by Pam Hillman
The short period of lucidity vanished, and she lowered her gaze.
“No.”
“What did you say?” Finley whirled, his eyes flashing with anger.
“I said no. You are not taking my niece again.” Jude tossed his heavy pack on the ground in front of him. “Take the supplies I bought at Mount Locust. I have a bit of coin as well. But leave the girl alone.”
An evil grin formed on Finley’s face. “How generous, Reverend Browning, but I’m afraid it’s not enough. Kill him.”
His gaze met Betsy’s. “Run, girl!”
To his surprise, his niece took off.
And just like that, they turned on him, ravenous dogs devouring everything in their path. He saw the flash of a blade, felt the white-hot pain as the steel ripped through his flesh. The next thing he knew, he was falling, rolling down an incline. Tumbling, twisting, briars tearing at his clothes, shredding his flesh.
Pain exploded when his head slammed against a tree.
Then everything faded to black.
Chapter 23
TWO BOWLS of Gimpy’s stew in hand, one for Betsy and one for herself, Alanah pushed open the cabin door with her elbow. “Betsy, I brought you some stew.”
But the cabin was empty. Alanah dropped the stew onto the table and rushed out on the breezeway, her gaze sweeping the camp. The sound of saws and shouts rang out as the loggers worked to secure the camp against attack. Her sister was nowhere to be seen.
With so many men around, she’d never dreamed that Betsy would venture out of the dogtrot cabin. But her sister had disappeared in the time it had taken for Alanah to fetch a bit of nourishment for the noonday meal.
“Betsy!” she called.
Lydia came out of Isabella’s room, a washbasin in her hands.
“Betsy’s gone.”
“Gone? You don’t think Micaiah —”
“No. I don’t think he snuck into camp and spirited her away. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she went home. You know how worried she was about the baby raccoons.”
“And the goats.”
“I’m going to look for her.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, stay here with Isabella. I’ll be fine.”
“Now, Alanah, you can’t do that.” Lydia’s dark eyes flashed. “With Elias dead, there’s no telling what Micaiah will do.”
“That’s why I have to go. If he finds her first, he’ll —”
“Find Tiberius. Take him with you.”
“He’s busy. And besides, I’ll be back before anyone knows I’m gone.”
“All the more reason I should go with you.” Lydia tossed the dirty water over the porch railing. “Isabella is resting. She’ll be all right for a while.”
“Please, Lydia. Connor will be livid if we leave Isabella unattended. Just stay here. I’ll find Betsy, and we’ll be back as fast as we can.”
“I don’t like it.” Lydia frowned.
“Trust me.”
Alanah left the camp, hurried through the woods, keeping to the shadows and hoping she didn’t run into Micaiah or any of his men. She crossed the road, and as she neared home, the scent of smoke wafted on the breeze. Smoke? Had they left the fire burning? Even if they had, she’d never smelled smoke this far from home.
The scent grew stronger, and a haze hung low over the trees. She reached a ridge with a clear view of home and spotted tendrils of smoke curling skyward.
No. Lord Jesus, no.
A sob caught in her throat, and then she was running toward home. Running to what? She didn’t know. Running to save Betsy, running to save the goats, her herbs, their precious few belongings, and the tiny raccoons Betsy was so fond of. All of it.
She halted in the middle of the barren yard and stared at what used to be her home, the barn, the arbor where she prepared her tinctures, the wattle fencing, crushed and broken and scattered on the ground.
All gone.
Except for the goats. They’d escaped the carnage and roamed freely, sniffing curiously at the charred remains.
Her gaze shot to the hillside that rose upward behind the barn. The root cellar? Could Betsy have possibly sought shelter there?
She rushed forward, stumbled once, then regained her footing. She reached the hillside, wrenched open the cellar door, and peered inside the darkened hole. Empty. She shut the door and slumped to the ground, drained and in shock. Micaiah and his men had burned them out, stolen their provisions, and —
Eyeing the devastation around her, she tried to make sense of everything. The fire had been set hours ago. But Betsy hadn’t disappeared until today. Had she come here or gone to Cypress Creek?
Where was her sister?
She took a deep breath and stood. She’d return to the logging camp and ask Caleb for help, something she should have done the minute she’d found Betsy missing. But she’d never dreamed —
Halfway across the yard, she heard the chatter of the kits. In spite of the bands of fear around her heart, she smiled and dropped to her knees as they ran to her, searching for a morsel of food.
The noon hour had come and gone by the time the men cleared all the trees, creating an open space around the camp a good three hundred yards in every direction. Next they snaked logs around the perimeter. Unless Micaiah Jones and his men had draft horses of their own, they’d be hard-pressed to move the massive logs or to get over or around them.
Quinn stood, hands on his hips, surveying the scene. “What do ya hope t’ gain from this?”
“We need to defend the camp as best we can. It won’t stop them, but at least we’ll see them coming.” Caleb crossed his arms. “If we had time, we’d clear the land all the way to Cypress Creek.”
“To what purpose?” William pursed his lips.
“These men thrive on using the woods as cover. The open land would force them to take to the river.”
“Or they’d become so enraged, they’d attack.”
“Aye.” Caleb shrugged.
Quinn stared at him, a look of consternation on his face. “Ya act like ya want to fight these river pirates.”
“If it becomes necessary.” Caleb squared up to him. “Tell me, Brother, if you had the choice between fighting them yourself and having someone who’s trained t’ do the fighting in your stead, what would you choose?”
“The trained fighter.”
“Then I’m your man, and the sooner we get this camp protected, the sooner I’ll be off t’ fight them.”
“Ye’re no’ serious, are ya?”
“Why would I no’ be?”
“Caleb!”
He glanced up to see Connor headed their way, his long strides eating up the distance.
“That fool girl has run off again.”
“Betsy?”
“Well, her too. Lydia said Betsy was nowhere to be found, and Alanah went home t’ fetch her back.” Connor shoved a hand through his hair. “Eejit women. The two of them are going t’ get themselves killed over a couple o’ baby raccoons —”
But Caleb was no longer listening to his brother. He hurried away, determined to find Alanah and Betsy before Micaiah did.
Alanah found a basket and tucked the baby raccoons inside. She trudged to the edge of the forest, then turned back, looking at the charred remains of her home.
It hadn’t been much, but it had been hers. She should have begged Uncle Jude to head north the day he’d first mentioned it. They would have been long gone by now. And now everything was lost. Even Betsy.
A sudden thrashing in the woods had her melting into the underbrush beneath a towering pine. The basket bumped the tree and the kits whimpered. She draped her cloak over the basket and whispered a soothing “Shh.”
Three goats came rushing past, over the ridge, back to the smoldering remains of their home. Something had disturbed them. She waited, tuning out the minute scratching of a bird searching for bugs, the squirrel chattering in the tree thirty feet to her right, the soft breeze rustling the leaves overhead. All
common, normal sounds that wouldn’t faze the goats in the least.
Instead she listened for the uncommon.
Gradually she picked up the slow, consistent crunch of leaves, the shuffle of feet as someone made their way through the forest.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
The sound of footsteps and the unmistakable swish of clothing.
Crunch, crunch. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
A whimper.
She reached to quiet the baby raccoons but froze before her hand touched the basket.
Betsy.
The whimper had come from her sister, being hauled through the forest by a man Alanah knew only as Finley. A vicious man that Lydia had stitched up more than once. Finley jerked her sister forward, uncaring when she fell at his feet. With hardly a pause, Betsy’s captor yanked her up and marched on.
Alanah reached for an arrow, nocked it, then went still when four more men materialized out of the shadows.
Her hand shook as her gaze shifted to the man who held her sister captive. The arrow was centered on his back, an inch to the left of his spine, below the shoulder blade. A shot to the heart. He’d be dead before he hit the ground.
But so would Betsy. So would she.
After these men had their way with them.
“Do no’ do it, lass.”
She almost let the arrow fly when Caleb’s whisper floated to her from inches away. Her hand shook. The slightest tremble.
As the distance between her and her sister grew, so did her despair of rescuing Betsy from her captors.
She lowered the bow as a silent tear slid down her cheek.
“Those men are taking her to Micaiah.” Alanah shoved the hood back, climbed out of the underbrush, and glared at him. “We have to get her back —”
“I will get her back.” Caleb wrapped his fingers around her wrist to keep her from taking off after the cutthroats and getting herself killed. “You will go back t’ camp.”
“I’m going after my sister.” Her golden eyes, dark with determination, rose to meet his. “If we don’t go now, they’ll cross the river, and we’ll never catch them.”
He heard a whimper and palmed his knife. “What was that?”
“The kits.” Alanah picked up the basket, lifted the lid, and a baby raccoon poked its head out. “The reason Betsy went back home.”
He hunkered down, ran the tip of his finger over the head of the tiny animal. “She’d want you t’ take ’em to safety.”
“She would, but I know where they’re taking her. You don’t.”
“What do you mean?” He jerked his attention to her face.
“I know where their hiding place is. Cottonmouth Island, on the other side of the river.”
“A large, long stretch of land about three miles downriver?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I saw it when we took the timber downriver.”
Alanah started walking.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
He wondered at the catch in her voice but followed her anyway. Moments later, he saw the devastation.
“They burned us out.” Her voice sounded so small. So lost. “Everything’s gone.”
“I’m sorry, lass.”
“I am too.” She tucked the basket under the corner of the barn that remained. The kits tumbled out, raised themselves on their hind legs, and chattered at her. Reaching into her pocket, she dropped a handful of corn on the ground. The kits grabbed the kernels and started chewing. “Let’s go.”
Caleb followed in her wake. “Would they no’ cross the river at Cypress Creek?”
“No one keeps a boat at the landing. They keep it hidden if they want it to be there when they come back.”
“And you know where Micaiah’s men keep theirs?” Caleb scowled at her back.
“I know. But we’d better hope there is more than one.”
They were too late.
Alanah stood on the shore and watched two flatboats angling across the river, the late-afternoon sun blinding her to who manned the oars. But she had no doubt that Betsy was in one of those vessels.
As the boats disappeared downriver, her heart went with them. She turned away from the river. “Come on. I have a small raft. We’ll —”
“Alanah.” Caleb grabbed her arm. “We canna storm the island alone.”
Alanah stood, her arms clutched against her midsection, battling with the logic of his statement and the stark fear of losing her sister for good this time. “That’s what I did when Betsy disappeared the first time. I waited for Uncle Jude, and when he didn’t come, I went there alone. But they —they were gone. They’d taken Betsy and abandoned the island.”
She and Caleb would have to return to the logging camp, and by then . . .
Her stomach churned, and she pressed harder lest she be sick. She didn’t want to think about what Betsy might be going through at this very minute, but she couldn’t not think about it. Her sister had already endured more than was humanly possible for a girl who had become a woman barely three years ago.
Dear, sweet Betsy. She’d been an outgoing, bubbly child who’d never known a care in the world save her parents’ deaths, and she’d been too young to remember them. When Aunt Rachel had died, Lydia had taken over the role of mother for the then-thirteen-year-old.
And then she’d blossomed from a beautiful, carefree child into an even more beautiful young woman, and Micaiah Jones had taken notice.
Oh, Betsy, I failed you once again. My poor, sweet Betsy. Dear God in heaven, please protect my sister. Please don’t let her suffer more at the hands of that monster. Instead, allow her a quick and painless —
Horror filled Alanah at the thought that ricocheted through her brain. Had she actually just prayed that her sister would die at the hands of Micaiah Jones?
Lord Jesus, please no . . .
Unable to stop nature itself, she fell to her knees in the sand and retched.
As the contents of her stomach soaked into the sands along the Mississippi River, Caleb dipped his neckerchief in the river, then dabbed her forehead with the cool cloth.
“We’ll get her back, we will, lass.” But even as he lifted her to her feet, wrapped one arm around her waist, and led her away from the river, from her sister, back toward Cypress Creek and the logging camp, she knew.
There was nothing anyone could or would do to save one poor girl from the likes of Micaiah Jones.
Hadn’t her own uncle proven that all those months ago?
Chapter 24
“LOOK WHAT WE FOUND.”
Micaiah lifted his head, saw Betsy hunched into herself. He shifted his attention to the men fanned out behind her, grinning like fools.
Finley pushed her toward Micaiah, and she stumbled, lost her balance, then scrabbled inside the dilapidated cabin to the back corner, the same place she’d hidden and trembled months before.
He chuckled, remembering how she’d fought him tooth and nail when he’d first brought her to Cottonmouth Island. But this time she was silent as a tomb. He took a gulp of ale, not sure if he wanted any part of her now. Who wanted someone who couldn’t be bothered to fight back?
Besides, he had more important things to handle right now.
He turned toward the man cowering before him. “Where’s Massey?”
Colbert swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork. “Dead. So’s Wheeler.”
“What happened?”
“Elias told us to go downriver with the timber raft, to watch and listen and report back. But Massey and Wheeler decided to kill the others and take the timber for themselves. Only it didn’t work out the way they planned. Wainwright and that O’Shea feller got the upper hand and killed them.”
“But you got away and made your way back to here.”
“To tell Elias what had happened —”
“And the horse?” Micaiah glanced at the sleek black animal Colbert had ridden across the shallows to the island.
“Where did you get the horse?”
“I stole it. From travelers on the west side of the river. That’s the truth of it.”
River pirates sat on stumps, lounged on bedrolls, or just stood around watching. Brows lowered, Micaiah stalked toward the horse. He ran his hand down the powerful neck, along its sleek back to the rounded hips and fingered the brand on the horse’s haunch.
“Now, tell me again. Where did you get the horse?” He knew, but he wanted Colbert to tell him.
Before he killed him.
“I told —”
“You told me nothing!” The horse jerked away, startled by the roar of his voice. He soothed the animal with a gentle pat, then reached the idiot who’d dared to defy him in three long strides. The man cowered before him, which served only to enrage him.
“That horse belongs to Monsieur Boucher. You knew not to touch anything this side of the river. Not the horses, the plantations, the women, nothing. Now you’re going to bring the wrath of the French down on our heads. Cottonmouth Island was the one place we had no fear of repercussions.”
Eyes gleaming, Finley fingered his knife. “What are you going to do with him?”
“Get him out of my sight. And at first light, take him and the horse to Boucher and beg his forgiveness.”
“Beg his forgiveness?” Finley spat in the dirt. “Ye’re growing soft, Micaiah.”
Micaiah’s knife flashed, the tip pressed against Finley’s throat before the man could move. “Does this look soft to you?”
Finley raised his hands. “No.”
Micaiah glared at the men scattered around. “Nothing has changed. We leave the plantations and the settlers on this side of the river alone, and we are left alone in return. Is that understood?”
The men murmured agreement. They knew when they had a good thing. Situated downriver from Cypress Creek in a sharp bend in the river where most heavily laden flatboats ended up grounded on the hidden sandbars, Cottonmouth Island was ideal for waylaying unsuspecting travelers.
