by Pam Hillman
And a tavern wench at the heart of the squabble.
He couldn’t say how he’d gotten to the point of fighting over an island girl whose name he didn’t even know. But as the others gathered round and goaded his opponent to defend the girl’s honor, it was too late for either of them to back down.
Even to this day, he could still see the other man’s blue eyes staring at him with the same dazed and confused look that must have mirrored his own. Both had been young. Both eejits. Both determined to show the hardened mercenaries they had what it took to stay the course, and that killing —even over the smallest slight —meant nothing to them.
Wielding his knife, the other man had lunged, lost his footing, and ripped open Caleb’s thigh. They fell to the ground, and Caleb’s own knife tore through the man’s torso. And just like that, the drunken revelers cheered, their disregard for human life evident in the fact they didn’t care one way or the other if either man lived or died.
His blood seeping into the sands of an island he couldn’t name for a cause he didn’t believe in, Caleb had lain there, his eyes glued to the man he’d just gutted. And for what?
Nothing, save the approval of men who’d sunk to the very bottom of all that was holy and decent.
Unable to look away, he watched as the life in the man’s eyes faded and they became set, staring into nothing but the finality of death. Filled with horror, shame, and disgust at what he’d done, Caleb vowed to do better.
And by the grace of God and the steadying hand of Tiberius, he had.
“Mr. O’Shea?”
Caleb blinked, returning to the present. The apothecary held out the last vial, carefully wrapped to survive the journey home. “That’s everything. See that you handle these with care, and tell Miss Adams that I am pleased her sister has returned safe and sound. If I were you, I’d keep an eye out for Micaiah Jones. He’s not one to give up a girl as pretty as Betsy without a fight.”
Caleb left the shop, Alanah’s packs no longer weighing him down. Unlike the heavy burdens he carried from his past and the worry that plagued him over what Mr. Weaver had told him of Alanah and Betsy.
The afternoon was far gone when Lydia snorted. “It’s that man again.”
Since Lydia didn’t sound overly concerned —just irritated —Alanah didn’t reach for her bow. She looked around but saw no one. “Who?”
“Tiberius.” Jaw clenched tight, Lydia jerked her chin toward the tree line. “There. He just stepped out of the shadows.”
Alanah spotted him then. He stood at the edge of the clearing, his ebony skin glistening, sunlight glinting off the gold hoop in his ear. She cast a sly grin toward Lydia. “Aren’t you going to welcome him?”
Lydia pummeled the kernels of corn with her mallet with more force than necessary. “I do not trust him.”
“You don’t trust anybody.” Alanah chuckled. “Methinks you like him more than you let on.”
“You think wrong. That one is up to no good.”
“He seems nice enough. And look how polite he is. Waiting for an invitation to join us.” Alanah dusted her hands on her apron and turned toward where Tiberius waited patiently for permission to come near the house. “Tiberius. Welcome.”
“Miss Alanah.” He moved out of the shadows, something tucked into the crook of his arm.
“How’s Mr. Abbott?”
“Not happy to be doing odd chores around the camp, but he is mending. He sends his regards.”
“What brings you out today?”
He threw a quick glance in Lydia’s direction, then just as quickly returned his attention to Alanah. He opened his coat and a tiny black-and-white masked face peeked out. Then another.
“Oh, Tiberius. Baby raccoons.” Alanah moved forward, taking one of the tiny kits from him. “What happened?”
“Moses and I found them in a tree yesterday.”
“The mother?”
“We saw none. Moses said to leave them, and the mother would return.” He shrugged. “But this morning they were still there, crying. And this afternoon, still no mother.”
Alanah knew the loggers cut trees and moved on. Tiberius must have gone out of his way to check on the kits this morning, then to return to see about their welfare again this afternoon.
His dark eyes rose to meet hers. “I didn’t know what else to do with them.”
“You did the right thing.” She turned, spotted Betsy peeking out the open doorway. “Betsy, come. Look what Tiberius found.”
Unable to resist the furry babies, Betsy inched outside, her attention shifting from the large man to the tiny kit nestled in Alanah’s arms. Soon her desire to hold the raccoon overrode her fear of Tiberius and she took another step, meeting Alanah at the edge of the porch. She smiled as Alanah handed her the cuddly animal. Carefully, she wrapped the tiny raccoon in a piece of her tattered skirt and snuggled it close, crooning softly.
Tiberius stood uncertainly, the other kits still nestled under his coat. Lydia pounded corn, her disapproval of the turn of events evident in every loud thwack of her mallet against the wooden bowl.
Alanah found a basket, lined it with some moss before grabbing one of Uncle Jude’s undershirts off the line.
“Don’t use that,” Lydia barked, looking disgruntled.
Alanah frowned, holding up the garment. “But it’s already threadbare.”
“It’s serviceable. There’s an old apron in the cupboard inside. Use it instead.” Lydia jerked her head toward the cabin. “They’re likely hungry as well. Betsy, fetch the last of the goat milk cooling in the creek.”
Grinning, Alanah rushed to do Lydia’s bidding. The woman had a soft heart underneath all that bluster. Betsy returned with the milk, and Alanah poured a bit of it into a bowl. It wouldn’t take much to satisfy the kitten-like creatures. She placed the bowl on the ground, and Betsy lowered the one kit to the bowl, then crouched, watching. She turned worried eyes on Alanah. “It’s not eating.”
“It will. Give it time.”
Tiberius hunkered down, pulled raccoons from his coat until a total of six kits tottered around on the ground. After sniffing at the milk, one brave babe poked his nose in, jerked back, and shook his head, blowing milk out his tiny nose. Betsy giggled.
Tiberius dipped his finger in the bowl, then held it out to one of the kits. The babe wrapped its paws around his finger and suckled. One by one, he coaxed each of the tiny animals to the bowl, helping them learn how to drink. Soon they dove in, each scrambling for its share.
Leaving Tiberius and Betsy hunched over the raccoons, Alanah joined Lydia. Lydia had stopped grinding the kernels as if she needed to beat them to a fine powder.
One of the kits pushed its way forward until half its body was immersed in the bowl, hogging the milk. Tiberius fished the raccoon out of the bowl and held it fast to keep it from diving back in. The feisty kit scrabbled on all fours, pushing against his hold. Betsy’s laugh mingled with Tiberius’s deep chuckle, and Alanah caught a smile pulling at Lydia’s lips.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she turned away lest Lydia see and ask what ailed her. Nothing ailed her. It was pure happiness that welled up from inside, clamoring to be free.
It was the first time Lydia had smiled today and the first time she’d heard her sister laugh since she’d returned home.
Wainwright’s housekeeper shooed Mr. Wainwright and William off to get washed up for dinner.
“And be quick about it.” She motioned for Caleb to follow her. “Right this way, Mr. O’Shea.”
She showed him to a room, then begged his pardon to go put the finishing touches on the meal.
His thoughts still on what the apothecary had shared about Alanah and her sister, Caleb washed up before following the sound of voices. He walked into the Wainwrights’ dining room and came face-to-face with his brother Quinn. William and Mr. Wainwright stood on the opposite side of the table.
Quinn’s ice-blue eyes met his, as cold as the Irish Sea in the dead of winter. His brother blin
ked, glanced at their hosts, and when his gaze once again met Caleb’s, the ice had melted somewhat.
“Caleb. ’Tis good to see ya looking well . . .” Quinn paused and cleared his throat. “Mr. Wainwright told me how you and your friends made sure that Reggie Caruthers made it safely back t’ Natchez. Me wife’s sister married Reggie’s brother, and we’re beholden.”
Caleb inclined his head. “It was a matter o’ honor.”
Silence followed, and when Caleb didn’t elaborate, Mr. Wainwright motioned to the table. “Please, both of you, sit. Mrs. Butler has prepared an excellent supper. William, please let her know we’re all here.”
“No need, Mr. Wainwright.” The portly housekeeper bustled in, carrying a tureen of soup.
“Allow me.” William rounded the table, took the heavy dish from her, and placed it in the middle of the table. Leaning down, he kissed the elderly woman’s cheek. “It’s good to see you, Nanny.”
She batted him away, looking flustered. “Go on with you, Master William. I’ve not been your nanny for these many years.”
“You’ll always be Nanny to me.”
“I’d rather be Nanny to that sweet little Jon boy of yours.” She plopped her hands on her ample hips. “When are you going to bring him to Natchez?”
“Next month for sure, and you can rock him all you want. If you can catch him, that is. At thirteen months, he’s quite a handful.”
Mrs. Butler beamed, then glanced over the table. “Oh, mercy me, I left the ham and the biscuits on the sideboard.”
Within minutes, she’d finished serving the meal and left them, in spite of Mr. Wainwright’s insistence that she stay. William’s father unfolded his napkin. “Mrs. Butler will never change. She insists it’s unseemly for her to dine with the family.”
Caleb gripped his fork and fixed his brother with a look that he hoped wasn’t as dark as it felt. “So what brings you t’ Natchez, Brother?”
You could travel twenty miles to the city when you couldn’t travel three to welcome me back into the fold?
“Delivering cotton for Breeze Hill.”
“What of Magnolia Glen? How is the harvest there?” William asked.
His brother flushed. “The fields were no’ properly laid by, and the yield has been poor. Mews assures me that we’ll have a few bales o’ cotton t’ show for our efforts, though.”
“With proper care, next year will be much better.” William motioned between Caleb and Quinn with his fork. “I find it interesting that Quinn brought a shipment of cotton down the trace at the same time Caleb and I drove logs downriver. Father, have you considered hauling cotton down on the timber rafts? You know, kill two birds with one stone and all that.”
For a moment, Mr. Wainwright looked dazed, but a grin quickly spread over his features. “That’s a splendid idea, Son. We wouldn’t need as many men —”
“Or horses. Mules. Wagons.”
“Quinn, what do you think?”
“I think Connor will have something t’ say about it.”
“Yes, of course.” William grinned. “I can’t imagine he’d be opposed to the idea, though. It’s brilliant.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, Son, but still . . .”
Caleb listened as Quinn and the Wainwrights discussed the benefits of loading their cotton on the timber rafts and floating them downriver as opposed to using horses and wagons and traveling on the trace. They debated the merits of time gained and time lost, the risk of river pirates versus highwaymen, and the possible loss of an entire crop on a capsized raft.
And all the time, Caleb wondered how he’d come full circle with his feet under the same table as the brother who’d stolen his one chance to make something of himself back home in Ireland.
Suddenly he wished he’d given in to the urge to leave Natchez, because nothing good would come of spending time with Quinn.
Chapter 17
ALANAH FROZE when the nanny goat lifted her head from the feedbox and stared toward the woods beyond the clearing. It was all she could do to keep milking and pretend nothing was wrong, but the goat’s curiosity with whatever moved in the woods couldn’t be ignored.
Something or someone was out there in the early morning shadows.
Foolishly, she’d left her bow and arrows inside, not thinking that any highwaymen would be out and about so early. Her hand on the knife at her waist, she stood.
“Alanah?”
The tension drained out of her when she heard Caleb’s voice. He stepped out of the shadows, a small tote slung over his shoulder. He joined her in the goat pen, dropped the tote beside her, and reached for a pouch tucked inside his shirt. “Your supplies and coin from Mr. Weaver, madam.”
Her fingers curled around the pouch, still warm from his body heat. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, ya are. And before I forget, Mr. Weaver said he needs more turkey tail mushrooms. Said he’d make it worth your while. What did he mean?”
“Nothing.” She tucked the money pouch in the pocket sewn into her skirt.
“I did no’ get the impression he would have said such a thing if it meant nothing.”
She sighed. “It’s a day’s journey to get the most potent ones he favors.”
“A day’s journey, as in one day or two?”
“Two days. I haven’t been in a long time. I have to go by Breeze Hill and then past the ruins of what used to be Braxton Hall. I didn’t go last year, when the highwaymen got to be so bad. I was afraid to risk it.”
“But you’re surrounded by highwaymen.” Caleb frowned. “I would no’ think you’d be put off by a few more.”
“Better to be wary of the dangers you don’t know than those you do.” She shrugged and coaxed another goat onto the milking stand, then sat on the low stool, her tattered skirt pooling around her.
“Dangers like Micaiah Jones?”
Her hand slipped, and she almost knocked the bucket over. “What do you know of Micaiah Jones?”
“Only what Mr. Weaver said.” Caleb crouched, eye level with her.
“Micaiah Jones was a river pirate who cared for nothing except robbing and killing.” With quick, practiced movements, she stripped milk from the goat’s teats. “He took what he wanted, when he wanted it, without —”
She broke off, unable to continue.
“And what did he take from you?” Caleb’s voice had turned to ice.
“My sister, Betsy. He was to be hanged for murder in French Camp. He’s —” She sucked in a steadying breath. “He’s probably dead by now.”
“Ya do no’ seem pleased by the thought.”
“I’m . . .” Alanah kept up the rhythm of milking, trying to verbalize how she felt about Micaiah and what he’d done to Betsy. Uncle Jude preached an eye for an eye, but her father had preached grace and forgiveness. Sometimes it was hard for Alanah to reconcile the two.
“Relieved.” She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “How was the trip? All went well, I take it?”
“Aye, all went well.” Caleb’s lips twisted in a bit of a smile, and he picked up a piece of straw and slid it through his fingers.
“Don’t tell me the raftsmen Uncle Jude recommended made the journey without incident.”
“No.” He chuckled, the sound of his deep laugh warming her insides. “Massey and two others tried to dry-gulch the rest o’ us in the middle o’ the night.”
Alanah’s blood ran cold, and she jerked her attention to him. “You are well?”
“Aye.” He smiled, gave her a wink, and her stomach did a slow whirl. “I am well.”
Hoping he didn’t notice the flush that rolled up her neck and over her face, Alanah concentrated on her milking, afraid if she looked at him, he’d see how relieved she was that he’d returned whole. Somehow she hadn’t let herself think that he might not return —
“But there was an injury. One o’ the men, a Mr. Vickers, was stabbed.”
Thank You, Lord, that it wasn’t Caleb. Remorse smote her th
at the welfare of the poor injured man wasn’t her first thought. Chagrined, she bit her lip. “And Mr. Vickers, will he live?”
“He’ll live.”
“A blessing indeed.” Alanah turned back to the task at hand. “Will you make the trip again?”
“Aye. We have t’ finish another raft, and the Wainwrights are talking about shipping cotton bales down the river.” He eyed her. “Will you be wantin’ t’ send more herbs t’ the apothecary?”
“Yes, please. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“It is no trouble.”
Alanah finished milking, and Caleb removed the bucket while she released the nanny. She reached for the pail, but he held fast to the handle, sliding his hand to cover hers. “Promise me you will no’ go after the mushrooms on your own.”
He moved closer. With his warm fingers covering hers, and his dark eyes searching hers, she found it hard to think, let alone answer him. “I . . .”
“Promise me.”
“I —I promise.” She lifted her chin. “But I would ask a promise of you as well. Don’t hire more men from Cypress Creek. They’re all part of Micaiah and Elias Jones’s gang of cutthroats. I’m afraid —”
Caleb reached out, shushed her words with the pressure of his thumb against her lips. “Do no’ worry, lass. William hired another crew in Natchez.”
She breathed a sigh of relief, the feel of his thumb sliding across her lips doing funny things to her insides. “All is well, then.”
“All is well.” His gaze dipped, slid across her face to her lips. Time stood still, the quiet of the early morning broken only by the goats jostling for the last bit of grain left in the trough. Then, a furrow between his brows, Caleb let go of the bucket. “I should go. Good day, Alanah.”
With one last swipe of his thumb, he turned and walked away.
The sun was up by the time Caleb made it back to camp. He made a detour by the cookhouse. “Gimpy, me stomach’s glued t’ me backbone. Do you have a wee bit o’ breakfast left for a starvin’ man?”