by Pam Hillman
She fingered her throat. “No. I’m fine.”
“What are you doing here?” Caleb gritted out, choosing to concentrate on his indignation at finding her at the base of the bluff rather than the fact that he’d almost slit her throat.
“Foraging.”
“Foraging? In the middle o’ the night?”
“It’s not the middle of the night. It’s morning.”
“Barely.”
And to emphasize her point, the sound of Gimpy’s gong reverberated throughout the camp at that moment, calling the loggers to breakfast.
“But that still does no’ explain why you’re here, in this spot.” He motioned toward the logs. “What if the men roll another log down the bluff?” The thought of Alanah being crushed by the heavy logs made him weak-kneed.
“Well, as you said, it’s barely daylight, and no one was stirring.” She lifted her tattered skirts, turned away from the road, and headed toward a gully far back at the edge of the bluff.
“Where are you going?” Caleb followed, grabbing her arm. “Let’s get out o’ here before the men finish breakfast and start rolling logs down on top o’ the both o’ us.”
“Not yet. I need to check on my squawroot.”
“Your what?” Caleb glared at her. “What are you talking about? I told you —”
“I know what you said, but I need this herb. And if you’ve destroyed it, so help me . . .”
“What’s so special about an herb that you’d risk your life for it?”
“It’s used to make tinctures for headaches, bleeding, and, um —” her face flamed, and she looked away —“other things. This is the only place I’ve found it. Well, there is one other place. But it’s a day’s journey from here.”
“A day?” That meant two days to get this precious herb she so desperately needed. Caleb didn’t pretend to understand what it was, but he realized that the medicinal herb was used for healing, not just to add a bit of flavor to the stewpot. That made it important. He flung his hand toward the cliff. “Well, let’s find this root of yours, and be quick about it, so you can be on your way.”
He followed her to the farthest corner of the bluff, a steep, jagged tear in the earth filled with roots and trailing vines. A large oak clung to the top of the fissure, and Caleb wondered how long before the giant toppled into the gulch. He just hoped Alanah wouldn’t be here digging for roots when that happened.
“Hold this.” She handed him a large tote filled with her morning’s work, tucked a small pouch in her waistband, and without hesitation, started climbing up the steep embankment.
Caleb hauled her back, growled in her ear. “Just show me what you need, and I’ll get it.”
She shook her head and smiled. “You wouldn’t recognize it.”
Caleb cut his gaze toward the deep, dark gash in the earth, the tangle of roots and vines masking a myriad of dangers.
“Don’t worry.” She patted his hand, then shook off his hold. “I know what I’m doing.”
Caleb watched as she scaled the cliff, clinging to roots and vines as she went. The sounds of the camp waking reached him, men calling out to each other, chains rattling, horses and mules balking at the work that lay ahead.
Caleb clenched his jaw as she climbed higher. “Alanah . . .”
“Almost there.” Her muttered answer floated down to him.
She stopped, reached for something in the shadowy recesses of the vines. A snip and she tucked it in the pouch. Another snip, then another. Caleb crossed his arms, waiting for her to finish harvesting every blasted piece of the elusive root or herb or whatever it was that she found so important.
Alanah climbed down, the pouch bulging with squawroot.
Caleb stood at the base of the cliff, scowl firmly in place. “Are ya done, lass?”
“Not quite. Open that tote bag, and I’ll pour these in, then —”
“I think you have enough.”
“But —”
“Listen.”
She stilled. Sure enough, she could hear the rattling of chains and the rumble of logs being pulled across the ground. She stuffed the small bag into the large tote. “All right. I’ll come back later.”
They retraced their steps and headed toward the jumble of logs on the sandbar. A shower of rocks and debris rained down the cliff in front of them. Caleb pushed her behind him and planted his body firmly between her and the danger. She craned her neck to see around him. “What is it? What are they doing?”
“They’re dragging logs into place t’ roll off the cliff. Wait here.” Caleb stepped away from her, cupped his hands together, and yelled at the loggers atop the bluff.
When the noise continued, he turned back to her. “It’s no use. They canna hear me.”
The sound of the harnesses, the yells of the men, and the logs grating across the ground drew closer. When the first of the logs tumbled over the cliff, Caleb and Alanah retreated toward the crevice where the squawroot grew.
A narrow sandbar curved around the bend, and he motioned her toward it. “We’ll go this way. It’s a steep climb, but we can make it. Connor’s planning t’ put another road here at some point.”
“He can’t do that. What about my squawroot?”
Caleb shrugged. “You’ll have t’ take that up with me brother, lass.”
“Very well.” Alanah’s lips thinned into a determined line. “I just might do that.”
They maneuvered along the sandbar, the band of sand growing smaller with each passing step. Finally, with nowhere else to go, Alanah started climbing, Caleb right behind her.
Suddenly the vines she held on to gave way and she slipped. She yelped and slid down the steep incline toward Caleb. Clinging to an exposed root with one hand, his boots wedged against the side of the bluff, he caught her around the waist and wedged her body between his and the loamy-smelling earth. A smile kicked up one corner of his mouth.
“Whoa, lass.”
Alanah tried not to stare at his mouth, just inches from hers. She looked away, her gaze colliding with his dark eyes, pools of black that flickered across her face to land on her lips.
His head lowered and —
A creak sounded, and suddenly the root cracked, and they jerked downward. Alanah’s eyes widened. “Caleb!”
“They put the word out that they were looking for raftsmen.” Elias whittled a piece of oak, his razor-sharp knife slicing through the wood as if it were no more than soft butter. “Now, Reverend, all you have to do is recommend these men for the job.”
Jude eyed the three men standing behind Elias. “There’s no reason Mr. Wainwright and Mr. O’Shea should take a recommendation from me.”
“You had one of their men at your house.”
“They brought him to us because of Lydia.”
“They trust you well enough.”
“The man had been shot.” Jude glared at Elias. “He was in no shape to be moved, and Scripture tells us to love our neighbor.”
“They probably paid you —”
“Only for his upkeep.” Jude bristled.
Elias chuckled. “Rabbit stew and goat milk don’t cost anything, not when your niece and that half-breed tend to things around here.”
Jude kept silent. It was true that he’d left Alanah and Lydia alone more of late, but —
“Yes, you’re just the man we need. After all, it was your idea for some of those good-for-nothing idlers hanging around Cypress Creek to go to work.”
“I think it’s time you left.”
“All in good time.” Elias peeled off another sliver of wood. Curling, the pale shaving fluttered to the ground. He shook his knife at Jude. “How’s Betsy? You know, Betsy being Micaiah’s girl, and you being her uncle, some would say we’re practically kin.” Elias laughed, and Jude wanted to wipe the smirk off his face, but he kept his mouth shut. Elias could turn in a moment, and Jude would be on the receiving end of his knife with one wrong word.
“And that other girl. What’s her name? Alanah. A
ddled Alanah. Is she really as addled as they say? I doubt it. I mean, Betsy wasn’t crazy.” He cackled. “At least she wasn’t much until Micaiah got ahold of her.”
“You leave my nieces alone,” Jude growled.
Quick as lightning, Elias flicked his knife, and it flew through the air to stab into the dirt between Jude’s boots.
“You do as I say, old man, and I’ll think about it.”
Jude eyed the knife quivering between his feet, less than an inch from his right foot. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. Had Elias missed intentionally?
Chapter 12
THE ROOT SNAPPED under their combined weight, and Caleb wrapped both arms around Alanah as they tumbled down the steep incline.
He grunted when he landed on his back on the narrow stretch of sand that sloped toward the river. But the momentum of the fall kept them going. They hit the water with a splash, and he tightened his hold on Alanah as the water closed over their heads.
When they surfaced, Alanah sputtered and flailed her arms, her heavy skirts making it difficult for her to stay afloat. Keeping a hold on her, Caleb scrabbled for a foothold on the sloping riverbed and headed for the bank. Thankfully, the current was slow enough that they weren’t in any danger of being swept away, just soaked from a thorough dunking.
When they reached shore, Caleb climbed out, grasped Alanah’s hand, and hauled her up beside him. They lay on the bank for a moment, breathing heavily. Caleb propped his head up on his hand, taking in the bedraggled waif beside him. “Are you all right, lass?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” She pushed the hair out of her eyes, then blew out a breath.
The sun peeked over the bluff, pushing the remaining shadows away and bathing her with a golden glow. Yes, the patched and torn dress she insisted on wearing was covered in sand and dirt from where they’d climbed up the bank, but the river had washed the soot from her face and her hair, turning her golden mane into dark taffy that spread across her shoulders.
She looked like a sea nymph from one of the many seaman’s tales he’d heard over the years.
Her lashes, spiked with river water, swept up. Caleb could only stare, remembering the way she’d looked the first day he’d seen her in Natchez.
“You have grass in your hair.” He plucked a twig from the damp strands, flicked it away, then reached for another.
She lowered her eyes even as her cheeks turned crimson.
“And dirt on your face.” He rested his hand on her jaw, using his thumb to wipe a smudge away. Only to make it worse. But even the smudge captivated him. As did the rest of her. His thumb inched downward, grazed her lips.
At his touch, she drew in a shuddering breath. “I —I need to go.”
“Aye.” Caleb stood, then held out his hand. She hesitated just a moment before allowing him to pull her up. And that’s when he realized all was quiet. No chains rattled. No logs plummeted over the cliff —
“Are you sure he came this way?”
Alanah gasped as Connor’s voice floated to them from around the bend. She grabbed the soggy tote and clutched it to her. Caleb stepped in front of her. “It’s all right. You’ve done nothing wrong, lass.”
“I’m sure.” Isabella’s voice sounded frantic. “But the next thing I knew, the men were shoving logs over the cliff. And then —”
Her voice broke off as she rounded the bend. Mouth formed in a perfect O, she glanced from Caleb to Alanah, taking in their disheveled state, clothes dripping and caked in mud. Her surprise quickly turned to amusement, and she arched a brow.
Connor’s reaction was the exact opposite of his wife’s. “What is going on down here?” His angry glare swung from Caleb to Alanah and back again.
“It was my fault.” Alanah lifted her chin. “I came to harvest some squawroot.”
“Some what?” Connor all but shouted. “Are ya daft?”
“Squawroot.” Caleb crossed his arms. “It’s good for what ails ya. Perhaps you should try some, Brother.”
“I know what it is.” Connor waved a hand at the two of them, soaking wet. “I meant this. The two of you.”
“I’m sure it was an accident, Connor.” Isabella stepped forward, her attention on Alanah. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Isabella O’Shea, Caleb’s sister-in-law.”
“Alanah Adams, ma’am.” Alanah curtsied, looking like a half-drowned lion cub and just as cute.
“I suspected as much.” A slight smile turned up the corners of Isabella’s mouth. “Caleb and Connor told me about you. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise, Mistress O’Shea.” Alanah glanced at Caleb, her tawny eyes narrowing as if she wondered exactly what he’d said about her.
“Please, call me Isabella.” Isabella removed her wrap and draped it around Alanah’s shoulders. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse us, I’m sure Alanah would like to get into some dry clothes before she catches a chill.”
“Please, you don’t have to —”
“I insist. And besides, you don’t want to walk through camp looking like that. We’ll get you set to rights in no time.”
Alanah threw Caleb a helpless look as Isabella led her away.
“There’s no need, Mistress O’Shea.” Hands clasped in front of her, Alanah faced Isabella, aware of the spectacle she presented.
Wrinkling her nose, she plucked a decaying leaf from her skirt, but one withered leaf wouldn’t do much to improve her appearance. Her tattered dress stuck to her, the muggy air making the damp dress even more uncomfortable. She wiggled her toes inside her moccasins, feeling them squish against the damp leather and knowing they probably looked like half-dried persimmons by now. She should have gone barefoot today, but she hadn’t anticipated falling into the river with Caleb O’Shea.
Heat rushed through her at the thought of the dark-eyed Irishman. Thankfully, Mistress O’Shea was too busy rummaging through a trunk to notice.
“I can’t allow you to return home in this state. And please, Isabella will do.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Alanah glanced around the newly constructed dogtrot cabin, the scent of fresh logs tickling her senses. They hadn’t even hung a door yet, but a blanket covered the opening, providing a measure of privacy. There wasn’t much in the room. Two trunks, a rustic table that looked to have been cobbled together out of boards from a wagon, and two stumps for chairs. A washbasin and pitcher sat on another small table by the door. No fireplace as of yet. Maybe they didn’t intend to stay through the winter. A rope bed covered with a patchwork quilt took up an entire corner of the room.
“Please excuse the mess. The men just finished the cabin, and I haven’t had time to sort things out.” Isabella pulled out a shift, stockings, stays, tossing each piece on the bed. “But after a week of sleeping in the tent, I’m just thankful to have a roof over my head. And a bed.”
She rummaged in the trunk again, then stood, hands on her hips. Pivoting, she strode to the other trunk. “I’ve got an extra stomacher here somewhere. It’s a bit worn. I hope you don’t mind.”
Alanah shook her head. “I don’t mind at all, Mistress —”
“Isabella.” Her smile and friendly tone convinced Alanah she meant what she said. Did the woman really want to be friends? With her?
“Isabella, then.” Alanah inched for the blanket-covered doorway. “Truly, ma’am, I can wear my own clothes home.”
“We’ve already been over this.” Kneeling before the trunk, Isabella pulled out a green- and cream-colored stomacher and held it aloft. “Here it is. And now for some petticoats and a fichu, and you’ll be all set. I’m sorry I don’t have an extra pair of shoes.”
Giving in to the inevitable, Alanah curled her toes in the damp moccasins Lydia had made for her. They were made for fording streams and would dry quickly enough. Moving to the bed, she eyed the delicate embroidery on the stomacher.
“Alanah? Is something wrong? Is the garment not to your liking?”
Face flaming, she shook
her head. “No, ma’am, it’s lovely. It’s just that . . .”
“Ah . . . you are shy. I’ll leave you alone.” Isabella motioned to the washbasin. “Please, wash up then, and call me if you need assistance getting dressed. I’ll be across the breezeway in the other room, organizing the office.”
After she left, Alanah turned to the clean, patch-free clothing scattered on the bed, fresh heat flushing over her body at the thought of Isabella O’Shea helping her undress, seeing that she wasn’t wearing proper stays, but a strip of leather fashioned by Lydia instead. And her under petticoat? Ha!
The garment was so torn and tattered that it wasn’t even a proper petticoat. It was too thin to hardly use as a sieve. But as it was one of only two she owned, she kept wearing it day in and day out. And would continue until it disintegrated, thread by thread. Then she’d use the pieces that were left to patch her other one until it too wore out.
She reached out to touch the dainty lace fichu, then jerked her hand back, curling her fingers into her palm. She daren’t soil the lace with her filthy hands. But Isabella would return soon, and she expected Alanah to have bathed and changed.
The curtain over the opening swung gently in the breeze. She could leave. Just slip out. But Isabella had been so kind. Sighing, she unfastened her dress and slipped it off her shoulders. Piece by piece, she removed her tattered, torn, and patched garments, leaving them in a soggy, soiled heap on the floor.
She stalked toward the washbasin. If she was going to wear Isabella’s clothes, she’d be clean doing it.
Thirty minutes later, she ran her fingers down the dark-green skirt, the material durable and well suited for work, but still feminine and pretty. As Isabella had said, the stomacher was by no means new, but it was still the prettiest thing she’d ever donned, embroidered with burgundy flowers and green vines that matched the skirt.
Eyeing Isabella’s brush, she couldn’t resist unsnarling the tangles in her hair. She’d hardly made a dent when a gentle knock sounded at the doorway. “Alanah, are you decent?”