The Crossing at Cypress Creek

by Pam Hillman

  “You all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She pushed away. Eyebrow raised, Quinn stood watching the two of them. The blonde, an amused look on her face, nudged his brother with her elbow. Quinn cleared his throat. “Kiera, this is me brother Caleb and Alanah Adams from Cypress Creek. My wife, Kiera, and her sister Megan.”

  His sister-in-law hurried forward, hand outstretched. Caleb took it in greeting. Quinn’s wife was the exact opposite of Connor’s. Pale and blonde where Isabella was dark and exotic.

  “Pleased to meet you, Caleb. I’ve heard lots of good things about you.” A hint of old country brogue mixed with highbrow British could be heard in her tones.

  “You’re Irish?” With a name like Kiera, he couldn’t imagine her being anything else.

  “A bit o’ Irish when I choose t’ be. And —” she grinned, the brogue falling away at her command —“at other times, I’m a proper English miss transported to the colonies.” She patted Quinn’s jerkin. “Much to my husband’s chagrin.”

  “Ya might have been born with a bit o’ blue blood in yer veins, Wife, but ye’re Irish through and through now, and do no’ be forgetting it.”

  “For sure, Husband.” Kiera turned her smile on Alanah. “Miss Adams, welcome to Magnolia Glen, such as it is. I imagine you’d like to freshen up.”

  “That’ll have t’ wait, if you don’t mind.” Caleb lifted the empty totes out of the wagon. “Alanah needs to gather some mushrooms before dark. She’s an herbalist.”

  “This afternoon?” Kiera’s brows rose. “But —”

  “Quinn wants to get an early start in the morning.” Caleb glanced at the darkening sky. “And besides, it looks like we’re in for a bit o’ rain, so we’d better go.”

  “Take some horses.” Quinn jerked his head toward the stables. “No need in walking with the threat o’ rain on the horizon.”

  Thankful for the use of the horses, Alanah led the way deeper into the wilderness. They hadn’t gone far when a light mist began to fall. She grabbed her cloak, tossed it around her shoulders, and pulled the hood over her hair. Twenty minutes later, she dismounted at the edge of the swamp and slung the basket over her arm. “We walk from here.”

  “You did no’ say these mushrooms were in a swamp.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  Growling low in his throat, Caleb dismounted and tied the horses to a low-hanging branch. “Lead on, then.”

  Alanah zigzagged across the wetlands, keeping to the highest ridges. There was a high point where the ground was usually fairly dry, but there had been a lot of rain lately. She paused, searching for the three large oaks on the other side of the bog. If she didn’t get her bearings, they’d never be able to cross the slough. There. She spotted the trees a hundred yards or so across a quagmire of black, gooey mud, the dry ridges barely visible.

  There was nothing for it but to head across. She gripped her skirt in one hand, the basket held tight in the other.

  “Alanah, this is no’ a good idea. Piling off into the middle o’ a swamp with night coming on.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, saw Caleb dogging her steps. “Don’t worry. I know where I’m going. This ridge should be firm enough to get us across. Just follow me and head straight toward the oaks and you’ll be fine.”

  Even as she slogged forward, feeling the spongy earth beneath the soles of her moccasins, the brackish water rose, covering her feet, then her ankles, on up to her calves. Had she gone the wrong way?

  Suddenly she felt the ground firm up beneath her moccasins as the land sloped upward. “We made it.”

  “Well, no time t’ gloat about it. Let’s find those mushrooms and get out o’ here before the bottom falls out.”

  Eyeing the sky, which was growing darker with purple rain-soaked clouds, she couldn’t help but agree. But climbing the hillside was not an easy task. She pulled her way along by grasping the root system, slick to the touch.

  “Here, let me.” Caleb climbed past her, then reached for her.

  Alanah gripped his hand, the tips of her fingers engulfed within the warm strength of his callused palm. He pulled her up level with him, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Tell me you’ve never come t’ this place alone?”

  She swallowed, lowered her gaze. “I have. Once.”

  “Eejit woman,” he growled. “You could have died and no one would’ve been the wiser.”

  In that instant, the root he’d anchored himself to gave way.

  Alanah screamed.

  Caleb threw himself sideways to keep from crushing her in the fall. He slid, then groaned as his back slammed against a tree. He looked up, saw Alanah tumbling toward him, her cloak twisting around her in a billowing cloud of black cloth.

  Bracing himself, he caught her against him, halting her descent toward the marshy bog. As they lay against the rain-soaked hillside, both breathing heavily, the heavens opened and poured more rain down on them.

  As the rain drenched his face, Caleb blinked away the moisture, trying to come to grips with the fact that he could scale the rigging on a ship and hang on in the middle of the worst gale, but for some reason he couldn’t manage to scale a slippery slope while holding on to one tiny slip of a woman.

  “Are ya all right, lass?”

  “I’m fine.” She shoved the hood off her head, tried to straighten the cloak twisted around her body, but the cloth, covered in mud and becoming heavy with rain, wasn’t being very cooperative.

  And all that squirming wasn’t doing anything to help him keep his grip. He cleared his throat. “Well, let’s try again. Heave ho.”

  They made it to the top of the incline, where the ground leveled off somewhat. Caleb let Alanah go, and she led the way forward. Suddenly she flung out both arms. “Stop.”

  Without thought, Caleb palmed his knife, ready to slaughter whatever threat she’d spotted. He went to push by her. “What? What is it?”

  “No, don’t step there. You’ll step on them.”

  “Step on what?”

  She sank to her knees. “The mushrooms.”

  “I wouldna want t’ do that, now would I?” He eyed the riot of multicolored mushrooms growing on the log at his feet.

  She handed him the basket. “Hold this.”

  Alanah took a small, curved blade and started snipping mushrooms. Caleb hunkered down, holding out the basket. “Do you need some help?”

  “I’ll do it. I have to be gentle. I don’t want them bruised.”

  “I can be gentle.”

  Alanah glanced at him, eyebrow raised, lips pursed. “All right, then.”

  He watched her for a moment, then mimicked her movements, carefully cutting the mushrooms and placing them in the basket. The log stripped clean, Alanah moved on, leading him farther along the secluded knoll surrounded by swamp waters. In moments, she’d found another log covered in mushrooms, the colors even more vibrant than the ones before. The clouds rolled in, obscuring any light from the sun, and the rain grew heavier. They worked in silence save for the plop of fat raindrops slapping against the canopy of leaves overhead.

  Alanah showed no signs of stopping, and after she’d harvested mushrooms from a third, then a fourth log, Caleb cleared his throat. “We need t’ head back. It’ll be dark soon.”

  “Yes, of course.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “I tend to get carried away when I’m foraging.”

  She deposited the rest of the mushrooms in the basket, dusted the earth from her hands, and to his relief, headed back the way they’d come. Suddenly she stopped and pointed toward a cluster of blue flowers. “Look. Irises.”

  “Alanah —”

  “It will only take a moment. I promise.”

  She hurried forward, then dropped to her knees. But instead of picking the flowers, she pulled a small spade out of her waistband and dug in the dirt. She dug up half the roots, then gently smoothed the soil, patting it in place. Clutching the roots in her hand, she turned, her face glistening with happiness, he
alth, and the gentle spray of rain.

  “I’m ready now.”

  Caleb swallowed. In spite of the smudge of dirt on her cheek, the mud-stained and wilted cloak that hung about her, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  Her smile faltered. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” The rain fell harder, and he reached for her arm. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 19

  THE SATURATED GROUND squished beneath Alanah’s moccasins, but she ignored the sensation and set her sights on the higher ground on the other side of the bog, squinting through the deluge of rain and the gathering gloom. She headed across, Caleb on her heels. The farther she went, the deeper the quagmire.

  “Alanah, do no’ stop now, but . . .” The tenseness in Caleb’s voice had her searching the swampy ground around her feet, the deluge making it hard to see.

  “What is it?” A shiver of apprehension slithered down her spine, and she reached for her knife.

  “Alligator. To your right. Just keep going.”

  Alligator?

  She’d never seen an alligator here before. But the swamp waters had never been this high. Working to control the shudder that crawled across her skin, she tried to walk a straight line while searching frantically to locate the predator.

  Another involuntary shiver racked her body.

  They were almost across when a splash and a hiss sent her scrambling for the bank. She slipped and, with a squeak, fell broadside into the slough. Her hood slid over her face, but she could hear the animal coming, the splash of water, and —

  The next thing she knew, Caleb was pulling her to her feet. He shoved her ahead of him toward higher ground, and she gained her footing even as she saw the behemoth surging toward him. Without thought, she reached for an arrow, nocked it, and let it fly. Then another and another. The arrows glanced off the animal’s tough hide, and it kept coming.

  Heavenly Father, please help us.

  Caleb gained solid ground and turned, facing the animal, a deadly-looking blade in his grip that would be little defense against the beast’s powerful jaws. Now that they were out of immediate danger, Alanah could see that the brute was small, maybe three feet long, but that didn’t make it any less dangerous.

  As they backed away, the alligator halted its advance and slowly eased down into the swampy abyss. A firm grip on her arm, Caleb didn’t relax his guard until they were a good thirty feet away. Then he turned, took her by the shoulders, and searched her face. “Are ya hurt?”

  Alanah shoved her hair out of her eyes. “No. Just scared out of my wits. I’ve never seen an alligator that close before.”

  “You are no’ t’ come here again.” Rain sluiced over his face, dripping off his chin. “Is that understood?”

  Alanah lifted her chin. “But —”

  “Do no’ argue.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Promise me, lass.”

  “I can’t promise that. Gathering herbs is how I make my living.”

  “You are one stubborn woman.” Eyes flashing, he jerked his head toward the swamp. “What would you have done had I no’ been there? Could you have gotten out o’ there before that beast attacked you and pulled you into the swamp?”

  Alanah blanched. “I . . .”

  The anger —or maybe terror —on his face shifted, softened, and growling low in his throat, he hauled her to him, his lips crushing hers. But just as quickly, his lips gentled, his arm around her waist lifting her to her toes as he deepened the kiss. He groaned as if their near-death experience had unleashed a primal longing that he could no longer hold in check. Thunder rolled overhead, and uncaring of the rain that soaked them both, Alanah wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  Long minutes later, Caleb drew back, his chest heaving. He touched his forehead to hers.

  “I should no’ have done that, lass, but you make me forget reason, forget logic, forget everything but . . .”

  His dark eyes searched hers; then he lifted one hand, cupped her jaw, and drew her close again, his lips covering hers. Alanah didn’t go weak-kneed over much of anything, except the sight of blood and now . . . Caleb’s kiss.

  She wanted his kiss, wanted —

  Her heart pounded. What was wrong with her? This was the very thing her uncle had warned her against.

  She wrenched out of Caleb’s grasp and rushed for her horse, jerked the slipknot free, and mounted.

  “Alanah? Wait!”

  Ignoring Caleb’s call, she kicked her horse into motion, headed back toward Magnolia Glen. Behind her, she could hear pounding hooves as he urged his mount to catch up.

  Grabbing her reins, he hauled her mount to a stop. “Alanah, lass, look at me. I’m —”

  “There’s no need to apologize.” She cut him off before he could make a false declaration of undying love —or worse, say he should never have kissed her.

  Caleb gaped at her. “It was just a kiss, lass.”

  Embarrassed and terrified at the same time, Alanah dropped her gaze and toyed with her horse’s mane. “And if I had not run, would it have ended there? With . . . with just a kiss?”

  When he didn’t respond, she peeked at him. The warmth in his dark eyes had disappeared at her words.

  “I’m no’ Micaiah Jones.” His voice came out hard. “I would no’ force myself on a woman, and if you think that o’ me, then you do no’ know me at all.”

  The patrons at Cypress Creek Tavern were in high spirits, celebrating Micaiah’s return with gusto.

  Micaiah grinned. Against all odds, he’d thwarted the authorities and escaped from their clutches. Not only had he returned, he’d brought gifts. Corn, wheat, tobacco, and ale, appeasing the tavern owner, the tavern wenches, and his men. As soon as it stopped raining, he’d take the rest of the supplies to Cottonmouth Island, a safe and secure location on the Louisiana side of the river. Ale flowed freely as the river pirates told him of the new developments in Cypress Creek.

  “A logging camp?” Micaiah lifted his tankard of ale. “I suspect they’re ripe for the picking.”

  His cousin Elias bellowed with laughter, reached out a meaty hand, and closed it tight into a fist, his bloodshot eyes glowing with greed. “Easier than plucking a low-hanging plum. Some of the men hired on as raftsmen.”

  “Raftsmen?”

  “They’re supplying logs for a new sawmill in Natchez, floating timber rafts downriver instead of hauling them down the trace. It was the reverend who gave me the idea to have my men right in the thick of things.”

  Micaiah’s gaze narrowed at Elias’s choice of words.

  His men?

  Since when had Elias started thinking of their motley crew of thieves and cutthroats as his own? Probably since they’d left Micaiah to rot in that hole in French Camp. Elias might be his own kin, but he hadn’t spent one minute worrying over Micaiah’s fate. And Micaiah didn’t expect him to. Life was cheap on the river. They both knew that. He’d cheated death. He wouldn’t be cheated out of his rightful place as leader of their small band.

  But he would have to act swiftly if he was to wrest power back. “That was wise. Tell me, other than the men who hired on with the logging crew, have you had much success these last weeks?”

  Too drunk to know that Micaiah was needling him, Elias scowled. “None. We attacked a group of travelers. They should have been an easy target, but someone warned them. And instead of staying with the wagons, they swarmed the woods and fought back. Those milksop farmers never tried such a thing.”

  “Well, that shouldn’t have been a problem. You should’ve killed them all and let them lie.”

  “We saw no one, Cousin.” Elias shook his head, eyes wide. “There was this terrible screech; then we heard a scream. One after another, our men were being slaughtered by a ghost flitting through the forest.”

  “A ghost?” Micaiah snorted. “There is no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Believe what you will, but Tremain died within twenty feet of me, a knife to his heart, and
I saw nothing. There were men from the logging party with them. Men armed to the teeth. Men who didn’t look or act like farmers or loggers.”

  “A knife-wielding ghost?” Micaiah chuckled. “So that’s all you’ve been up to. One botched raid, eh?”

  Elias tipped up his tankard of ale and took a gulp. “I brought your woman home to Cypress Creek like you asked. That should count for something.”

  Ah, the fair Betsy. He’d have to visit her soon, but she could wait. No need in raising the ire of the few morally upright men in the territory as of yet. No, he’d figure the lay of the land, the best way to profit from the loggers who dared to venture into his territory, and then he’d take her back when it suited him.

  Or not.

  She wasn’t the only fair wench to be found in the hills and hollows between here and Natchez.

  “And I’ll tell you something else. I’m not so sure that sister of hers is quite as addled as she makes out. I saw her the other day with one of them loggers, all cleaned up, looking pretty as a picture.” Elias winked and wagged a finger at Micaiah. “I think I’ll just take that one for my own woman.”

  “And what of Reverend Browning?”

  “Posh on Reverend Browning. He didn’t care what happened to Betsy, did he? Why would he care about the other one?”

  Micaiah grunted. For once Elias was right. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he remembered another time, another place. An old man with a long beard who talked of God and blessings on the Lord’s Day, but then beat the living daylights out of him and his ma the other six.

  Micaiah had snapped the day the old man went too far. He’d left them both where they lay in the blood-soaked cabin and never looked back. Hers was the only death he’d been blamed for that he hadn’t committed.

  There was a time and a place for Christianity, he supposed, but if his old man and Reverend Browning were the example, Micaiah wanted no part of it.

  “Interesting.” Micaiah slid his mug back and forth across the table. Maybe Elias had managed to do more in his absence than he’d thought. “When will they make the first trip?”