by Pam Hillman
Or it had been before that logging crew had moved in.
There’d always been a lookout on the bluff where the loggers had made camp. Travelers would stop at Cypress Creek to trade, to gather news, and to ask about hidden dangers along the river moving forward. Since they valued their lives, the inhabitants of the small burg kept their mouths shut.
By the time a flatboat left Cypress Creek, Micaiah knew how many men were on board, how well armed they were, and what they were carrying to market. Some flatboat crews were allowed to go on unharmed. Sometimes the risk was too great, the paltry rewards too few.
But then there were the crews who’d grown complacent with their journey, those who’d overly enjoyed a night of revelry at the tavern, those who had horses on board, guns and shot, ale and coin.
A flotilla of armed men ahead, a flotilla behind, a prearranged schedule of waiting one day or two before attacking; then they’d close the gap and tighten the noose. None of them ever had a chance, and none ever escaped to tell the tale of what had happened to them.
The only tales they told were to the fishes that swam the river.
But now that the loggers were clearing more land, Micaiah could see the writing on the shifting sands of the Mississippi. As more travelers came down the river, some would decide to make their homes here. While some of his men thought that gave them more opportunity to kill and steal, Micaiah knew better. He and his kind couldn’t live in harmony with the morally upstanding sort that would start flooding Cypress Creek. They would be driven out as soon as the settlers outnumbered the river pirates.
Which brought him back to the loggers who had encroached on his territory.
It was time to wrest control of Cypress Creek back.
Clutching his blood-soaked side, Jude staggered another ten feet, then collapsed against a pine, the bark scraping his cheek.
Don’t stop now. Home is just over the next ridge.
Summoning strength he didn’t know he possessed, he let go of the tree and forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, his attention focused on home.
Alanah and Lydia would see to his wounds. Everything would be fine.
But he’d have to tell Alanah that Finley had taken Betsy. He’d tried to save her, but he’d failed. Even in his moment of glory, of trying to do the right thing, he’d failed.
The next thing he knew, he was in the clearing, just standing there, weaving on his feet, breathing heavily. For a moment, he thought he’d misjudged, that the destruction laid out before him was someone else’s homestead, someone else’s charred remains.
But the goats roaming the yard were his. The bit of wattle fencing, the position of the barn all too familiar.
Where . . . ?
What had happened here? The two cabins he and his brother-in-law had built for their families, nothing more than charred logs. The barn gone, save a rear corner that had survived the fire.
“Alanah?” His niece’s name was hardly more than a croak through parched lips. He swallowed, licked his lips, and called her name again, but there was no answer.
Where was Alanah? Lydia?
The root cellar.
He staggered across the yard toward the cave he and his brother-in-law had dug out of the bluff the first summer they’d arrived. If Alanah was alive, she’d be in the cellar. Falling to his knees, he clawed at the door, pulled it open.
The cellar was empty. No food, no supplies, no Alanah, and no Lydia.
What had Betsy said? Something about spending the night at the logging camp. He prayed his niece and Lydia were there.
His wound burning with fire and fever, Jude crawled inside the dark, dank hole in the ground and curled into a ball on the dirt floor.
Caleb helped Alanah down an embankment.
Night had fallen by the time they cleared the dense forest and came to the footpath the loggers had worn between the logging camp and Cypress Creek.
“We’re almost there, lass. Can you make it?”
Her glassy eyes rose, met his, and he had the feeling her thoughts had been far, far away from him and the path they were on. She blinked. “Yes, of course.”
Then she promptly stumbled and would have fallen at his feet if he hadn’t had hold of her arm. Without further ado, he swept her into his arms.
“No.” She struggled with about as much strength as those wee kits she’d been bound and determined to save. “Put me down. I can walk.”
“When was the last time you ate, lass?”
“I’m not sure. Last night. No, a biscuit this morning.”
Ah, Gimpy’s stew. More broth than meat most of the time. And one measly biscuit to break her fast today. It hadn’t helped that she’d left whatever nourishment both provided on the riverbank. “You’re weak as a cat, and I do no’ want ya keeling over on me.”
Surprisingly, she didn’t resist but rested her head against his shoulder. “As you wish. But just for a moment.”
“Just for a moment.”
Her eyes slid shut, and soon she was breathing the even cadence of exhausted slumber. He cradled her slight form close to his chest, his heart swelling with the need to protect her, to make things right for her and her wee sister. What if Jones had gotten his hands on Alanah? What if . . . ?
He would have moved heaven and earth to get to her, to tear Jones apart, limb by limb. He couldn’t bear the thought of Alanah being violated. His arms tightened like a vise around her, and she let out a low moan. Loosening his hold, he tried to breathe.
And what of Betsy?
Jaw clenched, he marched forward, thoughts spinning. Betsy deserved no less protection than Alanah or Isabella or Kiera. He’d find a way to rescue her or die trying.
Alanah roused as Caleb lowered her to the pallet in the cabin back at the logging camp. Jerking awake, she searched his face in the dim light cast by a single candle. Compassion filled his dark eyes, and pain pierced her heart as everything came rushing back.
Betsy.
He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, and in one fluid movement, stepped back. The candlelight wavered; then Lydia was there, kneeling on the pallet beside her, arms open.
As Lydia enfolded her in her embrace, Caleb slipped out the door.
“She’s gone,” Alanah whispered. “Micaiah’s men took her to Cottonmouth Island. I have to go after —” Her words broke on a sob.
“You must not make yourself sick with worry,” Lydia crooned, pressing a bowl into her hands. “Now eat.”
“How can I?”
The thought of food made her want to throw up again. She looked around the dim cabin, the rough-hewn desk pushed to the side, allowing room for the three of them to have pallets. She shuddered, the thought of a safe place to lay her own head making her heart pound afresh, when Betsy —
“If you do not eat, I will feed you myself.” Lydia dipped the spoon into the bowl.
Reluctantly Alanah took the bowl and, under Lydia’s watchful gaze, forced herself to eat every bite. She’d just finished when she heard a light knock on the door. It opened and Isabella stood there.
Lydia frowned. “Miss Isabella, you should not be out of bed.”
“I’m feeling much better.” Isabella crossed to the pallet, took her hand, and squeezed. “Connor told me about Betsy. I’m so sorry. Connor, Caleb, and the others will get her back.”
“I want to believe that, but if Uncle Jude didn’t care enough to go after her before, why would they?”
Isabella’s expression became guarded. “Betsy was kidnapped before?”
“Yes. Micaiah Jones took her away last spring. He used her. He . . .”
“I —I think I need to sit after all.” Isabella’s face had gone pale.
Lydia reached for a chair and Isabella sank down, the compassion on her face palpable. “I’m sorry, Alanah. I didn’t know. I just thought . . .” She shrugged.
“You thought Betsy was dull-witted?”
“Yes.” Isabella’s face went from pale to scarlet.
“Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” Alanah held out the rags she wore, a glimmer of humor twisting her lips. “Half the locals around here think I’m addled, but the ruse did nothing to stop Micaiah. I thought when he’d been captured and was to be tried for murder, Betsy would be safe from then on. I was glad he was to be hanged, if not for what he’d done to my sister, but for murder. The end result would be the same, would it not? But then he came back, and I’m afraid nothing will save her this time.”
Isabella took her by the hand and tugged her to the seat next to her. “Nothing is too big for God if we pray and believe.”
“Uncle Jude has prayed. He prayed for Betsy’s soul and for destruction to fall on Micaiah —”
“Destruction?” Isabella frowned. “Forgive me once again, but it seems that your uncle is more concerned with passing judgment than saving souls.”
Lydia grunted, and Alanah knew she agreed with Isabella’s assessment. “He can be harsh, but I believe his heart is in the right place.”
“That may be, but he needs to examine it more closely if he believes leaving Betsy to her fate is God’s will. Perhaps an earnest prayer that woos God’s favor is more effective than calling down fire and brimstone.” Isabella looked at Lydia. “Will you join us?”
Lydia scowled and crossed her arms, refusing to sit.
Isabella arched a brow at her. “Lydia, you don’t believe that God can help in this situation?”
“No offense to your God, Miss Isabella, but if anybody’s going to save Betsy, it’ll be Tiberius, Caleb, and your man.”
Isabella’s lips twitched. “Have you considered that my God sent Tiberius and Caleb for such a time as this?”
Lydia’s gaze narrowed, but still she didn’t join them. Instead, she grabbed one of the chairs and scooted it across the floor to the corner, then sat, the shadows engulfing her. “Go ahead and pray. I suppose it will not hurt.”
“Thank you, Lydia.” Isabella took Alanah’s hands in hers, closed her eyes, and started praying, her voice barely above a whisper. “Our heavenly Father, we beg of You . . .”
Focusing on Isabella’s voice, Alanah searched for God in the darkness. She’d tried not to become jaded by Uncle Jude’s harsh view of the world around them, but the light in her life had grown dimmer and dimmer with each blow —the deaths of her parents, who’d taught her to trust God, to depend on Him, to lean on Him. Then Aunt Rachel had died, and Uncle Jude’s rigid view had become even narrower. Her faith had almost been snuffed out completely when Betsy had disappeared. Oh, she’d prayed to God. She’d grasped at her feeble faith, at the hope that Betsy was still alive, but had she really, truly believed that God would save Betsy?
In spite of all the hurts and abuse her sister had gone through, Betsy had survived. She’d come home. And —tears pricked Alanah’s eyes as remorse smote her —
And she hadn’t even thanked God for her sister’s safe return.
Not once.
The hot tears spilled over, ran down her face, and dripped onto her hands, still clasped tightly in Isabella’s.
I’m sorry, God. I’m sorry. You saved Betsy’s life, brought her back to me, and I didn’t even acknowledge that the only reason she survived those months with Micaiah was because You willed it. Did my ungratefulness lead to Betsy being taken again? Perhaps not, but I can’t stand the thought of being the cause of more hurt for her. God, help me to be strong, help me to believe in You, and . . . and help me to believe in the help You’ve sent to us. She took a shuddering breath. But in all things, Your will be done, Lord.
Isabella’s quiet voice seeped into her consciousness. She opened her eyes, blinked, and the first thing she saw was Lydia seated in the corner. As stoic as ever, at first glance she seemed unmoved, but the moisture glistening on her cheeks told a different story.
Alanah’s heart did a joy-jig, and she shifted her attention to Isabella’s downcast head, her lips still moving in prayer. She didn’t even know what Isabella had prayed, didn’t know what she’d petitioned God for, but something —her words, her faith, the groanings of her spirit, or just the wooing of God’s still, small voice —had touched Lydia.
Just as it had touched Alanah.
The heavy cloak of fear and uncertainty that had blanketed her lifted, and for the first time in a long while, Alanah felt at peace.
Chapter 25
“TIBERIUS AND I will go after Betsy.”
“The two o’ you can’t go up against them alone. You would be slaughtered.” Connor hunkered down. “Now show me where they are, and we’ll figure out what t’ do and how many men t’ send.”
“They’re on a small island about three miles downriver, closer to the Louisiana side.” As best as he could, Caleb described the island he’d seen on his trip to Natchez. “We could be there in an hour or so. Attack in the middle o’ the night.”
“Our first priority is t’ this logging camp,” Quinn gritted out.
Caleb stared him down. “My priority is t’ rescue that girl.”
Some of the men were asleep, rolled in blankets scattered around the camp where they could catch a bit of night breeze. But several had joined Caleb and his brothers around the fire pit in front of the cookhouse.
“Do ya no’ have a brain in that thick head o’ yours? That’s just what that madman wants.” Quinn flung his arms out. “He wants us t’ run off all over the place looking for a half-wit girl who does no’ have the sense t’ get out o’ the rain, while he attacks the logging camp, left undefended.”
“You are right, Brother, about him attacking us, but you are wrong about Betsy. She did no’ ask t’ be taken by Micaiah Jones. She’s just a wee lass who canna defend herself against a bunch o’ murderous dogs who would use and abuse her for their own pleasure.”
Connor stepped between them, rested his hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Caleb is right.”
“And what about Isabella?” Quinn stabbed a finger toward the cabin where Isabella, Alanah, and Lydia were. “Will ya risk yer own wife and child by engaging these cutthroats?”
“I do no’ have a choice.” Looking torn, Connor glanced toward the dogtrot. “I know you mean well, Quinn, but that lass needs help. Just as much as Isabella needed me, and Kiera and her sisters needed you. More so, I think.” He shook his head. “If you’d seen her that first day when she tried t’ steal the bacon from Gimpy. She was like a dog that had been kicked and cowed until she had no more fight left. I thought she was just addled in some way, and I suppose she was, but it wasn’t because she was born that way. It was from the abuse heaped upon her after months in captivity.” Connor glared at the loggers standing around. “Nobody deserves t’ be treated like that. Especially no’ a wee lass.”
A rumble of assent passed through the men.
“All right. I give in.” Quinn ran a hand through his hair. “But how —?”
A commotion at the edge of camp halted his question. The men parted, and Tiberius led a bedraggled man forward and tossed him on the ground at Caleb’s feet.
“I found this one watching from the bluff.” Tiberius’s voice rumbled like angry thunder.
“One of Jones’s men?”
“He will tell you all you need to know.” Tiberius slid his scimitar out of its scabbard, the grate of iron against the leather ominous. He took a step forward, and the man scrabbled backward. “If he wishes to live.”
“I won’t go.”
The peace Alanah felt less than an hour ago had vanished, to be replaced by the familiar fear that had dogged her these many months. Arms crossed, she faced Caleb, candlelight flickering across his shadowed face.
“It’s the only way. And we do no’ have much time. You, Lydia, Isabella, and Patrick need t’ leave for Breeze Hill now, while we know that Micaiah and all his men are across the river.”
“Isabella can’t travel.”
“She’ll make it. She must. It’s the only way t’ get all o’ you out o’ harm’s way so that we can rescu
e Betsy.” Caleb clasped her arms, forcing her to look at him. “Please, Alanah. It’s for your own good.”
“If I can’t go with you, I’ll stay here.” She waved a hand toward the door. “I’m just as good with a bow —better —than any of the men out there. They know how to wield an ax, nothing else.”
“Their axes are sharper than any two-edged sword and just as deadly. Besides, it will be close fighting, at night. Your bow would be useless.”
She sighed. Inside the cabin, all was quiet. Lydia had gone across the dogtrot to gather a few belongings and bedding to ease Isabella’s journey. And even beyond the walls, there was controlled chaos as the men prepared the surprise attack on Micaiah and his men.
She searched Caleb’s gaze. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because . . .” His eyebrows pulled down into a deep V as if he hadn’t really thought it through. “’Tis the right thing t’ do.”
“For a girl you don’t even know?” Her lips twisted as she recalled Uncle Jude’s accusations. “A used one at that?”
“What makes Betsy less valuable than me —or you, for that matter? Only a savage would knowingly leave her t’ such a fate.”
“Uncle Jude did.”
“I canna be knowing what yer uncle was thinking. He didna have the know-how to rescue her, and he didna have the men. We have both.” Caleb rubbed his hands up and down her arms, his eyes troubled. “Alanah, sending you and Isabella t’ Breeze Hill is the only way I can be assured o’ your safety. Please, do as I say.”
Alanah closed her eyes, weary of fighting. Weary of trying to nearly single-handedly carry the burden of keeping her sister safe. Maybe he was right, but how could she be sure?
“Trust me, Alanah. I’ll bring your wee sister back unharmed.”
She looked into his eyes and pressed her palm against his jerkin, the tips of her fingers resting on his thin shirt, the warmth of his skin branding her fingertips. “Not just my sister, Caleb O’Shea. I would that you return unharmed as well.”