The Crossing at Cypress Creek

by Pam Hillman

  As she foraged, her treacherous thoughts returned again and again to the dark-haired Irishman. Had he survived the attack? And if he had, would she ever see him again?

  More than likely not if he was traveling farther north. And in the end, that was a good thing. He’d seen her in Natchez and now in the woods. If he put two and two together, her carefully constructed ruse could fall apart.

  The noon hour was long past when she returned home, her bag bulging with the bounty of the forest. Lydia stirred a pot of hominy over an open fire, and a rabbit was roasting on a spit nearby, the savory aroma causing Alanah’s stomach to rumble. She tossed her bag of roots and herbs on the table and gestured toward the rabbit. “Snare? In the blackberry patch?”

  “Yes. You need to set another one.”

  Alanah chuckled. “Why didn’t you?”

  Lydia shrugged. “You’re much better at it than I am. And besides, I wanted to be here in case Betsy woke.”

  “Has she stirred at all?”

  “No.” Lydia bent over the spit, turned the rabbit.

  Alanah bit her lip, then dumped her findings on the table. “Do you think she’s sick?”

  “Heartsick.”

  Alanah scowled. “Heartsick? Over Micaiah Jones? Surely you jest.”

  “Micaiah has a hold on her. She’s afraid of him, but as long as she does exactly as he wants, he won’t hurt her. And somehow she’s got it all twisted up inside believing that’s normal.”

  “It’s crazy.”

  “Is it?” Lydia responded. “What would you do to survive?”

  “But Micaiah took her against her will.” Heart aching, hands shaking, Alanah sorted her findings. Bloodroot in one pile. Fresh mushrooms in another. Magnolia bark and cypress clippings in another. “For all I know, he defiled her —”

  “We’ve known from the beginning that Betsy wouldn’t come back the innocent girl she was when he took her away. If she came back at all.”

  Alanah swallowed. Lydia had cut open her darkest thoughts and laid them bare. She could no longer pretend that everything would return to the way it was before.

  “I know, but she’s so young. She’s hardly a woman.” She looked at Lydia, blinking back tears.

  “She survived. That’s all that matters right now.” Lydia’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, compassionate. “She’ll heal with time. We have to give her that time.”

  Alanah moved to Lydia. Giving the older woman a hug, she smiled. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

  “Not lately.” Lydia’s lips twitched. “Now, why don’t you go see if you can get your sister to eat. The sooner she gets her strength back, the sooner she’ll begin to heal. And bring some bowls. We’ll eat outside and enjoy this breeze, such as it is.”

  Inside the cabin, Alanah rummaged through the cupboards, gathering bowls and utensils. She glanced over her shoulder toward the curtained-off room at the back of the cabin. “Betsy? Are you hungry? We have rabbit and hominy. You like that.”

  When she didn’t get an answer, she placed the bowls on the table, then peeked through the curtain. “Betsy?”

  The rope bed she shared with her sister was empty, save for a pile of blankets, her sister nowhere to be found.

  “Lydia!” Alanah ran for the door. “Betsy’s gone.”

  Her eyes scanned the area surrounding the cabin. A flicker of movement sent her running headlong into the forest. “Betsy! Stop. Please.”

  But her sister was having none of it. She threw a frightened look over her shoulder, hiked her tattered shift, and ran, barely heeding the limbs and briars that tore at her.

  Alanah lost sight of her sister somewhere in the woods, but she kept going, coming out on the wagon road between Mount Locust and Cypress Creek. Heart pounding, she prayed that Betsy wouldn’t take the road to Natchez. Walking, it would take hours to reach the town, but in Betsy’s state of mind, she would just keep going until she arrived at her destination.

  If some nefarious group of outlaws didn’t run her down first.

  Please, Lord, protect my sister. Show me the direction to take.

  Alanah searched the pathway, the overnight rain making it easy to spot the two-pronged indentations of deer bounding across the trail, a raccoon that had meandered by. A squirrel —her heart lurched when she spotted Betsy’s footprints, heading toward Mount Locust.

  She didn’t pretend to understand Betsy’s mentality after what she’d been through. But she’d do anything to keep something equally horrible from happening again.

  The only reason Micaiah’s men hadn’t had their way with her sister and left her floating lifeless in the Mississippi River was their fear of Micaiah. And the only reason Micaiah had threatened them was because he could.

  Alanah didn’t harbor any illusions that the vile outlaw cared for Betsy. He was too depraved for that. He’d used her for his own pleasure and as a means to keep his men in line. And if he hadn’t been caught and imprisoned for his crimes, he would have done away with her if and when it suited him.

  But she couldn’t worry about Micaiah now. Her only concern was Betsy.

  She ran another mile along the forested lane before, out of breath, she stopped to get her bearings. As she stood there in the middle of the lane, a cold finger of dread snaked down her spine.

  The logging camp she and Lydia had spotted was just over the next ridge. Surely Betsy wouldn’t —

  Chapter 5

  “YOU CAN HANDLE MOLLY NOW. Ja?” Björn patted the large draft horse.

  Caleb wasn’t as confident as the big Swede, but he nodded. “Ja.”

  Laughing at Caleb’s attempt to mimic his accent, Björn moved away, hitched his team of three to a massive log and, with little fanfare, pulled it out of the way. “We must clear all the logs from the road. Gimpy will be moving camp today.”

  Caleb turned to the one horse he’d been assigned. “I hope you know what t’ do, Molly girl.”

  Surprisingly, the horse did know what to do as long as Caleb chose logs small enough for her to drag on her own. He left the large ones for Björn and the others. He lost track of how many logs he snaked to the side of the road, quickly learning how to get them out of the way so that teams of horses and wagons could pass through.

  Some of the logs they left where they lay. Others they piled into bunches by the wayside or in small meadows. Once they broke through to the river and formed a permanent camp, they’d drag them to a staging ground and float them downriver. The idea of using the river intrigued Caleb, and he hoped to convince Connor and William to let him work with the rafting crews.

  Late in the day, he spotted the supply wagons heading toward him. Gimpy, the cook, nodded, then passed on by, followed by two more wagons filled with bedrolls and cookware.

  Connor brought up the rear. “How’s it going?”

  “Good.” Caleb patted the draft animal. “Molly seems t’ know what she’s doing. What o’ Tiberius? Is he learning how t’ wield a saw?”

  Connor grinned. “I paired him with Moses. Once he becomes accustomed t’ the feel o’ the two-man crosscut saw, they’ll be an unstoppable team.”

  “He’s a hard worker.”

  “That he is. Moses, too. I predict they’ll see which one can hold out the longest, which will be fun for the rest o’ us t’ watch.” Connor pointed to where the other wagons turned off the trail. “See that clearing up ahead? That’s where we’ll make camp for the next few days.”

  “Aye. I’ll be there when I finish up here.”

  “Those logs can wait till morning.”

  “I promised Björn I’d finish clearing this side.”

  “All right.” Connor slapped the reins against his horses’ withers. “See ya at supper.”

  When Connor was gone, Caleb hooked the chain to another log and pulled it off the trail. As he reached to unhook the chain, he spotted movement in the underbrush. Just a flicker, but enough to alert him that something was out there in the woods. Remaining still, he focused on the are
a.

  There. Shades of brown and tan shifted, then blended with the forest, only to reappear again, moving stealthily. A deer? A wild hog foraging, perhaps?

  Leaving Molly hitched to the log, he eased along the lower side of the ridge fifty feet beyond where he’d seen movement. Inching up the incline, he peered over the edge. With an open view beyond the ridge, he crouched in the underbrush and waited.

  He froze in shocked surprise when a woman, not an animal, came into his line of sight.

  With an impressive-looking bow strapped to her back, she flitted through the forest like a woodland fairy, at one with the shadows. She paused, her tattered and patched clothing almost invisible against the bark of a massive pine. Quietly and carefully, she moved again, straight toward the clearing where Connor and the other men were setting up camp.

  Caleb’s jaw hardened.

  Who was this woman and what was she doing stalking his brother’s logging crew?

  When she drew near, he stepped into the open. Their eyes met, hers surprised and wary. One minute she was staring at him with wide golden eyes, so out of place on her dirt-smudged face, and the next he found himself looking at the sharp end of an arrow, nocked, bow drawn. She backed away, her aim never wavering from a spot somewhere on his chest.

  Caleb held up both hands, palms out. “I’m no’ going t’ hurt you, lass.”

  Her tawny eyes jerked to his face. Those eyes. It was the woman from Natchez, except —

  Her foot caught on a root, a limb, something hidden in the leaves, and she lost her balance, letting the arrow fly. Caleb dove for cover as the missile passed within inches of his ear, the whine too close for comfort.

  Then he rushed toward her before the fool girl could nock another arrow.

  Alanah fell backward, the forest floor doing little to cushion her landing. Her bow went one way, and she went the other.

  She rolled, scrambled to her feet, and grabbing her tattered skirts, ran. But she didn’t get far.

  A band of steel encircled her waist, sweeping her clear off her feet. She gasped; then pure terror kicked in, and she arched backward, kicking and scratching and clawing with everything within her.

  Even as she fought, it dawned on her that her captor wasn’t hitting back. He could have put a stop to her wild shenanigans right there on the spot, but he didn’t. Suddenly her boot connected with his shin, and he let out a growl of rage.

  “Enough.” Faster than a striking adder, he twisted her around, and she caught a glimpse of his clenched jaw through the mass of hair that covered her face. Eyes flashing and chest heaving, he clasped her by the forearms and shook her. She glared at him, but he shoved his face within inches of hers and gritted out, “Enough, I say. I do no’ know who you are, or what game you’re playing, but you can stop it right now.”

  His narrowed gaze raked over her hair, her clothes. “You’re the same lass from Natchez, or my name isn’t Caleb O’Shea, so do no’ bother denying it.”

  Fear shot through her. Not fear of this man. Not the kind of fear she felt when men like Micaiah Jones landed in Cypress Creek. But fear that he’d seen her in Natchez. Frozen in place, she tried to gather her wits enough to start fighting again, to claw and scrape and screech like the crazy woman she claimed to be, but all she could think of was that he knew she wasn’t crazy.

  He’d seen Addled Alanah when she wasn’t the least bit addled or rattled.

  Unlike at this moment, when he had her rattled to the core.

  She tried to jerk out of his grasp, but he was having none of it.

  “I’ll let you go, lass, if you promise no’ to start fighting again.”

  Alanah nodded. It was all she could manage. As soon as he let her go, she scooted away, put some distance between them, then surreptitiously started searching the ground for her bow. She’d grab it and go, run back home, hope Betsy had returned.

  The man —he’d said his name was Caleb —took two long strides and scooped up her bow. “Is this what you’re looking for?” He ran his hands down the length of the bow, then arched a brow at her. “Are you any good with this?”

  Alanah shrugged.

  He cocked his head to one side, a quizzical look on his face as if he couldn’t quite figure her out. Alanah didn’t blame him. She couldn’t figure herself out either.

  “You can have it back —” he presented the bow, then held it fast when she clasped the other end —“if you promise t’ no’ shoot me and t’ tell me your name.”

  Alanah tugged the bow and glared at him.

  “I know you can talk. I heard you in Natchez.” He shrugged. “It’s none o’ me business why you’re dressed in rags, covered in soot, and your golden hair looks like a rat’s nest. I suppose you have your reasons, and I will no’ ask what they are. But I would ask your name.”

  He’d said she had golden hair. Alanah resisted the urge to smooth the tangled mess. She looked at the bow, then lowered her gaze.

  “Alanah,” she whispered. “Alanah Adams.”

  “Why are you —?” Caleb checked himself. He’d promised not to ask any questions if she’d just give him her name. She’d upheld her end of the agreement. He gave a slight bow, the movement tugging against the weapon tethering them. “Pleased t’ meet you, Mistress Alanah.”

  Her tawny eyes widened; then her lashes lowered, and she dipped in a curtsy.

  A shaft of sunlight haloed around her, causing glints of gold to shine through the soot and wild disarray of her hair, and he got another glimpse of the woman he’d seen in Natchez. But still, he didn’t let go of the bow. “Thank you for the tea.”

  She looked at him then and broke her silence. “How is your friend?”

  “Much better. He’s on his way home t’ his family right now.”

  “I’m glad.” She gave the bow another tug.

  He let go and stepped back. “Do you live close by? Should I escort you home?”

  Why he asked, he didn’t know, but the thought of leaving her alone in the forest unnerved him. Even though she tried to hide beneath dirt and rags, any man with one eye and half sense could tell she was a bonny lass.

  She shook her head and, the bow clutched to her, backed away.

  A scream rent the air, and she whirled toward the sound. With one panicked glance in his direction, the woodland fairy took off at a dead run toward the logging camp. Caleb raced after her.

  As he reached the edge of the clearing, he spotted a young woman —hardly more than a girl —huddled on the ground next to the cook’s wagon. Skin and bones, her shift hardly decent, bare feet cracked and bleeding, and eyes wild and terrified, she shot fear —and compassion —through Caleb.

  And from the looks of the other men standing in a circle around her, they weren’t sure what to make of her either. Alanah rushed to her side, crouched in the dirt, and cradled the frail woman-child against her.

  Caleb heard the whispers from the onlookers.

  “That’s Addled Alanah and her sister.”

  Sister? Yes, Caleb could see the resemblance in spite of the tangled hair, dirt-encrusted faces, and tattered clothes.

  “Both of ’em are crazier than bess bugs.”

  “No wonder. Old Jude let Looney Lydia raise ’em after his wife passed on. What do you expect?”

  Connor strode into their midst. “What’s going on here?” he bellowed.

  The simpleminded woman-child whimpered and buried her head in Alanah’s shoulder. Alanah hugged the girl close, her expression wary.

  Gimpy shook a slab of bacon. “She was sneaking around the wagon. Tried to steal this bacon right out from under my nose.”

  Brows lowered, Connor placed his hands on his hips. “I see.”

  Caleb pushed through the crowd of men. “I see no harm in letting them have the bacon. From the looks o’ them, they could use it.”

  “River rats from the landing.” Gimpy scowled. “Give ’em an inch, and they’ll take a mile.”

  “That’s enough, Gimpy.” Connor took the meat
from the crusty old cook, and just as his brother had welcomed Caleb back into the fold without so much as a question or concern over where he’d been or what he’d done these past three years, he hunkered down so that he was at eye level with the women huddled in the middle of the clearing. He held out the meat. “Take it.”

  Without a word, Alanah snatched the bacon out of Connor’s hands, gathered her sister, then stood. Wrapping her tattered cloak around the younger woman, she urged her away. As they passed, her clear-eyed gaze lifted to Caleb’s, pleading with him not to give her secret away.

  And he wouldn’t, but Alanah Adams was no more addled than he was.

  As soon as they were well away from the logging camp, Alanah stopped, grabbed her sister by the arm, and gritted out, “What were you thinking? Stealing from those men?”

  “I was hungry, and —” Betsy blinked up at her, looking confused —“Micaiah . . . Micaiah will be wanting dinner.”

  “Betsy, Micaiah isn’t here. He’s in French Camp.” Alanah hesitated to remind her sister that the outlaw was in jail for murder, not after the last time she’d screeched like a banshee. “You remember, don’t you?”

  “I —yes, I remember.” Betsy frowned, then moved closer to Alanah. “Don’t let him take me again.”

  Alanah’s heart twisted. One minute Betsy was willing to throw herself back into that vileness; the next, she was terrified of the monster who’d taken her. If Micaiah Jones wasn’t set to be hanged one hundred and sixty miles to the north, she’d see him hang herself. “I won’t, dearest.”

  Betsy slumped against her. “Alanah, I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Not for the first time, Alanah hated pretending to be crazy, dressing in rags, and living in filth. But when she looked at Betsy, saw the consequences of looking pretty and normal and sane, how the men who frequented Cypress Creek had fought over her sister as soon as Betsy had defied Uncle Jude and started wearing the beautiful gowns in the trunk.