The Crossing at Cypress Creek

by Pam Hillman

  While it would seem best to attack at night, he’d decided that daytime suited him better.

  The sawyers would be out in the woods, others would be spread along the logging trails snaking logs toward the bluff, and the raftsmen would be on the sandbar preparing to leave for Natchez.

  If all went well, they could dispatch the loggers, gather the spoils, and float them downriver themselves. They’d pass Natchez by and sell the goods in New Orleans, where no one would be the wiser. But first he had to gather his men and relay his plan. He looked around the tavern for his cousin, didn’t see him, then caught the tavern owner’s eye. “Where’s Elias?”

  “He said something about paying a visit to Addled Alanah. Didn’t seem to be sick or nothing.” The man shrugged. “Don’t know why else he’d head over there as late as it is. Looney Lydia’s liable to shoot him.”

  Micaiah scowled. Would his cousin’s hankering for Betsy’s sister put a kink in his plans? Now that he noticed, several men loyal to Elias were also gone.

  Slamming his tankard down on the table, he lurched to his feet. Tonight was not the night to put the locals on guard, not when he’d just decided on a plan of action to purge Cypress Creek of the interlopers in their midst. He snapped his fingers and five of his men stood and followed him into the night.

  When they were within a hundred yards of the preacher’s cabin, Micaiah motioned the men to a halt. Through the trees, he could see the cabin, dark and silent. There wasn’t anything unusual about that. Darkness had fallen hours ago, and there was no reason for the women to burn candles needlessly.

  But something was wrong. He could feel it. He could smell it. What —?

  Then it hit him. It was the metallic scent of warm blood wafting on the night air. His hackles rose. “Look lively. Something’s amiss.”

  They inched forward; then Finley hissed, “Look here.”

  There on the ground lay a body. One of Elias’s trusted compatriots. By the light of the moon, they could see that he’d been knifed, mercilessly so.

  Finley backed away. “That’s Looney Lydia’s doings.”

  “Don’t be a fool, man,” Micaiah growled. “This is no woman’s handiwork.”

  A slight rustling sounded off to their right, followed by silence. Finley crouched low, the whites of his eyes shining.

  “Spread out,” Micaiah ordered. The men melted into the darkness, and Micaiah pressed his back against a tree. For a long time, he heard nothing, not even the peeps and calls of the night creatures, the goings-on in the woods having disturbed their nocturnal habits.

  Micaiah trilled the call of the whip-poor-will, waited a heartbeat, then followed with the deep-throated call of a bullfrog, ending with three more birdcalls.

  If Elias was out there, his cousin would know the signal.

  There. At the edge of the clearing, close to the cabin. The sounds were faint, but it was the right sequence of calls.

  Micaiah circled the clearing, drawing closer to the source of the calls. A coldness settled over him, and he debated whether to give the signal to fall back or to rush the cabin. The signal came again, so feeble that Micaiah wondered if he’d imagined the whip-poor-will’s call and the bullfrog’s croak that didn’t sound like Elias at all, but more like somebody strangling.

  He eased around a tall oak, then peered through the darkness. A faint gleam caught his eye. Something red and wet and the unmistakable stench of blood and entrails. Next came a low moan and a soft rustle as the dying man moved.

  Micaiah gave a call, so low that only the figure ten feet away would hear it. The prone form stilled.

  “Micaiah —”

  The voice was Elias’s.

  Micaiah inched forward, knife in his clutches. He stopped beside his cousin, saw there was no hope for him. Elias’s heavy-lidded gaze met his. “I’m done for, Cousin.”

  “Who did this? Jude?” But Micaiah couldn’t see the lily-livered reverend having the guts or the skill to knife two men in the dead of night. Two men who’d done their own share of killing and relished the doing.

  “Big man. Ebony-skinned. Gold . . . gold hoop in ear. Knife . . .” Elias’s hands fluttered. “This long. Cut me open like a fish . . . left to die.”

  Micaiah had seen the man working as a sawyer with another man of similar size and strength.

  “How many men came with you?”

  “Two.” Elias chuckled. “To handle Looney Lydia, you know?”

  “And the women?” Micaiah asked. “Betsy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Elias moaned, then lay still. Micaiah moved away, intent on finding this ebony-skinned man before the man found him.

  “Micaiah, don’t leave.”

  “There’s nothing to be done for you. You’ll be dead within the hour.”

  Elias cursed him, the words barely audible. Without a backward glance or another thought for his cousin, Micaiah eased silently through the underbrush toward the cabin in the clearing. He had five men with him. Surely they could take out one lone man. And they’d start by taking the women. He gave the signal to rush the house.

  Within minutes, he and his men had surrounded the cabin, rushed up the steps, and slammed through the doors into the two rooms flanking the dogtrot. Only to find them empty. What had happened to Betsy, Looney Lydia, and Addled Alanah? Had they run away? Or had the black-skinned man butchered them as he’d butchered Elias and the other one?

  Rage boiled up and over, and growling low in his throat, Micaiah stomped out of the room to the porch. “Betsy, girl, where are ya? Come to Micaiah, girl, if you know what’s good for you.”

  His answer was a scream, then a crash in the underbrush, followed by silence.

  His men bounded off the porch into the woods toward the sound. An hour later, they returned to the cabin, having found neither hide nor hair of the African or the women. But it didn’t matter. Micaiah knew where the man had taken them.

  And he’d pay. They’d all pay.

  Starting now.

  He grabbed a firebrand from the fire pit and set the buildings blazing one by one.

  Alanah lay on the pallet across the way from Connor and Isabella’s room, thinking about the kiss she and Caleb had shared. She’d invited that kiss.

  Nay —she’d initiated that kiss.

  She groaned. How could she have been so brazen?

  She was no better than the harlots who worked at the tavern in Cypress Creek. She’d enticed him, just as Uncle Jude accused Betsy of enticing Micaiah Jones.

  And look at what had happened to her sister.

  She was stolen, raped, abused.

  But by the grace of God not murdered.

  Was Uncle Jude right? When did one cross the threshold from courtship to lust to outright wanton behavior? She curled into a ball, thoughts whirling. Would one kiss lead her down the same path of destruction?

  Would Caleb take advantage of her weakness? She couldn’t believe it of him. He wasn’t like Micaiah Jones and men of that ilk. He was kind and good and honorable. Like his brothers. Both were upstanding men. They owned land. Property. They had wives. Women who loved them and whom they loved in return.

  By Kiera’s own admission, his brothers cherished their women, their families, and protected them. That was the kind of man Caleb O’Shea was.

  Wasn’t he?

  She wouldn’t —couldn’t —believe that he’d take liberties just because she’d kissed him and let him kiss her in return.

  But where did a few kisses leave them? She couldn’t have it both ways, Caleb’s kisses without thought of what would happen tomorrow or the next day or the next.

  Her face flamed.

  Nothing had been said about love or marriage or any kind of future between them.

  Even when she’d told Caleb that they were heading north, the news hadn’t fazed him. He’d just winked and made some remark about heading back to sea. She clutched the thin blanket to her, not that she needed it for warmth, but for something to hold on to.
>
  With Caleb gone, the only real reason to stay would be for Lydia’s sake.

  A commotion outside halted her thoughts. Tensing, she listened as the sound of men’s voices drew closer, then boots pounded along the porch. Throwing back the covers, she grabbed her bow and had just nocked an arrow when someone rapped at her door.

  “Alanah, are ya awake, lass?” Her heart did a little jig when she heard Caleb’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Unbar the door.”

  She put her bow to the side and obliged, met his troubled gaze. “What’s wrong? Is it Isabella?”

  “Isabella is fine.” Connor stood framed in the door across the breezeway. “Caleb, what’s the meaning o’ —”

  “Alanah?”

  Her heart hitched when she heard Betsy’s voice.

  She looked past Caleb, saw Betsy, Lydia, and Tiberius just behind them. Betsy rushed toward her. As she folded her sister into her embrace, her questioning gaze sought out Lydia. “What happened?”

  “Elias Jones came to the house looking for you. He was drunk. When he didn’t find you, he went after Betsy.”

  Her arms tightened around her sister. No.

  “He didn’t touch her.” Lydia jerked her chin toward Tiberius. “And he will not bother you or Betsy again. Tiberius has taken care of that.”

  Alanah’s attention shifted between Lydia and Tiberius. “He’s —he’s dead?”

  “He is dead. Along with two more.”

  “Who’s Elias?” Caleb asked.

  “Micaiah’s cousin.”

  Fear grabbed hold of Alanah’s insides. With Elias dead, would the other river pirates leave them alone or —?

  “There’s more.” Lydia glanced at Betsy. “Micaiah was there. I heard him call out.”

  “Micaiah?” Betsy looked at her, her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t let him kill the babies, Alanah.”

  Alanah folded her broken sister in her arms. “I won’t, Betsy. I won’t.”

  “What babies?” Connor straightened, and Alanah could feel the fury rolling off him. “Were there children left behind?”

  “No. She’s talking about the baby goats and raccoons back at their place. Betsy’s very protective of the wee animals.”

  “I see.” Compassion swamped Connor’s face. Blowing out a breath, he raked a hand through his hair. “Well, there’s nothing else we can do tonight other than double the watch.”

  “Caleb?”

  Caleb woke instantly when Patrick called his name. “Aye, lad, I’m here.”

  “Connor’s asking for ya.”

  “Tell him I’ll be right there.” Stumbling out of his tent, he splashed cold water on his face and eyed the faint light of dawn cresting the horizon. He’d taken the first watch with Tiberius, and it seemed as if he’d just fallen into bed a short while ago.

  He joined the group congregated around the cookhouse. Tiberius stood nearby, looking on. Connor paced and William leaned against a post, arms crossed. Connor pivoted. “I do no’ think it’s a good idea to send the logs and the cotton downriver right now.”

  Caleb eyed his brother. “Why no’?”

  “Those cutthroats out there. They might be planning to attack us. We’ll need every man t’ defend the camp.”

  “We can’t just hunker down and let them pick us off one by one. We should take the fight t’ them.” Caleb made a chopping motion with the heel of his hand. “Flush ’em out and be done with it.”

  “That’s what a man does when he has no wife, no children, no home or property t’ defend.” Quinn scowled. “I suppose ya think we can all just run off after them and leave the women and the camp unattended. Ya know nothing o’ the matter.”

  “I know that if you sit back and let a bunch o’ thieves ’n’ murderers overrun you, then ye’ll have nothin’ in the end t’ show for it. No’ your land, no’ your goods, no’ your wives.”

  “Enough. Sit down, the both o’ ya.” Connor waited until they complied. “You’re both right. We have t’ protect what’s ours, but we canna wait them out. We have t’ come up with a plan.”

  “Maybe they’ll leave us alone.” William shrugged. “They haven’t attacked us yet. Why now?”

  “I do no’ know why they haven’t attacked before now.” Caleb stared at him. “But we’re going to have a fight on our hands now. Men have died, and from what little I know of Micaiah Jones, he won’t stand for it.”

  He could all but feel the anger bouncing off Tiberius. His friend hadn’t said a word, but his country had been torn apart by rogue bands of men no different from the ones who roamed the Natchez District. Men who raped and pillaged and took what they wanted, leaving the land and the people with nothing. No livelihood, no hope, and no future.

  And but for a sword of vengeance and the grace of God, Caleb would have ended up just like them, a man with no conscience and only shame to his name.

  “’Tis true, I’m afraid.” Connor scraped a hand over his jaw, his attention on the cabin that housed the women. Isabella on one side of the dogtrot, Alanah, her sister, and Lydia on the other. “And me wife needs to be back at Breeze Hill. I should never have allowed her t’ come here. She’s a distraction I canna afford.”

  Caleb’s gaze followed his brother’s. Aye, Connor was right. Women had no business being in the thick of things. They distracted a man and kept him from doing what needed to be done.

  William took three steps away, rubbed the back of his neck, then turned back. “We’ll figure out a way to get the women away, but in the meantime, we need to keep the men close to camp today and fortify ourselves as best we can.”

  Caleb blocked thoughts of Alanah from his mind and focused on the task at hand. “Well, if you’re determined to fortify the camp, I have some ideas.”

  Jaw rigid, Connor folded his arms and nodded. “Say on. We’re listening.”

  Jude walked toward home, making plans.

  He’d heard that Micaiah had escaped from French Camp, and it would only be a matter of time before he and the other river pirates started killing and stealing, just as they’d done in the past. At least with Elias, Jude could sometimes sway him to his way of thinking, but Micaiah would not be swayed.

  In spite of Alanah’s pleadings to stay until spring, they’d leave as soon as his nieces could gather their meager belongings.

  He refused to preach to people who would not listen. He would wipe the dust of this place off his feet and take what was left of his family and go back to Pennsylvania. He was tired of trying to turn cutthroats into Christians, bring robbers to repentance, and instill thankfulness in thieves.

  The men who roamed these woods and frequented that den of iniquity called Natchez Under-the-Hill didn’t deserve to be saved. They lived by the sword and they would die by the sword, and in all his years in this wilderness, he had not seen a one of them turn from their wicked ways.

  And he was tired of fighting God’s urging. The farther away he could get from this place, the better off he’d be. They could be gone within the week. Sooner —

  A flash of color caught his eye. Light-brown hair, a slim figure. Skirts swishing along the faint trail. Rachel?

  Chin quivering, he watched as she meandered through the forest, stopping to pick a handful of flowers. She held them to her face, then moved on. Humming came to him, an old hymn they’d sung in church back in Pennsylvania.

  She turned, and he caught a glimpse of her face. He blinked.

  Not Rachel. But his niece Betsy. So much like her aunt Rachel. Such an innocent, sweet child, until . . .

  He frowned.

  What was she doing out in the woods, tempting fate once again?

  He hurried forward. “Betsy!”

  Startled, she turned, a look of fear on her face. Then she saw it was him. She smiled, then just as quickly lowered her face, looking at her feet.

  “Uncle Jude,” she whispered.

  His heart smote him. He’d done that to her with his gruffness. But it had been for her own good
. He clasped his hands behind his back. “What are you doing so far from home, young lady?”

  “I . . .”

  “Speak up, girl.”

  She backed away. “We spent the night at the logging camp, and I —I came home to check on the kits.”

  “The logging camp? What were you doing at the logging camp?”

  “I —” Confusion clouded her features at his sharp tone. “Micaiah —”

  “Micaiah?” Jude’s heart slammed against his rib cage. He gentled his tone, knowing that anger and bluster would get nothing out of Betsy. “What about Micaiah?”

  “Don’t be angry.” Her big brown eyes pleaded with him. “Elias came and Tiberius helped me and Lydia, but then . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t remember.”

  “Has Micaiah been here? Answer me, girl.”

  “I —I don’t know . . .” She trailed off, dropped her head, and stood silent, the sweet, sunny girl who’d been humming and picking flowers moments ago gone. “The kits will be hungry. And the goats need to be milked.”

  She sounded so desolate, so lost, that he felt a prick of conscience. “Never mind, then. Let’s go home, and you can see to the animals.”

  Maybe Alanah could make sense of the tale. He reached for her arm, then felt the hair rise on the back of his head as five men stepped out of the woods.

  “Well, if it isn’t the esteemed Reverend Browning.”

  Jude recognized one of the regulars who spent most of his time at the tavern. “Let us pass, Finley.”

  Finley’s gaze landed on Betsy. Smirking, he stepped aside, swept his hat off his head, and bowed low. “Of course, sir. You may go. But Micaiah requested this little morsel be served up on his plate, so we’ll be taking her with us. With your permission, of course.”

  Sweat broke out on Jude’s scalp and poured down his face to mingle with his beard. Betsy didn’t utter a sound. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cower. She just stood there, head down, looking like the broken woman-child she was.

  Lord Jesus, help me.

  But he was unable to move. Unable to tell them no. Unable to save his niece for the second time.

  Finley chuckled, and the vile men who cared nothing for life walked by him, so close that they could stab him and not even turn aside for the effort. The smallest of movements from Betsy caught his attention, and then she was looking at him, the pain and fear in her eyes reaching out to him, begging him to be the protector that he’d promised her father he’d be.