by Pam Hillman
“Tiberius.” Lydia blocked the door to the sickroom.
The three of them stood there without moving, but for some reason, Alanah felt as if the other two had forgotten her presence. Tiberius mangled his hat in his hands, gazing at Lydia like a moonstruck calf.
Alanah hefted the haunch of venison. “I’ll just . . .”
Trailing off, she left the two of them standing there, doubting they even knew when she departed.
Chapter 9
CALEB BOWED OVER HIS SISTER-IN-LAW’S HAND.
“Pleased t’ meet you, Isabella.” He straightened. “Or should I call you Mistress O’Shea?”
She curtsied, a tiny smile playing over her lips, her dark eyes twinkling. His gaze narrowed. Was she laughing? At him?
“Oh, Isabella is fine. We don’t stand on ceremony here at Breeze Hill.” She took Connor by the arm, then reached up and kissed his cheek. “You didn’t tell me that Caleb was so much like you, darling.”
“Like me?” Connor scowled. “We look nothing alike. He looks like Mam, all black-eyed and dark-skinned. The rest o’ us take after Da.”
She patted his arm. “Oh, he’s more like you than you think.”
A small whirlwind came flying around the corner, almost barreled Isabella over. Only Caleb’s quick grab at the boy’s collar saved her. Green eyes peered up at him. Eyes just like Da’s, just like Connor’s. His heart squeezed.
Patrick.
Caleb bent to eye level, and the boy looked him over carefully. Gone was the pudgy five-year-old he’d left in Ireland. In his place was a strapping youngster whose tanned arms stuck out a good two inches past his shirtsleeves. Caleb grinned. “Do you know who I am, lad?”
“Aye. Ye’re me other brother, Caleb.” Patrick jutted out his chin. “Quinn says ya left us t’ fend for ourselves back in Ireland. That ya cared more about sailing the high seas than ya cared about family. Is that true?”
“That’s enough, Patrick.” Connor’s voice split the air like a shot. “You’ll do well t’ keep a civil tongue in your head —”
Caleb straightened. “The lad is only speaking the truth. I should no’ have left.”
Connor looked pained. “It was no’ your place t’ take care of them. It was mine. I should’ve been there —”
“Oh, hush, you two. All that’s over and done with, and there’s not a thing either of you can do about it. You’re all here now, and that’s what matters.” Isabella plopped her hands on her hips and glared at them both. “And it calls for a celebration. Patrick, go find Martha and tell her to meet me in the kitchen. We need to have a special meal tonight to celebrate. All the O’Shea brothers are finally together at long last.” She arched a brow at Connor. “You did bring Rory home with you, didn’t you?”
“Aye, he’s here, and so is William.”
“William? Oh, that’s wonderful.”
“He’s heading home, but I convinced him t’ stay here tonight and get an early start in the morning.”
“That was wise.” Isabella threaded her arm through Connor’s, then smiled at Caleb, eyes shining. “I’m so glad you’re here. You don’t know how devastated Connor was when he realized you weren’t on the ship with the others. We’ve prayed you would find your way home.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Maybe his sister-in-law wasn’t quite as uppity as he’d first thought.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to send Quinn and Kiera an invitation to dinner.”
As she hurried up the steps and into the house, Connor motioned Caleb forward. “Would you care to see Breeze Hill?”
“Aye.” Caleb followed his brother around the house to a shady courtyard and a grape arbor. A morning shower had dampened the fields, and there were puddles of water here and there. “Quinn’s no’ here, then?”
“No, he and his wife are at Magnolia Glen, the plantation I own.”
“Aye. I remember now. Mr. Wainwright explained it all t’ me.” Caleb shook his head. “But I confess, the entire tale sounded as if he’d kissed the Blarney stone himself.”
Connor stopped beneath the grape arbor, rested a hand on one of the sturdy posts. Beyond, long rows of cotton marched across the fields, dotted with a few spots of white, signaling that the bolls were almost ready for harvest. “I see. And what exactly did Thomas say?”
“He said that Breeze Hill belongs t’ Isabella’s father, and her nephew is the rightful heir, and that Magnolia Glen belongs t’ you.”
“Aye. That’s the gist o’ it.”
“Then why are you no’ there?”
“Isabella’s father is no’ well, so we’ve decided t’ stay here for now. There’s plenty o’ room, and Quinn’s rebuilding Magnolia Glen. He seems t’ enjoy managing the place without my interference.”
“He would.”
Connor’s brow furrowed. “What’s that mean?”
“No’ a thing.” Caleb shrugged, thinking of the times he and Quinn had gone head-to-head over some minor slight. “Quinn is no’ the easiest man t’ get along with. He used t’ light into me at the slightest provocation.”
Connor laughed, then clasped Caleb’s shoulder. “The two o’ you were just lads being lads. He’s changed.”
Caleb hoped so, because the last time he’d seen Quinn, they’d beaten each other to a pulp.
Alanah cut the venison into narrow strips and draped each piece over a drying rack, the smoke from the fire wafting up and over the meat to dissipate through the thatched roof of the outdoor summer kitchen. She dropped a few pieces into the stewpot, glad to have extra meat to supplement their diet in the coming weeks.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Lydia shooed Tiberius out of the cabin and then stood on the porch blocking the entrance, arms folded. Tiberius towered over her, but she didn’t back down. “He is in no shape to be moved to a tent in a logging camp.”
“I wasn’t going to take him away. He asked to sit on the porch.” Tiberius edged closer to Lydia. “You will move, woman, or I’ll do the moving for you.”
Alanah froze, watching the exchange. Would Tiberius show his true colors?
Lydia glared at him, her broad lips pressed into a tight line. Finally she shifted slightly, just enough to allow him to pass. “For a little while. In the sunlight. Out of the wind.”
“There is no wind.” Tiberius almost growled as he slipped by her.
“Fine, then. But if it starts raining again, he goes back inside.”
Tiberius lifted his gaze to the cloudless sky and, without a word, went back inside. Lydia glanced at Alanah, and she bent her head to the task at hand, lest Lydia see her amusement. The light shower had come and gone hours ago, just wetting the ground enough to settle the dust.
Clearly exasperated, Lydia whirled, disappeared into the room behind Tiberius. Moments later, they emerged, Frank Abbott supported between them, Lydia barking orders faster than the warning shake of a rattler’s tail.
Alanah stayed far away from the both of them as Lydia adjusted Frank’s chair, then covered him with a blanket. Frank sighed. “It feels good to be outside. Thank you, Miss Lydia.”
“Well, if you have a setback, don’t blame me.” Lydia jerked her chin toward Tiberius. “Blame him.”
Frank laughed. In the days he’d been with them, he’d learned that Lydia was more bluster than bite. “Now, Tiberius, how are things back at camp?”
“Good. We have —”
Just then, one of the nanny goats jumped up on the porch. When she spotted the men, she shook her head.
“Shoo. Shoo!” Lydia flapped her apron and the goat jumped off the porch, her flight scattering the rest of the goats. “Betsy! Those pesky goats are out again.”
But Betsy didn’t emerge from hiding. They’d have to get the goats up without her. Alanah grabbed a bucket and tried to coax them back toward the pen with the promise of grain.
Instead, the animals scattered and, bleating, ran around the house. Alanah followed, hoping to shoo them into the pen. But they were ont
o her tricks. They made another dash around the house, trampling through what was left of the garden and generally wreaking havoc on everything they encountered. Lydia stood near the clothesline, flapping her apron at them.
As Alanah rounded the house behind the goats a second time, Tiberius was standing in the middle of the yard next to Lydia. The goats, relishing their freedom, darted around the cabin, slipping and sliding on the thin layer of mud left by the early morning shower. Headed right toward Tiberius and Lydia.
Alanah skidded to a halt. “Watch out!”
The lead goat dodged Tiberius but couldn’t avoid running into Lydia. She squealed and, arms flailing, tried to keep her balance. Tiberius’s eyes went wide, and he grabbed for her.
But the slick ground, the rest of the goats almost running them over, caused him to slip. Both feet slipped out from under him, and he hit the ground with a thud, Lydia landing on top of him. Even from twenty feet away, Alanah heard the oomph as the breath was knocked out of him.
Alanah clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the snort of laughter that bubbled up.
Tiberius rolled away, reached to pull Lydia up. She jerked out of his grasp, glared at him, then gave a pointed look at the goats that were now clustered at the edge of the yard, eyeing the scene as if they knew they were in deep trouble.
Without a word, Lydia lifted her muddy skirts and marched toward the porch.
Caleb stood in the middle of the sitting room that Patrick and Rory shared at Breeze Hill. It was bigger than their whole house back in Ireland, and certainly bigger than any cabin he’d ever encountered on a ship. And they didn’t even sleep here.
They each had a bed of their own in separate bedrooms flanking the sitting room. Before Quinn had married and moved to Magnolia Glen, he’d shared the space with them, but even then, what was another body in rooms this size?
“Ya have t’ wash up for dinner.” Patrick scrubbed his hands, then passed the soap to Caleb.
Rory stepped through the doorway, wearing clean britches, a snowy-white shirt, and a green jerkin. Caleb had never seen such fine clothes on an O’Shea.
“Patrick, ya need t’ do more than wash yer hands. Isabella has gone t’ a lot o’ trouble t’ welcome Caleb.” He jerked his head toward Patrick’s room. “Ye’re going t’ bathe and put on yer Sunday best. Now off with yer clothes.”
“Aw, Rory, do I have t’?”
“Ya do if ya want t’ eat at Isabella’s table tonight.”
Scowling, Patrick did as his brother asked, then howled as Caleb and Rory washed him from head to toe. It took a while, but finally Rory deemed him presentable, and he trudged to his room to get dressed.
Rory headed toward the other bedroom, and Caleb stripped to the waist, washed up as best he could in the dingy water left from Patrick’s ablutions. He was reaching for his shirt when Rory stepped through the door. He tossed a clean shirt, butternut-hued breeches, and a supple leather jerkin at him. “Here ya go, Brother. These should fit ya.”
Caleb held up the shirt, then eyed the youth standing in front of him. Rory was well on his way to becoming a man, but he wasn’t full-grown yet. It’d take a while for him to fill out these clothes. He grabbed the breeches. “Whose are these?”
“Quinn’s. They were in the wash when he and Kiera moved to Magnolia Glen. He has no’ picked ’em up yet. ’Course that jerkin would probably be a little tight on him now.”
“Tight on Quinn? Has my dear brother gone and gotten fat?”
“Not fat, just muscled.” Rory pulled on his boots. “From working in the smithy.”
“The smithy, eh?” Caleb tamped down the surge of resentment that bubbled up as he donned the vest and smoothed out the leather. A perfect fit. “So he ended up apprenticing with old Seamus, then?”
“Aye.” Rory squinted at him, brow furrowed. “He started soon after ya left home.”
Turning away, Caleb reached for a comb, slicked his damp hair back, trying to tame his temper and the unruly strands. “I’m sure the job provided a better living for all o’ you.”
“Aye, I suppose. But . . .” Rory frowned. “Caleb, why’d ya leave so suddenly?”
“Quinn did no’ tell you?”
“No, he —”
“I’m ready.” Patrick trudged in, shirt half-tucked in, hair sticking up.
Rory looked like he wanted to continue the conversation, but Caleb grabbed Patrick and ran the comb through the squirming boy’s hair. “There, that’s better. Now, tuck your shirt in.”
As he looked over his brothers, Caleb’s heart swelled with pride. “Well, we’re a fine-looking lot, ain’t we? Lead the way to the table, Patrick, me lad.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” Patrick grinned and wrenched open the door, then marched along the veranda toward the dining hall.
Caleb’s smile faded as he followed his brothers. He’d covered his worry over seeing Quinn again with a joviality he didn’t feel. But regardless of how his brother reacted to seeing him, Caleb determined not to fight.
Unless Quinn hit him first.
Chapter 10
AFTER THEY ROUNDED UP the last of the goats, Alanah stared at the hole in the wattle fencing. Just one more thing that needed fixing in a never-ending list of repairs.
She heard a chopping sound and looked up. Tiberius stood at the edge of the forest hacking down a young sapling. He walked toward the fence, stripping the bark as he went.
Alanah waved a hand at the sapling. “You don’t have to do that.”
Tiberius didn’t respond but measured the height of the fence before cutting the sapling into appropriate lengths.
Alanah cleared her throat. “Mr. Abbott’s back in bed?”
“Aye. And I am banned from the house.” He pounded one length into the ground, making the task look easy. “Lydia said Abbott almost busted his stitches laughing.”
Alanah shook her head. “It wasn’t your fault that the goats got out or that you and Lydia fell.”
He grunted, pounded another stake into the ground, then pointed toward the tree line. “I saw some vines over there.”
Alanah took that as her cue that he didn’t want to talk about it. She cut several lengths of the pliable vines and hauled them back to the fence. They worked in silence for a while, Tiberius hammering stakes into the ground to reinforce the fence, Alanah weaving in the vines to deter the goats.
She sneaked a glance at him. “Did Mr. Wainwright really send you out here to check on Mr. Abbott?”
He didn’t answer, just kept working. That was answer enough for Alanah.
“She likes you, you know.”
He lifted his dark eyes to hers but still didn’t respond. They worked in silence for a time before Alanah spoke again. “Has the logging crew reached the river yet?”
“We made camp on a bluff a mile or so upriver.”
“A bluff?” Alanah frowned. Her bluff? “Close to a slow-moving side channel?”
“Aye. We’ll roll the logs off the bluff, then build timber rafts and float them down the river.”
“I see. That’s one way to get the logs to Natchez. Does Natchez have a sawmill?”
“Mr. William’s father is building one.” He eyed her. “Are you done asking questions?”
“That depends.” She smiled. “Are you done answering?”
His chest rumbled with laughter. “That depends, mistress.”
“Why did you come to Cypress Creek, Tiberius?” She continued to reinforce the fence. “You’re not a woodsman. You’re a sailor.”
“I came with Caleb.”
“Caleb?”
“Aye.”
She focused on pushing a particularly stiff length of vine between two saplings. “And Caleb? Does he plan to stay? I mean, here, with his brothers.”
“That is not for me to say.”
He didn’t elaborate, and she wondered if that was all he was going to tell her. She moved to the next section of the fence, and he glanced up, caught her gaze.
“Caleb save
d my life, so I owe my life to him. I will stay as long as he does.” He chuckled. “But if you hear him tell it, I saved his life, so he owes his life to me. Truth be told, we are not sure who owes who, but it seems to be in our best interests to remain together for the time being.”
“So you aren’t —” Alanah paused —“Caleb’s slave?”
“I am a warrior.” He looked at her. “But if your people think Caleb is my master, then so be it. It is of no consequence.” He flipped the ax, held it out butt first. “Your goats should not roam freely now.”
“Thank you. They’ve been giving us fits for months.”
He looked around, and Alanah had no illusions about what he saw. “You have no man to make repairs.”
It wasn’t a question.
Alanah followed his gaze, seeing her home through his eyes: the weather-beaten cabin, the barn in danger of collapsing with the next high wind, the rickety chicken coop, and the goat pen that Tiberius had shored up for the moment. “My uncle is oftentimes away.”
Tiberius’s gaze shifted toward the cabin, and Alanah turned, saw Lydia standing on the porch, her arms crossed as she stared at Tiberius. He backed away, gave a slight bow. “I should go. I must return to camp.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you for fixing the goat pen.”
He nodded, then turned and walked away.
Alanah glanced at the porch, where Lydia stood, her gaze never wavering until the woods swallowed him up.
The moment they entered the dining room, Caleb knew something was wrong. Isabella’s ready smile looked strained, and there was no mistaking the thundercloud on Connor’s face.
William stood next to an elder gentleman with patchy, puckered skin. Caleb’s attention slid across the man’s features, but he didn’t stare. He’d seen his share of disfigurements in his travels. Some self-inflicted, others not. And he’d seen enough burn victims to recognize the aftereffects.
Connor motioned to the gentleman. “Caleb, this is my father-in-law, Matthew Bartholomew.”
“Sir.” Caleb gave a slight bow.