The Crossing at Cypress Creek

by Pam Hillman

  The cook lifted the lid off a skillet. “A couple of half-burned flapjacks and a few pieces of ham.”

  “A feast fit for a king.” Caleb grabbed the flapjacks, wrapped them around the ham, and headed toward the landing, eating as he went.

  Halfway down the steep road that led to the sandbar, he slowed. Quinn and Connor stood off to the side in heated discussion. He and Quinn had hardly spoken two words to each other on the trip out from Natchez. Whether by design or by accident, he didn’t know. But the anger of past hurts simmered just below the surface, so it was better that they kept their distance from each other.

  Connor glanced up, spotted him, and stopped midsentence. Quinn looked over his shoulder, then faced him. “Where have ya been? The mornin’s half-gone already.”

  Caleb ignored his brother, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up a long-handled grapple. He moved toward a log.

  “I asked ya a question, Brother.”

  Caleb hooked and rolled the log. “And I did no’ see the need t’ give an answer.”

  Quinn placed his boot on the log, stopping its forward motion. “Ye’ll answer or —”

  “Enough.” Connor stepped between them. “What’s gotten into you, Quinn?”

  Caleb waited. Would Quinn tell all, or would his brother skew things in his favor as he’d done when they were kids?

  “He canna be depended on, and ya want t’ entrust our livelihood and that o’ our families t’ him?” Quinn jabbed a finger in Caleb’s direction. “What if he gets t’ Natchez, sells the timber and the cotton, and takes off again?”

  “I would no’ do that, Quinn, and you know it.” Caleb straightened, determined not to throw the first punch, but if Quinn goaded him much more, he’d —

  “I know no such thing.” Quinn leaned forward, blue eyes flashing, jaw clenched. “Do ya no’ remember the day ya left home without a word t’ a livin’ soul? The day after our fight? I came home from the smithy and —”

  “Aye. I left, and I would —”

  “Stop. Now. The both o’ ye!” Connor bellowed. “Or so help me . . .”

  The sound of labored breathing from all three of them filled the heavy silence. Caleb slowed his breathing and glared at Quinn. He hadn’t started this fight, not now and not three years ago. And he wouldn’t finish it.

  “The two o’ ya had a fight, and ya left home, left Ireland, over it?” Connor looked at Caleb as if he’d lost his senses. “What did ya fight about that was so bad ya’d leave home without so much as a good-bye?”

  “Ye’re a fine one t’ be calling the kettle black.” Quinn raised a brow. Caleb suppressed a chuckle. Finally one thing he and Quinn agreed on.

  Connor scowled. “My sudden departure from Ireland was no’ me fault, and I’ve explained it all away. Caleb, what do ya have t’ say for yerself?”

  Quinn smirked. “Aye, but our dear little brother has no’ explained a thing.”

  Caleb slapped the grapple against the log and faced Quinn, ready for the brawl that was sure to follow. “You really do no’ remember what we fought about?”

  Quinn’s gaze narrowed, and his eyes took on a distant look as if he was trying to recall the events three years past. “I do no’ remember. Ya’d gotten sick —injured or something. And the mine boss gave ya the rest o’ the day off. And then, at the end o’ my shift, he called me up from the mines and offered me a job with Seamus.” Quinn smiled. “I remember thinking how excited ya and the lads would be that I’d be working for the blacksmith. I could no’ wait to tell ya. But when I got home, ya lit into me like a banshee, and the next thing I remember, one o’ us threw a punch. After the fight, ya stormed out o’ the house, and by morning ya were gone.” A hardness flattened his features. “Patrick cried for a month, and I had no answers for the lad.”

  Caleb searched his brother’s face but saw nothing but sincerity. He turned away, ran one hand around his neck. Could Quinn be telling the truth? After all these years? Had he truly not known?

  He looked up at the sky, blew out a breath. “It was me ankle. I twisted it at the end o’ me shift. Being a careless eejit, I was, but truth be told, I was in a hurry t’ get home and share me news with me brothers.”

  “What news?” Connor all but shouted.

  “The mine boss had just offered me the job with Seamus. Me ticket out o’ the mines.” He looked at Quinn. “Only t’ have me own brother steal it out from under me nose.”

  “I see.” Connor’s calm voice, devoid of his usual roar and sounding so much like Da’s, transported Caleb back to his childhood.

  Quinn gaped at him. “I did no’ know. Seamus, the mine boss, neither o’ them ever mentioned it.” He took a deep breath, then jutted out his chin. “It’s no’ in me t’ say I’m sorry, but if ya want t’ take a swing at me, I’ll stand here and take it like a man.”

  Caleb snorted. Quinn’s acceptance of his part in the debacle made him feel like he was still a wee lad. But hadn’t squabbles with Quinn always ended with him feeling like that?

  Like he was the younger brother playing second fiddle to his elders?

  He’d looked up to Connor, idolized him; then in the blink of an eye, he was gone. After Da passed, Quinn had taken over, bossing him around. Quinn hadn’t ever asked for his opinion on anything. He’d just given orders and expected them to be obeyed.

  “I will no’ hit ya, Quinn. If it was as you say, it’s best left in the past.”

  The three of them stood, facing each other, and Caleb hardly knew what to do now that taking a swing at Quinn wasn’t an option.

  Connor stepped between them, shoulders slumped as if the weight of every past mistake and misunderstanding rested with him. “We left a lot o’ problems back in Ireland, and I blame myself for most o’ them. If I’d been there, things would have been easier for both o’ ya. The truth is that God brought us out o’ poverty and gave us all a future here. More o’ a future than we could ever have had back home. The Wainwrights have put a lot o’ trust in me t’ see that this logging operation is a success. I need ya both —here in the logging camp, at Breeze Hill, and at Magnolia Glen, but . . .” Connor paused, his furrowed brow giving credence to the battle he fought within. “But if the two o’ ya can’t get along, then I do no’ need either o’ ya.”

  “You’ll hear no more from me on the matter.” Caleb tried not to glare at Quinn, but years of bitterness were hard to erase in a moment’s time.

  Connor looked at Quinn. “Quinn?”

  “Nor me.”

  “Now that everything’s settled,” Connor growled, sounding a lot like Da when he was about to issue an order, “then there’s no reason the two o’ you can’t make the trip with me to Breeze Hill and Magnolia Glen next week to haul back the cotton.”

  Dawn had yet to break when the sound of horses coming down the lane reached Alanah. She plucked the last egg from the nest and hurried toward the cabin, where she met Lydia, flintlock in hand, a determined glint in her eyes.

  Alanah shoved the basket of eggs at Betsy. “Get out of sight.”

  Her sister didn’t have to be told twice. Alanah grabbed her bow and faced whatever danger was coming their way. A mounted rider came into view, leading a saddled, riderless horse.

  “It’s Caleb.” Alanah slung her bow across her back and stepped out of the shadows. She eyed the empty saddle, a sense of foreboding chilling her bones. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong.” He pushed his hat back and leaned on the saddle horn. “Connor’s sending wagons t’ Breeze Hill and Magnolia Glen t’ get some cotton. Do you want t’ come along and harvest those mushrooms you’re so keen on?”

  Alanah frowned. It was unseemly for her to travel such a distance with the loggers. But it was even more unseemly —and dangerous —for her to make the trip alone. And that’s why she’d only chanced it twice in the last three years. “Thank you, but I shouldn’t —”

  “If it’s propriety you’re concerned about, do no’ worry. My brother’s wife will be
at Magnolia Glen, and you’ll be safe. We’ll return on the morrow with the wagons.”

  She glanced at Lydia and Betsy, who’d ventured out on the porch when she’d realized it was someone she knew and trusted.

  “Are you coming, lass? If no’, I must be getting back.”

  “It is good that you have an escort to get the mushrooms that Mr. Weaver needs.” Lydia lifted her chin, her stance brooking no argument.

  Torn, Alanah shifted her attention from Lydia to Betsy, hovering in the shadows. She hated to leave them overnight, but who knew when she’d get another chance to harvest turkey tails from the nutrient-rich swampland.

  “We will be fine. You go.”

  “Of course you’re right.” Alanah turned back to Caleb. “I’ll get my things.”

  She rushed inside, grabbed a tote and a basket so the mushrooms wouldn’t be crushed. Thinking quickly, she pivoted, lifted the lid on a trunk, and pulled out her heavy cloak. Even in September, the nights could turn chilly, and it would suffice as a blanket if they became stranded on the trail. She eyed the green skirt and lacy fichu Isabella had given her. Before she could change her mind, she stuffed the clean clothes in with her cloak.

  Once outside, Caleb helped her mount, then led the way back to the logging camp. They cut through the woods following a game trail, crossed the road that led to Cypress Creek.

  The camp was practically deserted with all the men working in the woods or down on the sandbar. Which suited her just fine. Several wagons were hitched and ready to roll out.

  Caleb dismounted, then reached to help her down. The sandy-haired man who’d been with Caleb and the others the day they’d brought Mr. Abbott to her house doffed his hat. “Good day, miss.”

  “Good day, Mr. —” She broke off, at a loss to recall his name.

  “Horne, ma’am. The name’s Horne.”

  “Mr. Horne.”

  A young boy —the spitting image of Caleb’s brother, Connor —watched them from the bed of the wagon. Another man propped his arm on the wagon, eyeing their approach.

  Caleb motioned toward them. “My brothers. Quinn and Patrick. This is Alanah. She’s —”

  “Ye’re going home t’ Breeze Hill, and that’s final.” Connor’s unmistakable growl rolled out of the dogtrot cabin.

  “Now, Connor, we agreed . . .” Isabella’s voice trailed off.

  Caleb jerked his head toward the cabin. “What’s going on?”

  “Connor wants Isabella t’ go home, but she insists on staying here until William returns. They’ve been at it all morning.”

  Just then Connor stormed out of the cabin, his gaze raking the wagons and the horses, to settle on the boy. “Patrick, get down from there and find Rory. Tell him I need him to make the trip to Breeze Hill in my place.”

  “Can I go —?”

  “Yes! Yes! You can go.” Connor threw his arms out, shooing the boy away. “Now go get Rory before I change my mind.”

  The boy took off, and Alanah caught the smirk on Quinn’s face before he wiped it off and faced Connor. “Ye’re no’ going?”

  “It appears not. It seems me dear, sweet wife thinks I canna run a logging camp on me own and insists on staying.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Me wife won’t leave and Patrick is determined t’ go. The two o’ them are going t’ be the death o’ me.”

  “Ah, never mind Patrick. He thinks o’ the trip as one big adventure.” Quinn slapped him on the back. “I’ll see after the lad.”

  Connor spotted Alanah. There was no place to go, so she just stood there, hoping he wouldn’t take his ire out on her. Not that she was afraid of the man, but she didn’t want to be ordered home like a whipped dog with her tail tucked between her legs.

  “Good day, Miss Adams.” He offered her a curt nod.

  She gave a small curtsy, knees quaking. “Sir.”

  His attention shifted from her to her pack to Caleb. “May I have a word with you, Caleb?”

  They walked away, and Alanah busied herself scratching one of the horses behind the ear, her hand shaking.

  Well, maybe she was a wee bit afraid of Caleb’s oldest brother.

  Chapter 18

  AS THE WAGONS JOSTLED along the logging road toward Breeze Hill, Caleb glanced at Alanah. She sat quietly, bottom lip pulled between her teeth, looking worried.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She glanced at him. “What did Connor say?”

  “’Bout what?”

  “About me going along. That’s what he wanted to talk to you about, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye. But do no’ worry. He was fine when he found out why you needed t’ go.”

  Looking relieved, she motioned toward Rory and Patrick in the wagon ahead of them. “Just how many brothers do you have? It seems that every time I see you, I meet a new brother.”

  He chuckled. “I have four, so you’ve met them all now.”

  “No sisters?”

  “No.”

  She was quiet, and he slapped the reins against the horses’ backs, urging them to pick up the pace. He jostled her shoulder. “What? No more questions?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not polite to ask too many questions.”

  “So you do have them.”

  A blush rolled over her cheeks, but she shook her head and pressed her lips together.

  “Let’s see. We hail from Ireland, but I suppose you figured that out already. Connor immigrated t’ the colonies almost ten years ago, and Quinn, Rory, and Patrick came earlier this year. I arrived the day we met in Natchez.”

  Her tawny eyes flickered toward him, a frown wrinkling her brow. “You don’t sound like you’re fresh off the boat from Ireland.”

  “Now how would ya be knowing that, lassie?” Caleb deliberately deepened his brogue.

  “I don’t know.” She fluttered her hands. “It’s just that your brogue isn’t as pronounced as . . . well, even as much as Quinn’s and Patrick’s, and they’ve been here longer than you have.”

  “That’s because I left Ireland three years ago and have traveled the world, earning my keep as a merchant seaman, a vagabond, and a soldier.”

  “Then you found out your family was here, and you came to find them?” She was looking at him as if she thought the decision was the sweetest thing he’d ever done.

  “No’ exactly. The ship I was on docked in Natchez, and I discovered by accident they were here. The plan was t’ see for myself, then head back t’ sea.”

  She blinked. “You’re leaving?”

  “Aye.” He winked at her. “And why no’? Now that me favorite lass is planning t’ head north, there’s no reason t’ stay, is there?”

  The look she threw his way said she didn’t believe a word of his blather, so he just laughed and turned his attention to keeping the horses moving forward. But the truth was he would miss her when she was gone.

  The rest of the trip was quiet enough and they arrived at Breeze Hill by a little after noon.

  Caleb pulled to a stop just in time to hear Quinn’s instructions. “Mr. Horne, you and the others stay here and load the wagons. Caleb and I will go on to Magnolia Glen. We’ll be back bright and early in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Without further ado, Quinn urged his horses on down the road, and Caleb’s team fell in behind them. When they’d gone another mile, he noticed some clouds forming in the west.

  “Are ya familiar with this road?”

  “I’ve passed this way a few times.”

  “How much farther is it, then?”

  “Not long. An hour at most.”

  “If Quinn hopes to get an early start in the morning, we’ll need t’ gather your mushrooms tonight.”

  “You don’t have to go with me. I can —”

  “I’m no’ about t’ let you go off on your own, so you can get that thought right out o’ your head.”

  An amused smile twisted her lips, but she didn’t argue. They traveled in silence for a while, then came to a swath of destructi
on where the trees had been sheared off ten to fifteen feet aboveground. The dead sentinels marched along both sides of the road, silent testimony to the devastation that had ripped through. The road had been cleared, but twisted, broken trees lingered as far as he could see.

  “What happened here?”

  “A hurricane came inland, spawning several tornadoes.” Alanah’s quiet voice bled through the desolation around them. “It was a little over a year ago. You could tell there was a storm brewing off the coast, but we never dreamed it would come so far inland. The tornado touched down a few miles from Cypress Creek, then jumped over the trace and cut a path through here. We heard later that Braxton Hall was completely destroyed and Nolan Braxton was killed. But he wasn’t really a Braxton. He was an impostor . . . and the leader of the highwaymen.”

  “And now my brother owns his land. Hard t’ believe.”

  Alanah glanced at him, surprise on her face. “Don’t tell me that the O’Sheas were the real owners of Braxton Hall?”

  “No.” Caleb chuckled. “It would no’ be that simple. All I know is that the governor awarded the land t’ Connor after Braxton died. Something about saving his wife from highwaymen.”

  “Yes, I think I heard about that. It would be like Governor Gayoso to do that.”

  They left the devastation and dipped into a long, narrow valley, the road lined with magnolia trees that had been spared even if the plantation home had not. Caleb could see why his brother had renamed the acreage Magnolia Glen. At the end of the valley, massive columns marked the spot where Braxton Hall had once stood.

  Quinn drove past the windswept foundation of the destroyed home, circled behind a barn, and pulled to a stop in front of a row of cabins. A woman and a young girl, both with wheat-colored hair, rushed from one of the cabins.

  His brother jumped down from the wagon, kissed the woman, and gave the girl a hug. Caleb set the brake, climbed down, and reached for Alanah. When her feet touched down, he let her go, only to reach out and grab her when she stumbled on the uneven ground. When he snagged her against his side, her golden eyes went wide.