The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  He dropped the adze and moved to stand toe-to-toe with her. “And what will I use for those repairs if you sell the lumber? Tell me that, mistress.”

  “We won’t transport all the lumber to Natchez.” She inclined her head, lifted her skirts, and turned away. “You’ll have plenty of lumber to finish the repairs here.”

  “This was not part o’ the terms, lass.”

  She whirled to face him. “I know it is not what we agreed on. Do you think I like it any more than you do? Do you think we wanted to lose part of the cotton to those men? This is the only solution I can think of, and if you have a better one, I’d like to hear it.”

  Connor ran a hand through his hair. She was right. There was no other solution.

  “I’ll start gradin’ the lumber, then.”

  Chapter 19

  TRAVELING THE TRACE made even the horses nervous.

  “Whoa.” Connor kept a tight rein on his team, which seemed inclined to bolt any minute. He glanced at Isabella, seated next to him. “How likely are we to be attacked on this journey?”

  “Not likely. Not with such a large party as this. And definitely not on the way toward Natchez.”

  “And why is that?”

  “The thieves aren’t interested in the goods we’re carrying to Natchez.”

  “Ah. But they would be very interested in the jingle in our pockets on the return journey?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I see.”

  Connor kept an eye out regardless. They’d left before daybreak and, if they didn’t have any problems during the journey, would arrive in Natchez before dark. The sooner they got to Natchez, the sooner they could sell the lumber, and he could get back to Breeze Hill, back to the job he’d been hired to do.

  A commotion at the head of the column had him reaching for his pistol. Isabella craned her neck. “What is it?”

  “Riders.”

  The call to halt echoed down the line. Connor could see Mr. Wainwright speaking with the head of the other party. The men nodded, and Wainwright’s son wheeled his mount and started down the column.

  When he drew abreast of them, Wainwright pulled his mount to a halt and doffed his hat. Isabella leaned across Connor, close, and he got a whiff of something tantalizingly sweet.

  “Who are they, William?”

  “Travelers returning to Tennessee. They ferried their goods downriver, and now they’re headed back. They’re probably just as wary of us as we are of them. They have horses, no wagons, so we’re going to stay put and let them pass.” His steady gaze rested on Connor. “But keep your weapons handy. They might not be who they say they are.”

  The strangers moved single file alongside the wagons. Connor pulled his pistol and rested it against his thigh. Their party might be strong in numbers, but they were spread out like butter on a piece of crusty bread. His horses rolled their eyes and snorted. “Easy.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Mews and Toby in the wagon behind theirs, also loaded down with lumber. They were in a tight spot for sure. Sloping banks of soft, loamy dirt lifted high above his head on both sides of the wagon, leaving them vulnerable to attack from all sides. There was barely room for one wagon to make it through this bottleneck, let alone for two parties to pass each other.

  Connor’s eyes met and held the leader’s as he drew near, so close they could reach out and shake hands if they chose. Instead, Connor kept one hand on his pistol, the other holding the horses in check.

  The man’s attention moved to Isabella, and he tipped his hat. Connor shifted, blocked the man’s view, and his gaze slid past Isabella back to Connor. No words were spoken, no greeting. He gave a short nod and continued on.

  Then came another and another, the tension mounting as the men rode past, all with their guns held at the ready. Thankfully, they passed without incident, and the call came from the front to head out.

  Soon the whole party was moving forward again, and Connor breathed a sigh of relief.

  “That went well.” Isabella’s voice came out high-pitched.

  Connor urged the horses forward. “We might not be so blessed next time.”

  They arrived at Wainwright House in Natchez as darkness fell, and none too soon. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled across the river. Isabella allowed Connor to lift her down from the wagon.

  William walked up to them and eyed the encroaching storm. “Looks like we arrived in the nick of time.”

  Connor plopped his hands on his hips. “Where’s the best place to find contractors and craftsmen?”

  “I’d say Brice’s Tavern.”

  “Mistress Bartholomew, with your permission, I’ll go immediately and put out the word that Breeze Hill has lumber for sale. Hopefully by the morrow, you’ll have your contracts in hand.”

  “I’ll accompany you.”

  Connor glared at her. “Brice’s Tavern is no place for a lady.”

  William crossed his arms and regarded them, an amused smile on his face. He didn’t believe she had control of her indentured servant. Isabella lifted her chin. “My father wouldn’t have sent me if he didn’t want me to be involved in the negotiations.”

  “There will be no negotiations tonight, mistress. I’ll simply make some contacts and have them come visit you here at Wainwright House.” His gaze cut to William. “Assuming that’s all right with you, sir?”

  William’s lips twitched. “Quite all right.”

  “You’re new to Natchez and don’t even know where the tavern is.”

  “O’ course I can find it. I landed in Natchez months ago, lass.”

  “Still—”

  “Begging your pardon, Mistress Bartholomew, but your father asked me t’ protect you, and I don’t think allowing you t’ accompany me t’ a tavern of ill repute would suit.”

  Her face heated at the reminder of the night they’d spent at Harper’s Inn. He arched a brow. “And besides, it’s beginning t’ rain.”

  “Isabella.” William stepped forward and gave a slight bow. “I’ll be glad to accompany Mr. O’Shea to the tavern. You’ll be quite comfortable here at Wainwright House until we return.”

  They were right on all counts, which irritated her no end.

  “Very well, then. You may go.”

  A gleam of triumph sparked in Connor’s gaze, and she wanted to kick him in the shins.

  Thankful for the rain that cooled his ire, Connor barreled down one street, then another. Isabella Bartholomew was the most stubborn woman he’d ever met. If he—

  “Hold up there, my good man.”

  Connor blinked. He’d forgotten about Wainwright. He slowed his pace, gave a slight bow. “My apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to rush ahead like that.”

  “No harm done.” Wainwright ducked under the nearest stoop as the rain began to fall harder than before. Connor joined him. “I enjoyed seeing you put Isabella in her place like that. However, are you sure you know where Brice’s Tavern is?”

  Connor glanced one way, then the other, then shrugged. “T’ tell you the truth, I have no idea. I’ve been in Natchez twice: the day I arrived and the day Isabella—Miss Bartholomew—bought my papers.”

  “But you told Isabella you’d been here for months.”

  “I’ve been in the district for months, just not in Natchez. As soon as we arrived, we made our way t’ the outskirts of Natchez to build a country estate for Mr. Bloomfield and remained there until Master Benson died of the fever.”

  “Let’s hope Isabella doesn’t find out, then.” Wainwright chuckled and clapped Connor on the back in a friendly manner. “Follow me, and I’ll lead you to Brice’s Tavern.”

  The streets had turned into a muddy quagmire by the time they arrived at the tavern. The place was packed as everyone attempted to avoid the nasty weather outside. Most ignored them, except for a beady-eyed man whose gaze followed them as they wove through the crowd.

  Wainwright approached the proprietor. “Mr. Brice, how fare you these days?”

  “Fair to
middlin’, sir. Fair to middlin’.”

  “This is Mr. O’Shea.” Wainwright motioned to Connor. “He’s here on behalf of Breeze Hill Plantation with seasoned lumber to sell. Might you know of any new construction going on?”

  “Aye. There’s new construction all along Wall and Jefferson Streets.” He nodded at a man seated in the corner. “See the man with the pipe. He’s overseeing several building projects as we speak.”

  “Thank you, Brice.” Wainwright ordered a tankard of ale and approached the stranger. “Good afternoon, sir. Mr. Brice informed us you might be interested in some lumber.”

  “I might at that.” The man removed his pipe. “Name’s Wicker. And who might you be?”

  Wainwright bowed. “William Wainwright of Wainwright Hall, north of Natchez.”

  Wicker’s eyes slid to Connor, begging an introduction. Wainwright complied. “And this is Connor O’Shea, master craftsman, serving Mr. Bartholomew of Breeze Hill Plantation. O’Shea is representing Mr. Bartholomew, as he is indisposed.”

  “Yes, I heard about Bartholomew. Nasty business.” His attention turned to Connor, and a smirk crossed his face. “Master craftsman, you say. And who did you learn the trade from?”

  “Benson, sir.”

  “I’ve seen some of Benson’s craftsmanship.” Wicker stuck his pipe in his mouth, took a long draught, and nodded. “Excellent work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you offer a steady supply of lumber, O’Shea? I’ve contracted to build three magnificent homes to rival the governor’s mansion in the next two years. I’ll need lumber. Lots of it.”

  Connor squelched his panic. Mr. Bartholomew would have to hire more laborers. But wasn’t that why they’d come to Natchez—to find a way to generate revenue for Breeze Hill, to rebuild, to plant crops, and—God willing—to send for his brothers? He nodded. “Yes, sir. Breeze Hill can and will supply the lumber you need. We have two wagons at Wainwright House awaiting your inspection.”

  “Tell you what, O’Shea, I’ll take a look at that lumber of yours. If it’s of the quality I require, we might be able to strike a deal.”

  “Thank you, sir. Mistress Bartholomew is residing at Wainwright House and can receive you on the morrow if you’re agreeable.”

  “Bartholomew’s daughter? What does she have to do with this?” Wicker scowled at Wainwright. “This is business, not a tea party.”

  “Mr. Wicker, agreeing to let Miss Bartholomew have the last say in the negotiations was the lesser of two evils.” Wainwright chuckled. “A compromise to save our sanity, if you get my meaning.”

  “Ah, a difficult chit, then?”

  Wainwright tossed a glance at Connor, his lips twisting in amusement. “Some would say so.”

  “I’ll call promptly at ten then, but make sure that girl keeps her place.” Wicker rose. “Good day to you, sir.”

  When they were alone, Wainwright took a draught of his ale. Connor waited, watching patrons enter and leave. Wainwright motioned for a refill. “How about a pint, O’Shea?”

  “No thank you, sir.” Connor remained watchful. He didn’t like the looks of this place. Didn’t like the looks of the beady-eyed man across the room. Something wasn’t right, even though Wainwright didn’t seem the least bit fazed. Besides, Connor didn’t have enough coin in his pockets to waste on stale ale.

  An hour later, Connor helped an unsteady Wainwright to his feet.

  “You’ve had enough, sir. We’d best be goin’.”

  “Just one more.” Wainwright reached for the tankard and drained the last drop.

  Before the man could ask for more of the strong drink, Connor propelled him toward the door. They’d barely left their chairs when two men slid into the vacated seats. More men crowded the low-ceilinged building, squeezing into every nook and cranny, some standing, some hunkered against the walls or loitering on the stairs.

  Someone shifted, bumped Wainwright, and he jostled a stranger who stood between him and the door. A hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Wainwright’s waistcoat. “Watch where you’re going, mister.”

  Instantly Connor came alert. It was the same man who’d watched them when they first arrived.

  “My apologies, sir. It was an accident.” Wainwright pushed the man’s hand away. “If you’ll kindly move aside and let me pass.”

  “And what if I don’t?” Small beady eyes flickered to Connor, then back to Wainwright. “Move aside, that is?”

  “Are you challenging me?”

  “Challenging you?” A snort not unlike that of a pig escaped. “To what? A duel?”

  “You’re challenging me to a duel?” Wainwright wove, unsteady on his feet. He took a deep breath, his bloodshot eyes bulging. He leaned forward, scowling. “Knives or pistols?”

  “We’ll settle this right now. No need for a duel.” The man took a swing at Wainwright.

  After the first punch, Wainwright’s head seemed to clear, and he threw two punches at his assailant.

  Connor plunged into the fray, swinging his fists, trying to get a good lick in. But the room was too crowded, too many people everywhere, to make contact anywhere that would do much damage. And besides, even a bit unsteady on his feet, Wainwright seemed to be holding his own.

  Like a cascade of falling cordwood, arguments ensued and fists flew as those close by joined in the melee. A flash of metal glinted in the lamplight, and Connor jerked back just in time to avoid being stabbed.

  Wainwright wasn’t so lucky. The knife caught him in the stomach.

  Connor dove at the knife-wielding man, grabbed his arm, and jerked it upward with such force he heard the shoulder bones crack. A scream of pain tore from the man’s throat, lost in the roar of the dozen or so men pushing and shoving, shouting and throwing punches at each other.

  Connor shoved the man into the throng and reached for Wainwright, slumped over the nearest table. If he could make it to the door before the beady-eyed man’s companions got to him, they might get out of here alive.

  Only a few more feet and he’d make it.

  A chair slammed into his head and shoulders from behind, splinters raining all around him. He pushed Wainwright toward the door, grabbed a piece of splintered wood from the chair, and drove it into his attacker’s stomach. The man fell back with an oomph.

  Beady Eyes filled his spot, rushing at Connor.

  Whatever these men had against Wainwright, it was obvious they weren’t going to let him live. Wainwright wrenched the door open, lurched outside, and fell against a rain barrel, clutching his middle.

  Halfway out the door himself, Connor caught a glimpse of the man’s face, pain-filled and pasty white.

  Beady Eyes charged. White-hot anger exploded in Connor’s chest. Enough of this. Instead of dodging, Connor grabbed him and propelled the man right out the door with him. They landed in a heap, Connor’s knife at the man’s throat.

  “One move, and I’ll slit your throat.”

  The man went limp. “We didn’t mean nothin’, mister. It was just a little misunderstanding, that’s all.”

  “I don’t believe you. You had your eyes on my friend from the moment we entered the tavern.” Never mind that he and Wainwright weren’t exactly friends. Right now he just wanted to know why Wainwright had been singled out, and not just for a beating, but a gutting. Connor pressed the knife against the man’s throat. “Talk. Why were you after Master Wainwright?”

  “Connor, I don’t think they were after me. They were . . .” Wainwright trailed off, then let go of the barrel and rolled to land on his back in the mud-logged street. Blood covered his torso.

  Connor let the man go and knelt in the mud, feeling for a pulse. “Master Wainwright, can you hear me?”

  “Wainwright of Wainwright Hall?” The man’s eyes bugged out, and he backed away. “Truly, sir, we didna mean no harm to a Wainwright. It was you we was after. You tell ’em that, ya hear?”

  And with that the miscreant fled.

  A clatter woke Isabella.


  “Finally,” she whispered, reaching for a candle.

  Long after Mr. Wainwright and the housekeeper had retired, she’d stayed up waiting on William and Connor but had fallen asleep on the settee in the parlor.

  The door burst open and Connor and William fell into the room, Connor’s arm wrapped around William’s waist. William was barely conscious, one arm draped over Connor’s shoulder.

  “Merciful heavens, what happened?”

  “He’s been stabbed.”

  “Stabbed?” Horror swept over Isabella.

  “Which room is his?”

  “Upstairs. Second door on the right. I’ll ring for Mrs. Butler.”

  “What’s going on down there?” Mr. Wainwright poked his head over the banister, candle held high. “William!”

  In a daze, Isabella watched as Mr. Wainwright called for their stable hand. Mews and Toby came running as well. Within minutes, the men had William in a bedroom on the main floor, as carrying him up the stairs proved too difficult.

  The men closed the door behind them as Mrs. Butler bustled to the kitchen to boil water. The stable hand—she learned his name was Jack—rushed out of the house in search of the doctor. Then, suddenly, Isabella found herself alone, standing in the middle of the parlor, everyone with a job to do.

  Everyone except her.

  Indecision warred within her. She should go help Mrs. Butler. Anything to keep busy, and the poor woman was distraught. She took one step in that direction and spotted a prayer book on a side table next to the door.

  Tears stung her eyes, even as an irrational anger swept over her. She’d prayed for her mother to return, and she never had. She’d prayed for Jonathan to be found safe and sound, but it wasn’t to be. They’d lost their crops. Her father had almost lost his life. And now William lay on a bed in the next room, at death’s door.

  She grabbed the prayer book and held it up, her gaze beseeching heaven. “What next, God? Will You take the babe as well? Like Job, will I lose everything I hold dear?”

  “Thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh.”