye. There’s a little river community called Cypress Creek. There’s a saddler, a tavern, a couple o’ other businesses. And Reverend Browning’s slave is skilled in the healing arts.”
“I didn’t get the impression that Lydia was a slave.” William glanced at Caleb. “Did you, Caleb?”
“I do no’ think so.” Caleb tried to recall what he knew of Lydia. “Alanah said she was her mentor, teaching her the medicinal herbs and cures and such. And she’s of mixed race o’ some sort.”
William nodded. “She did look to be of Natchez or Choctaw descent.”
“Who is Alanah?” Isabella’s gaze caught and held Caleb’s.
His face heated. “Reverend Browning’s niece.”
Isabella’s lips twitched. “Is she pretty?”
“Well . . .”
“Pretty?” Connor chuckled. “Hard to tell under all that filth. Maybe she’d look all right with a bath, her hair combed, and some decent clothes, but if she’s as crazy as Gimpy said, then I doubt anybody will ever find out.”
Caleb tamped down his ire at the dismissive way Connor spoke of Alanah. If his brother only knew. “Pretty or no’, the two o’ them saved Frank’s life.”
“Aye, they did at that.”
Isabella’s gaze caught Caleb’s. Looking amused, she picked up her fork. “Somehow I get the feeling she’s a lot prettier than you’re letting on.”
Caleb felt the tips of his ears redden, hoping his sister-in-law didn’t press him further.
But Isabella just smiled, then turned her attention to William. “How are Leah and little Jon?”
“They are doing well. Or at least they were when I left.” William sighed. “I’ve been gone well over a month, and I promised Leah I’d return for her birthday.”
“I made her a present. So don’t leave without it.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Mr. Bartholomew dabbed his lips with a napkin. “You’re going back to Wainwright Hall?”
“Just for a few days. A week or two at most.”
“Who’s going to manage the books at the logging camp while you’re gone?”
Connor shrugged. “They’ll keep.”
“Paperwork never keeps.” Mr. Bartholomew’s misshapen features and gravelly voice sounded at odds with his amiable words. “You must have an accurate accounting of your inventory and labor. Otherwise, you’ll have no way of knowing if the venture is profitable.”
“I can manage the books.” Isabella looked at William, eyebrow arched. “Don’t you agree, William?”
William nodded. “Absolutely, dear Isabella. Absolutely.”
“From the logging camp?” Connor sounded as if he was choking.
“Of course, darling. Where else would I do it?”
“No.” Connor glared at both of them. “It’s too dangerous.”
“You just told me that it’s perfectly safe and that there’s a small town. And a girl named Alanah and her mentor friend, Lydia.” She grinned. “Oh, and a preacher.”
“Take me, too, Connor,” Patrick pleaded.
Connor ignored Patrick and focused on his wife. “You’re no’ going to the lumber camp, and that’s final. Your father needs you here.”
“Do not worry about Breeze Hill. I can run Breeze Hill quite well, my boy. If my daughter wants to manage the affairs at the lumber camp for the next few weeks, I see no harm in it. As William said, she’s quite capable, and forgive me for saying so, but do you have anyone else who can keep the books with William gone?”
“No, sir.” Connor scowled at the entire table, only Caleb and Rory escaping his displeasure.
“It’s settled, then.” Isabella smiled.
But from the look on Connor’s face, Caleb had the impression the conversation between him and his wife was far from settled.
Three days of rain had turned the jail into a quagmire of mud.
After coughing continuously for two days, Kemper had faded to an occasional moan earlier in the day, then stopped completely late in the afternoon. When several hours of quiet had passed, Micaiah figured the man was dead, but he didn’t bother to check. Morrill had developed the same cough that had plagued Kemper and grew weaker by the day. Micaiah hunkered down in his corner, elevated a bit out of the worst of the mud, wondering if he’d succumb to the sickness that had taken the other prisoners before the day of his hanging.
The guard brought their corn mush, the first they’d had since noon the day before. Morrill reached through the pole bars. “Please, mister, get us out of here.”
“No place t’ take ye, and besides, ye’re gonna hang soon. Dying here or at the end of a rope shouldn’t matter none.” He tossed the trencher in, and it landed in the mud. Morrill grabbed for it, but Micaiah shoved him away, and the other man fell facedown in the mire.
Micaiah ate, the bit of cold mush doing little to satisfy his empty stomach. He retreated to his corner of the cell, feeling like a caged animal.
He was a caged animal, and there was no way to escape. His eyes darted toward the guards’ lodgings built on pilings above the muck and mire, light spilling out the window, the porch a cool, dry place to sit while watching the rain fall. The guards ate well, drank their ale, and took turns sleeping in comfort, while the prisoners got one or two meals every few days.
Combined, they wouldn’t keep a cat
alive.
When daylight came, it was still raining, and Morrill was dead. Micaiah didn’t know if the man had died instantly or passed out and suffocated in the mud, and he didn’t care.
He heard the door to the cabin on the hill open, heard one of the guards clomp across the porch, heading toward the jail with the morning slop.
What if . . . ?
Dropping to the muck, Micaiah tucked his face into the crook of his arm, burrowed down, and lay still.
The scrape of the trencher across the threshold almost made him jump up and grab it for the little nourishment his empty stomach craved. But he remained still.
“Morrill? Jones? Kemper?”
Patience. Patience.
The guard peered through the narrow slots in the door, then swore. “Grandle, you’d better get down here!”
“What’s going on?” the other man called from the porch.
“They’re all dead.”
“Dead?”
“Looks like they drowned.”
“Drowned? Are ya sure?” Grandle’s voice drew closer.
“Aye. See that Jones feller over there? Well, he makes sure he gets more than his fair share of every meal, and he ain’t moved an inch.”
Keys rattled, the door swung open, and the guards waded into the muck, grabbed Morrill by the arms, and pulled him out.
“Poor soul. Looks like he suffocated in the mud.”
“Poor soul? They were thievin’ murderers. Saves us from having to hang ’em.”
As they dragged Kemper out, Micaiah’s heart pounded.
Patience. Patience.
They grabbed Micaiah by the feet and pulled, and his face plowed through the mud. Outside, they dropped his body and left him lying there, facedown.
“Might as well go get the cart and bury them.”
“Nah. Let’s wait until after breakfast. They’re not going anywhere.”
“Aye. Good idea. Maybe it’ll stop raining. No sense in getting wet digging three graves.”
Through slitted eyes, Micaiah saw Grandle lean over Morrill. “Better make sure they’re all dead. We don’t want anybody playing possum.”
The jig was up. The other guard reached down, touched a hand to Micaiah’s throat. Seeing his chance, Micaiah grabbed the man’s knife and plunged it into him. He barely let out a groan, but it was enough to alert Grandle. He whirled, his own knife at the ready. Shoving the dead man off him, Micaiah jumped up, eyeing his opponent.
Only one man would survive this fight, and Micaiah intended to be that man.
The sun was barely up when Caleb joined the others, and they headed toward the logging camp, Isabella and Patrick in tow.
William rode with them the short distance from Breeze Hill to the trace, where he turned north, risking the ride to his home in the early hours of morning, when highwaymen were least likely to be out and about.
Caleb and Rory rode astride. Connor drove the wagon, his wife seated next to him, and Patrick sat on top of the supplies in the back. From their presence, it was obvious who’d won the argument for Isabella to go to the logging camp.
Truthfully, Connor didn’t look too put out about having his wife along. Isabella sat close on the seat, her arm linked through his.
The morning passed peacefully along the newly cut logging road, and they arrived at the logging camp just after noon. The broad, flat plain atop the bluff had been transformed in a matter of days.
The cookhouse had been completed. An expansive porch ran the entire length of the building, and the men had already cobbled together tables and benches. They weren’t taking any chances on not keeping Gimpy happy.
They hadn’t had time to add a fireplace, but the cook had a pot of something simmering over an open fire when the wagons rolled to a stop. Strips of venison hung over a separate banked fire, and the aroma of roasting meat teased Caleb’s stomach. Someone had bagged a deer while they’d been gone.
Gimpy dried his hands and squinted up at Connor. “Did you bring the flour?”
“Aye.”
“Molasses?”
Connor chuckled. “It’s all here, Gimpy.”
The cook grinned. “Backstrap, biscuits, and gravy. Ain’t nothing better.”
Connor helped Isabella down from the wagon. “Rory, you and Patrick help Gimpy unload the wagon, you hear? And, Patrick, your job is t’ be Gimpy’s toady.”
“But, Connor —”
“No buts. When you’re older, you can help with the logs, but no’ yet.”
“Yes, sir.” Patrick ducked his head and trudged toward the back of the wagon.
Connor pointed Isabella toward the tent he’d shared with William. “Well, Wife, there’s your home for the next few weeks. Are you still glad you came?”
“Of course.” Isabella grinned at him. “I’ve slept in worse accommodations.”
The look that passed between them made Caleb wonder what she was talking about, but when Connor’s face turned all sappy and sweet, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“Well, do no’ get too comfortable. The men will have a cabin with office space and sleeping quarters finished in a day or so.” Connor glanced over his shoulder. “Speaking of the men, I need to —”
“Don’t mind me.” Isabella lifted her skirts and headed toward the tent. “I’m sure I’ll have plenty to do organizing William’s papers. You know how messy he is.”
“For sure.” Connor grinned and slapped Caleb on the back. “Now to get started on building our first timber raft.”
Chapter 11
ALANAH FORAGED in the predawn hours, overturning logs, looking for leeches, moss, mushrooms —anything and everything she could use for cures of all sorts.
She moved on, harvesting some slippery elm and tucking it in her tote. As dawn broke, she spied a patch of half-dried leaves growing close to the ground. She moved closer to get a better look.
Bloodroot.
Giddy with the discovery, she fell to her knees and used a spade to dig up several roots, careful to leave plenty for later. She wrapped the poisonous roots carefully to keep them separate from the other herbs.
She sat back on her heels and surveyed the quiet glen. If she was careful and cultivated the herb —and the deer didn’t eat it all —she could supply Mr. Weaver with as much bloodroot as he needed, maybe even keep some to make red dye. Lydia would be pleased with the discovery. She’d been bemoaning the fact that she hadn’t been able to make her baskets as pretty as the ones her Choctaw grandmother had made in years past.
Hefting her tote, Alanah continued to forage. When she’d get the chance to take her findings to Natchez was anybody’s guess, but at least she’d have plenty to satisfy the apothecary and support her family. And for that, she had Lydia to thank.
When Aunt Rachel had taken sick almost four years ago, Uncle Jude had brought Lydia home to care for her. In spite of the fact that Lydia hadn’t been able to save her aunt’s life, Alanah became fascinated with the healing woman’s knowledge of the forest and its medicinal herbs.
With every foray into the forest and every trip to the apothecary, she’d learned more and more, her mind soaking up knowledge like moss soaked up blood from a wound.
Her tote bulging with her early morning finds, she came to the road that led to Cypress Creek.
She stopped, looking both ways. The road was clear as far as she could see. She should turn back. She had no business anywhere near the cutthroats who hung out in Cypress Creek. But . . .
Her attention strayed across the road in the direction of the logging camp, wondering how Frank fared. He’d left with Tiberius almost a week ago, in anticipation of the O’Sheas’ return, while she’d been out foraging. In spite of Lydia’s objections, he’d decided he was well enough to go back to work and that was that.
The logger hadn’t been a talkative man, and his presence had added to their workload, but at least it had broken the monotony of everyday life. And she missed Tiberius dropping by with fresh game or just to check on them, as
well as the tidbits he shared about Caleb and life at sea.
She bit her lip. Truth be told, she was curious about the logging camp. From what Tiberius had said, she suspected the bluff they’d chosen overlooked the sandbar where she harvested squawroot. She crossed the road and hurried through the forest, hoping the men hadn’t picked the one spot where she’d found the herb.
As she neared the bluff —her bluff and her sandbar —her heart sank.
Sure enough, the rising sun revealed the silhouettes of several sturdy cabins on the knoll, along with the tents she’d seen when she and Betsy had stumbled into their temporary camp weeks ago. The scent of frying meat wafted toward her as the cook prepared breakfast for the loggers.
Giving the camp a wide berth, she made her way toward the steep slope that led to the water’s edge. But instead of the faint game trail she was used to traversing, she found a smooth road wide enough to accommodate a wagon. She lifted her skirts and made her way down the newly constructed road. A half-dozen logs lay scattered on the sandbar where they’d been pushed off the bluff to land in a haphazard heap at the bottom.
The sun had yet to ban the shadows at the base of the bluff, and squinting against the faint light, she skirted the pile of logs lying willy-nilly on top of each other like giant kindling, her footfalls muffled by the sandy shore along the river’s edge.
Had the loggers already destroyed the squawroot?
Surely not.
The next thing she knew, she was jerked against the solid bulk of a man’s chest, a knife at her throat.
“Who are ya, and what are ya doing skulking around here?”
Even as the words hissed through Caleb’s clenched teeth, the shock of the soft fullness of a woman in his arms registered in his brain.
A flash of golden hair shot with red caught his eye.
“Alanah?” He let her go so fast that she stumbled back. She regained her footing, clutched one hand to her throat, and watched him, tawny eyes wide with fear.
Of him.
He held out a hand, and when she backed away, he realized he still gripped the long, wicked knife. He sheathed the weapon. “Sorry I am, lass. I did no’ know it was you. Are you hurt?”
