The Crossing at Cypress Creek

by Pam Hillman

  His dark gaze raked her face, seeking, searching, asking for permission that she’d already given with her words. She leaned closer . . .

  Then she was in his arms, his lips crushing hers, the tips of her toes the only thing anchoring her to the floor. And unlike the last time he’d kissed her, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and held on tight.

  All too soon the kiss ended. Caleb lifted his head, his eyes glittering in the flickering light of the candle. One thumb slid across her lips, and a smile tilted up one corner of his mouth. “We’ll have t’ continue this conversation when I return, lass.”

  And then he was gone.

  They’d learned everything they needed to know and then some from the pirate Tiberius had captured. The Moor had a way of striking fear into the hearts of all he met. But even now, as the men worked to finish loading the raft, Quinn still wasn’t convinced.

  “So let me get this straight. These pirates lie in wait for flatboats t’ come down the river; then they kill everybody on board, dump their bodies overboard, and take the goods on t’ Natchez or New Orleans?” Quinn scowled. “And we’re going t’ go ahead with our harebrained scheme and attack the murderous thieves?”

  “You forgot the part about rescuing Betsy.”

  “I did no’ forget. Rescuing the girl is the least o’ our worries. Even if we succeed in retrieving the girl, somehow we’ve got t’ get back here t’ protect the camp and the women. And if we fail, then —”

  “We do no’ need to protect the women. They will no’ be here.”

  “What do ya mean?”

  “The minute we leave, Connor, Horne, and the rest o’ the men are taking the women, the draft horses, the mules, and the rest o’ the supplies and heading t’ Breeze Hill. If we fail, the only thing left here will be a handful o’ cabins.” He shrugged. “If Jones torches them, it’ll be a small price t’ pay.”

  “And what about the timber raft and the cotton? What’s going t’ happen t’ that when we storm the island?”

  “William and the raftsmen from Natchez will continue downriver, so your precious cotton will be safe.”

  “Ya’ve forgotten one thing.”

  Caleb squinted at his brother. “What might that be?”

  “What t’ do with Jones and his men after we defeat them.”

  “You assume there will be survivors.”

  “I’m assuming we will be victorious, and I’m assuming we are no’ butchers.”

  Alanah stood on the bluff overlooking the sandbar. The men scurried to and fro rearranging the bales of cotton. From her vantage point, she could see that the cotton was placed to form a block around the perimeter of the timber raft, leaving space for the men to hide inside.

  When they’d finished, they covered the bales of cotton with canvas. Bible in hand, Mr. Horne motioned for the men to gather around. Both crews —loggers and raftsmen —stood with bowed heads as he lifted his hands toward heaven and beseeched God for favor for their mission. After the last amen, the men filed inside under cover of darkness, moonlight glinting off flintlocks, axes, and any other weapon that came to hand.

  Quiet descended, and two men untied the ropes holding the timber raft in place. The raftsmen took up positions, using poles to push the unwieldy raft toward the center of the channel.

  The logs floated free, caught by the current, and headed toward the massive river.

  And Alanah’s heart went with them. Not just with Caleb, but with all of them. They were risking their lives to get her sister back. Oh, she had no illusion that was the only reason. After all, it was in their best interests to rid Cypress Creek of the river pirates terrorizing the area.

  The sooner Micaiah and his men were gone, the sooner the logging camp and Cypress Creek could flourish. Families would come. The men would take wives. Some whose talents lay more to farming would take William Wainwright up on his offer to cultivate the freshly deforested land. And others would continue to work in the logging camp.

  But what of her and Betsy? Her livelihood was slowly being destroyed by the very men who were bringing peace and safety to the settlement. Would Uncle Jude see that things were changing? In spite of the fact that their home was gone, would the elimination of the river pirates change his mind about heading north? She prayed it was so.

  Because she didn’t want to leave Cypress Creek, and she didn’t want to leave Caleb O’Shea.

  She watched the timber raft drift out of sight, then whispered, “Godspeed, my heart.”

  “Alanah, we must go.” Lydia stood nearby.

  “I’m ready.”

  She turned her back on the river, on Caleb, and on her sister and followed Lydia toward the waiting wagons. With each step, she felt she was abandoning her sister, just as Uncle Jude had abandoned her months ago. And even now he was off somewhere in the Natchez District and Betsy needed him again.

  But Caleb was going after her.

  He’d bring Betsy back, safe if not completely sound.

  But what if he didn’t?

  What if . . . ?

  She stopped, grabbed Lydia’s arm. “I —I can’t go.”

  Lydia stared at her. “Why not?”

  “I have to go after them. What if the loggers fail in their task? They aren’t skilled in fighting, not like Micaiah’s men, who kill for the sheer meanness of it. If —” her voice broke —“if Caleb and the others fail in their task, Betsy will be lost forever.”

  “You have so little faith in Caleb and Tiberius?”

  “It’s not that. But I can’t leave my sister. I just can’t.” She searched Lydia’s gaze, her thoughts touching on everything that could go wrong during the rescue. “Betsy’s liable to take off running or end up in the thick of things. If I get there in time, I can locate her and spirit her away the minute the fighting starts.”

  “You cannot do this thing. You promised Caleb you would go to Breeze Hill —”

  “I never said I was going to Breeze Hill.”

  “I will no’ allow it.” The nearest horses jumped at the sound of Connor’s bellow. He jabbed a finger at the wagon where Isabella reclined, every blanket and pillow they could find cushioning her journey back to Breeze Hill. “Ya will both get in that wagon with me wife, and we will be on our way.”

  Lydia crossed her arms and glared at him. Feeling less confident, Alanah squatted next to the fire pit, the ashes long cold. She dug her hands in the ashes and rubbed soot and dirt on her face and hair, darkening her skin and dulling the golden glint of her hair.

  Satisfied that she was sufficiently covered, she faced Caleb’s brother. “Thank you for your kindness and your offer of protection, sir, but my sister needs me, and nothing will keep me from her.”

  Hands on his hips, he advanced toward her, and she realized in that instant how much he and Caleb were alike. Not in looks so much, but in their overbearing, demanding ways. She lifted her chin. Nothing short of trussing her up like a chicken would get her in that wagon.

  “Connor.” Isabella’s voice halted him.

  He pivoted and in an instant was at his wife’s side. “Are ya in pain? Is it the babe?”

  “No, love. The babe is fine. I’m fine.” Isabella took his hand and held it fast. “Alanah is right. She needs to go after her sister. She needs to see that she’s safe.”

  “But —” Connor threw a glance over his shoulder, his glare encompassing both Alanah and Lydia —“I promised Caleb I’d see them safely t’ Breeze Hill.”

  “You can’t force them to go if they don’t want to.”

  “Caleb’s going t’ have me head over this, he is.” He let go of his wife’s hand and stomped to where Patrick held the reins, muttering his displeasure the whole time. “Fool women going on an eejit’s errand.”

  Alanah rushed to the wagon, grabbed her pack of medical supplies, rummaged through it, and found the packet of dried tea leaves. She handed the pouch to Isabella, then took her hand. “Rest easy, and don’t forget to drink your tea as soon
as you get to Breeze Hill.”

  “I will. Martha will take good care of me.” Isabella squeezed her hand. “I will be praying. Be careful.”

  Connor released the brake on the wagon but didn’t urge the horses forward. He glanced at them, his brow furrowed. “Watch out for me brothers and for William. Any time there’s a scrape, William tends to come out the worst for it.”

  And with that, he slapped the reins against the horses’ backs and the wagon jolted forward, leaving Alanah and Lydia alone in the deserted logging camp.

  Chapter 26

  THE POUNDING of a horse’s hooves approaching camp jerked Micaiah awake, and he grabbed his pistol. All around him, his men did the same, most of them melting into the thick underbrush.

  At least they were alert enough to react quickly. He’d forbidden the consumption of ale hours before so that they’d be sober enough to attack the logging camp on the morrow. Knowing the loggers would expect it of him, he’d decided not to wait until the timber raft and the cotton headed downriver.

  No, they’d attack this day, late in the afternoon, when the men were exhausted from a hard day’s labor. They’d ride upriver past the logging camp and find a flatboat. There was always a farmer willing to trade a rickety skiff for a horse or two. And if not, they’d just take what they wanted. They’d put in on the west side of the river, cross over, dig in, and lie in wait for the loggers. Once they’d eliminated the threat in the woods, they’d take care of those in the camp.

  With them gone, Cypress Creek and the surrounding area would be cowed as they had been in the past.

  The horse and rider came barreling into camp.

  Simpson.

  Micaiah stuck his pistol in his waistband, strode forward, and grabbed the reins. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be upriver, keeping watch.”

  “I was, but not fifteen minutes ago I caught sight of a flatboat floating downriver.”

  “You fool. I told you not to worry about the flatboats. My concern is the loggers.”

  “But that’s just it. It looks like the timber raft the loggers were building, and it’s loaded to the gills with cotton bales.”

  Micaiah stared at Simpson. “The timber raft and the cotton, you say?”

  “Aye.”

  Micaiah scratched his jaw, then turned away, thinking. The loggers were trying to outwit him by sending the cotton downriver under cover of darkness, hoping maybe it would slip through undetected. He chuckled. They thought they were being smart, but they’d just played right into his hands. He’d kill the boatmen and take the timber and the cotton as well.

  Then, tomorrow after he’d rid himself of the rest of the loggers back in Cypress Creek, he might just take a trip downriver to Natchez or New Orleans. A load of cotton would bring a pretty penny there.

  Perhaps he’d take young Betsy with him. And if she was good, he might change his mind and keep her.

  “Man the boats. There’s a load of cotton floating down the river, and it’s ripe for the harvest.”

  The men whooped and hollered, brandishing their weapons.

  There was no sound except the quiet splash of sweeps as the experienced raftsmen navigated the river. With nothing to do until they neared Cottonmouth Island, Caleb hunkered down next to a bale of cotton and squinted at the distant riverbank barely visible in the light of the moon and with the mist that rose over the water.

  Quinn joined him. “See anything?”

  “Nothing. If memory serves, we should be getting close.”

  From inside the fort-like enclosure made of cotton bales, someone let out a snore, quickly followed by a grunt. Someone hissed, “Quiet, you fool. Do you want to alert them that we’re coming?”

  Quinn chuckled. “Can’t imagine anyone sleeping right now.”

  “Whoever it is, he’s either too cocky or too much of an eejit t’ realize what he’s about t’ get into.”

  “The closer we get, the more o’ an eejit we all are.”

  “You should have gone with Connor if you’re that worried.”

  “And let ya have all the fun?”

  Caleb was barely able to make out his brother’s features in the shadows cast by the bales of cotton silhouetted against the night sky. “Watching a man die by your hand is no’ fun.”

  “Aye, I’ll grant ya that.” Quinn nodded. They sat in silence for a long stretch, before Quinn spoke again. “Caleb, why are ya doing this?”

  “Doing what?” Caleb shifted the pressure off his left leg and rested his back more comfortably against the bale of cotton.

  “Riding down this river, possibly t’ yer death.” Quinn turned to face him. “For some o’ us, it’s t’ wrest control of Cypress Creek and the logging camp from a bunch o’ cutthroats and thieves, t’ carve out a safe and profitable life for our families. But ya? Ya’ve never said ya planned t’ stay, t’ make a life here. And ya do no’ have a wife or land.”

  Caleb eyed the river, undulating with the tiniest of ripples. “Maybe I’m doing it for my brothers. T’ make up for the past.”

  And not just for what he’d done to his brothers, but for others he’d wronged.

  “Ya do no’ have t’ make up for the past.” Quinn’s voice sounded strained.

  “Do no’ tell me that you do no’ hate me for leaving you t’ raise the little ones all by yourself?”

  Quinn was silent for so long, Caleb didn’t think he was going to answer. Finally he sighed. “Aye. I hated ya. But ya were in the right t’ hate me in return. I took yer one chance t’ get out o’ the mines. But I did no’ know . . .”

  “It’s all right, Brother. I believe you.” Caleb held out his hand. “Truce?”

  Quinn hesitated; then a grin flashed across his face. He grabbed Caleb’s hand and gave it a hearty shake. “Truce.”

  The raft floated along, slowly, leaving them all plenty of time to think. And apparently Quinn was in a thinking frame of mind. “So if it’s no’ for the logging camp or yer brothers, it must be for the girl.”

  “O’ course it’s for the girl. I told you that. She’s just a wee lass and —”

  Quinn chuckled. “I’m not talking about that girl. I’m talking about the other one —Alanah. I did the same thing for Kiera and her sisters. Love makes a man do some mighty strange things.”

  “Love?” Caleb was glad for the shadows that hid the flush creeping over his face. “I do no’ —”

  He stopped, squinted, saw the outline of the island in the distance. He motioned for Quinn to get out of sight. “There it is. Pass the word.”

  Quinn disappeared among the bales of cotton, passing the word to the men to keep quiet.

  Caleb stood. As they closed the distance between the raft and the island, he spotted a sandbar. He hissed and pointed. The boatmen nodded. They’d seen the sandbar already. Probably even before he had. Without making so much as a ripple on the river, they used the sweeps to maneuver toward the island.

  The closer they got, the harder his heart pumped. They’d land and the men who’d volunteered to flush out the cutthroats would disembark, and they’d push the timber raft off to float downriver to safety. They’d search out the pirates’ hiding place and —

  His blood ran cold at a flicker of movement on the water. Squinting, he stared at the spot. A boat materialized out of the mist, then another and another, until the horizon was broken by half a dozen boats of various sizes converging from all sides, closing in and cutting off the path downriver.

  The tables had been turned and their surprise attack had turned into a counterattack.

  “Quinn?” Caleb uttered the one word, quiet-like.

  “Aye. I see,” Quinn muttered from just inside the square of cotton bales.

  “Stand down, lads,” Caleb ordered the raftsmen. “Let ’em come t’ us.”

  Caleb counted maybe twenty to thirty river pirates standing on the boats, ghostly-looking in the foggy night shadows. The timber raft jolted from the impact as the first of their crafts rammed into them. T
he pirates tossed grappling irons, crisscrossing from vessel to vessel, ensnaring the timber raft loaded with cotton —and loggers —until they were all bound together like one of his mam’s patchwork quilts.

  He stood his ground, anticipating the pirates’ surprise when the loggers swarmed out of the hidden space in the center of the raft.

  One man stepped forward, long hair hanging past his shoulders and a heavy brow that gave him a menacing look without even trying. His gaze swept the river, the timber raft, before settling on Caleb. “Strange time to be traveling.”

  “Aye.” Caleb inclined his head. “Hoping t’ beat the heat o’ the day.”

  “And who might you be?” The stranger spat a chew of tobacco, splattering the timbers and the toe of Caleb’s boot. Caleb paid the diversion no mind.

  “Caleb O’Shea. And you, sir?” It grated to call the cutthroat sir, but he’d have his day soon. Very, very soon.

  “Micaiah Jones.”

  “Jones, eh?” Caleb leaned forward. “My apologies if I do no’ recognize the name. T’ what do I owe this unannounced social call?”

  A thundercloud rolled over Jones’s features. “Make light if you will, O’Shea, but as you can see, my men and I have the upper hand, and you and your companions will float with the fishes this night.”

  “I think not.”

  “You think —” Jones chuckled, then snapped his fingers. With a roar of sadistic glee, the river pirates surged forward.

  They were met with an equal sound of rage as Quinn, Tiberius, William, and dozens of loggers spilled out from hiding and met force with force.

  But Caleb had eyes only for Micaiah Jones. He pulled his pistol, took aim, and fired.

  Heart lurching, Alanah drew in a ragged breath as the first yell, followed by shouts, shots, and iron striking iron, rang out from around the next bend in the river.

  How had Caleb and the others found the river pirates so quickly? She’d hoped to make landfall and be on their heels when they attacked the camp, but now —