The Crossing at Cypress Creek

by Pam Hillman

“Aye.” Caleb didn’t try to tell her any differently. “The good news is he is no’ here now, so he might still be alive.” He studied the scuffed leaves and crushed vines. “He went that way.”

  The trail was faint, but it clearly led toward home.

  Alanah stopped at the edge of the yard, Caleb close on her heels. For the second time, the total devastation almost took her breath away.

  “Do no’ worry, lass. You can rebuild.”

  “There’s no need, not if Uncle Jude still plans —”

  She broke off. If her uncle was dead, they wouldn’t have to go north. But would she want to stay here? She shook her head to clear it. She couldn’t even think about any of that now. Her uncle’s fate first, then she’d think about the future.

  “Uncle Jude?” she called out. No answer.

  They separated, Caleb searching around the cabin, down by the creek. Alanah headed toward the barn. Had her uncle become disoriented and wandered off the trail to die cold and alone in the woods?

  Please, Lord, help us find him.

  “Uncle Jude, where are you? Can you hear me?”

  She walked between the charred remains of the cabin and the barn, saw the bluff at the rear rising upward. Her gaze landed on the root cellar, half-hidden in the underbrush, the door ajar.

  Ajar? She didn’t remember leaving the door open.

  Praying she’d find her uncle inside and alive, she hurried up the path toward the cellar.

  Just before she reached the cave-like hole, a blur of movement cut her off, and a band of steel clamped around her waist. Another hand covered her mouth, the rough fingers digging into her face so hard she thought her jaw would break.

  She clawed for the knife at her side, but her captor slammed her against a tree and shoved a wicked-looking knife against her throat. “You so much as whimper, and I’ll slit yer throat.”

  Micaiah.

  Alanah didn’t utter a sound. If she’d learned anything in the time she’d known Micaiah Jones, it was that he meant every word he said.

  And killing her wouldn’t bother him any more than squashing a bug.

  Chapter 29

  “I DID NO’ FIND anything —”

  Caleb rounded the corner of the burned-out barn and stopped dead in his tracks.

  Micaiah Jones held Alanah in front of him, a knife at her throat.

  Caleb’s attention shifted to Alanah’s face, then focused on her eyes, wide and terrified, pleading.

  He attempted to convey the way he felt about her in that one look, trying to somehow stop time. Would this be the last time he looked into her eyes before Micaiah snuffed the life out of her forever? The few seconds he held her gaze unveiled a lifetime of painful longings that would never be.

  “So we meet again.”

  Micaiah’s gravelly voice shattered the ache into a million pieces.

  Turning as cold as a winter storm blowing across the ocean and just as deadly, Caleb shifted his attention to the cowardly cur who held Alanah captive. For the first time, he got a good look at the man. Long, stringy hair hung past his shoulders, the color indistinguishable in its filth. A scraggly beard covered a square jaw, and heavy brows jutted over eyes filled with emptiness, save the intent to do evil at every turn.

  “Aye, we meet again.” Caleb crossed his arms, then jerked his head toward Alanah. “But I see you’re hiding behind a skirt this time instead o’ a sniveling bunch o’ scum. What happened? Did the vermin run out on you, back t’ the holes they came from?”

  “Nobody runs out on me.” Micaiah sneered. “They go when and where I tell them to.”

  “Ah, forgive me.” Caleb laughed. “So you sent them all t’ Natchez, then? What, pray tell, will they do there? Plan your escape out o’ Governor Gayoso’s Spanish prison?”

  “I won’t be going to prison.”

  Alanah whimpered as he pressed the knife against her throat. Caleb’s mind raced. Was it a good idea to goad the man? Would he grow so angry, he’d do something foolish and give Caleb an opportunity to kill him? Or would he slit Alanah’s throat first before coming after Caleb?

  The cold that had taken over his brain swooshed down and spread to the rest of his body, like ice shattering from head to toe. Just one chance at Micaiah. That was all he needed. Just one —

  Suddenly a yipping sounded off to his left, and half a dozen streaks of black-and-white fur bounded out of the one corner of the barn still standing. Making a beeline, they tumbled over themselves to get to Alanah. Micaiah’s eyes widened as one of the baby raccoons slammed into his leg and started climbing.

  Cursing, he tried to shake the kit off, but to no avail. With a howl of rage, he slashed downward with a vicious swipe, but before the blade made contact with the wee animal, Alanah twisted out of his grasp. It was the only chance Caleb would have.

  “Alanah. Run.” He rushed forward, slammed into Micaiah, knocking him over. Slung free, the frightened kits yelped and ran back to safety beneath the charred remains of the barn.

  Alanah scrambled to her feet.

  Breaking apart, Caleb and Micaiah circled, looking for a chance to rush in for the kill.

  Her stomach twisted. While she’d lived in the wilds as far back as she could remember and had heard tales of the vicious end many men met at the hands of another, she’d never actually witnessed two men facing each other, knives at the ready, intent on killing the other.

  Dear heavenly Father, please don’t let it be Caleb. Please, Lord, help him. Please.

  Repeating her pleas under her breath, she fumbled for the knife tucked in her belt, then let it lie. She’d just be putting Caleb and herself in danger if she rushed in wielding the puny blade.

  Her bow.

  Her cheeks wet with tears, she reached for her bow with trembling hands. Nocking an arrow, she backed away. Caleb had told her to run, but how could she? She couldn’t leave him here to fight Micaiah alone. But if —heaven forbid —Micaiah knifed Caleb, she’d put an arrow in his heart before he could reach her.

  She had no choice if she wanted to survive.

  Micaiah swung at Caleb, the tip of his knife missing by inches. With a clear shot at Micaiah, she took a steadying breath, but Caleb stepped into her line of sight before she could let her arrow fly. Hands shaking, she realized that she’d come within a hairbreadth of shooting Caleb.

  God, give me strength.

  The men crouched, each waiting for an opening in order to gut the other.

  She prayed for one shot. Just one.

  They continued to circle, and Caleb’s gaze flickered toward her, widened. The distraction was all Micaiah needed to make his move. He jumped forward, swiping at Caleb with his blade. Caleb’s own knife went flying, and he fell back, rolling away before Micaiah could stab him again. Micaiah kicked out, the blow catching Caleb under the chin. He lurched toward Caleb, and Alanah let the arrow fly.

  It ripped through Micaiah’s bicep to land with a thwack in a nearby tree. He roared, sounding like a wounded bear. Switching the knife to his left hand, he turned on her. She backed away, reaching for another arrow. She tried to nock it, but her hands were shaking so much, she couldn’t —

  Beyond Micaiah she could see Caleb struggling to stand. Please, Caleb. Please don’t die. Please. I love you. I love you. Please.

  Ten feet away, Micaiah stopped, gaping at her as if he were looking at the very dead.

  Except he wasn’t staring at her, but at —

  “Micaiah Jones, you have been weighed in the balances and found wanting.”

  Alanah turned, saw her uncle, and gasped. Dried blood covered his head, his gaunt face, and a filthy, bloodstained bandage was wrapped around his middle. She started to rush to his aid, but he held her at bay with a trembling hand, rust-stained with blood and dirt. He walked past her, straight toward Micaiah, never wavering, never hesitating, not even seeming to notice the knife in Micaiah’s hand tipped with Caleb’s blood.

  “Micaiah Jones, you have terrorized this country for too long.” His
voice was hardly more than a raspy whisper but somehow carried more weight than if he’d bellowed the pronouncement from the bluffs overhead. “Mark my words, God will punish you for your evil deeds. The souls from their watery graves have called out against you.”

  Caleb struggled to his feet. Alanah turned toward him, but he shook his head, the small movement meant to keep her from doing anything foolish. She blinked her understanding and remained rooted to the spot. Uncle Jude was closest to Micaiah now. If either of them moved, he would be the one to die.

  With each pronouncement of Micaiah’s fate, her uncle moved closer. “No matter where you run or where you hide, you cannot escape God’s presence. Even when you lie down to sleep, He knows the deepest, darkest parts of your soul. He calls you to repentance for every evil deed you’ve done.”

  “Shut up, old man.” Micaiah hefted his knife but didn’t rush her uncle. He backed away so that he had the three of them in his sights. “You’re as good as dead, and I’ve lived this long without dreaming of what I’ve done or fearing death. Why should I fear it now?”

  Her uncle kept moving toward Micaiah in a shuffling, unsteady gait. Finally he stopped, smiled as if he were having a friendly conversation over tea. “Micaiah, no matter what happens today, you need to know that God loves you, that He stands ready to forgive you. Of everything. Of every man, woman, and child whose life you took, of every woman you violated, of everything you stole, and every vile and evil thought you’ve ever had. Even if you take my life today, He will forgive you if you but ask. Why? And how? He died a cruel death on the cross, more cruel than even you can imagine, and overcame your sin so that you might live with Him in eternity.”

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, old man, but whatever it is, I want no part of it.” Micaiah crouched, blade held at the ready. “Come any closer, and I’ll cut you open and leave you to die right here.”

  “I’m not afraid to die.” Her uncle spread his hands in a gesture of total surrender. “I’ve been at the point of death for these many hours, and I’m more alive than I’ve ever been. You hold no power over me. If I die and leave this sinful world, I’ll wake up in heaven with my Lord and Savior.” Uncle Jude paused, and sadness crept into his voice. “But you, my son —you will awake in a lake of fire and brimstone where there is no escape. Unless you accept that Jesus died on the cross to take your sins away. He did, you know. All you have to do is say that you believe.”

  Micaiah glared at her uncle, and Alanah knew he wasn’t convinced. How could a man who’d lived a life as vile and vicious as Micaiah be forgiven so easily? Yes, the Bible said all who sinned would be forgiven if they repented. But did that truly include Micaiah Jones?

  Then again, if Jesus had forgiven the thief on the cross . . .

  Uncle Jude took another step, held out a trembling hand, and clutched Micaiah’s jerkin. Micaiah stood frozen, looking as if a viper had attached itself to his vest.

  “Know this, Micaiah Jones: God forgives you, and I do, too.”

  And with that, Uncle Jude tipped forward. Micaiah’s eyes widened, and instinctively he caught her uncle in his arms, staggered, and fell backward, her uncle’s deadweight on top of him.

  Alanah screamed, rushed toward them, and out of the corner of her eye, saw Caleb doing the same. Whatever compassion or remorse —or even surprise —had caused Micaiah to hesitate vanished in an instant, and he shoved her uncle off of him, raised his knife —

  But before he could plunge the blade into her uncle, he was surrounded.

  Tiberius. Moses. Caleb. Others from the logging camp.

  Caleb kicked the knife from Micaiah’s hand, and Tiberius stood over him, his long, wicked scimitar pressed against Micaiah’s throat.

  Alanah ignored them all and turned to her uncle.

  “Uncle Jude? Can —can you hear me?”

  With Micaiah subdued, Caleb knelt at Alanah’s side.

  Her uncle’s eyelids fluttered, and he licked his cracked and bleeding lips. “Water.”

  “He’s alive.” Tears tracking down her cheeks, Alanah’s gaze jerked to Caleb’s.

  Someone handed Caleb a flask, and he passed it on to Alanah. As she dribbled water into her uncle’s mouth, Tiberius strode across the yard and handed her a tote. “Lydia said you would need this to tend your uncle.”

  “How did she know we’d find him alive?”

  “She didn’t.”

  Alanah stared at the bag and nodded. “I’m going to need a fire.”

  An hour later, the fire going strong, Alanah soaked her uncle’s makeshift bandages, stiff and sticky with dried blood, and peeled them off. With Caleb’s and Tiberius’s help, she flushed the angry red cut on his abdomen, applied a poultice, and bound him once again.

  After washing all the blood from his face and hair, she gently kneaded his scalp, then sat back. “There’s a gash on his head, but nothing that needs stitches.”

  “Perhaps from when he hit his head on the tree.”

  “Perhaps.” Alanah rummaged in the tote, pulled out a pouch. She opened it and smiled. “Bless you, Lydia.” She held out a piece of dried meat. “Lydia sent pemmican.”

  “She really did think o’ everything, did she no’?” Caleb took it and ripped off a chunk. As he chewed, he watched Alanah fuss over her uncle. “You need t’ eat, too, lass. You haven’t eaten since early morn.”

  “I will.” She shrugged. “I must see to Uncle Jude first. He needs nourishment.”

  Caleb leaned over, eyes level with hers, and shoved a piece of the meat in her hand. “Eat. I’ll scare up some broth for your uncle.”

  Eyes flashing golden fire, she ripped a tiny piece off with her teeth and chewed. Satisfied that she’d finish what he handed her, Caleb searched through the ruins until he found a small cast-iron pot that had survived the fire. Shredding pemmican into it, he added water and let it boil. Using cheesecloth, he strained the broth into a chipped bowl and added a bit of water to cool it.

  He hunkered down next to Alanah, held out the bowl. “Here. ’Tis no’ much, but it’ll do.”

  “Thank you.” Tears shimmered in her eyes.

  Alanah spooned the broth into Jude’s mouth. He never roused but continued to swallow until every drop was gone.

  “That’s all you can do for him here. But we need t’ get him t’ the logging camp.” He reached for the tote.

  Alanah clasped his arm. “Caleb, you’re hurt.”

  “It’s nothing.” Caleb shrugged.

  “Please, Caleb.” She moved closer. “Let me see.”

  “’Tis no’ as bad as it looks.”

  Alanah reached for his sleeve, began rolling it up, revealing the jagged gash on his forearm, inch by inch.

  “Oh, Caleb,” she breathed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Tsking and muttering, Alanah washed the blood off his arm, then applied a thick layer of salve. She rummaged through the tote, found a bundle of needles, and threaded one. Her gaze met his. “This is going to hurt.”

  “Aye. I figured as much.” He nodded at the needle. “Just get on with it, lass.”

  Caleb gritted his teeth and ignored the tug of her needle. Instead, he watched Alanah as she worked, her golden hair tickling his forearm, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she concentrated on making neat, even stitches. When she was done, she sat back. “There. That should do it.”

  “Aye. A mighty fine job.” Caleb eyed his stitches. “And you did no’ even faint. No’ once.”

  Alanah blinked, then grinned. “I didn’t, did I?”

  Chapter 30

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS were a blur as Alanah helped Lydia care for Uncle Jude and the other wounded. Unfortunately, Alanah’s squeamishness returned the minute she arrived back at camp, but she knew that in a pinch, when those she loved needed her, she could stay the course.

  Uncle Jude was the sickest of the lot, and Alanah was astounded that he’d survived. They took turns sponging him, trying to get his fever down. After three days —weeks
, it seemed —Lydia finally convinced her to rest. It felt as if she’d just closed her eyes when Lydia woke her, shadows dancing from the single lantern she held aloft.

  “Your uncle’s fever broke. He’s asking for you.”

  Alanah jumped up from her pallet and rushed to his side. His tired eyes met and held hers in the flickering light of a single candle. “Lydia said you were unharmed, but I wanted to see for myself. Your sister?”

  “She is well. Nary a scratch.” The loggers had fetched their animals and built a pen for the goats in the clearing behind the cabin. With the animals to care for, her sister hadn’t ventured far, which was a good thing.

  “And what of Micaiah?”

  “Don’t worry. Micaiah is long gone.” She patted his arm. “He won’t hurt us again.”

  “He’s dead?” He shook his head, a frown pulling his bushy brows together. “He can’t be dead —”

  “No, not dead. Caleb and Tiberius took him to Natchez, to Governor Gayoso’s prison.”

  “Prison? But —but they’ll hang him.” Her uncle tried to sit up, but groaning, he slumped back, his eyes searching the ceiling. “I must go to Natchez posthaste. I’ve got to —”

  “Please, Uncle Jude.” Alanah’s heart ripped with worry. “You’re in no shape to travel, and the authorities will take care of Micaiah.”

  “No, they won’t.” A tear seeped out of the corner of his eye. “They’ll hang him before he repents. If but one . . .”

  His voice trailed off, and worried, Alanah clasped his hands. “Don’t distress yourself. All is well. As soon as you’re recovered, we’ll head north, just as you wanted. You, me, and Betsy.”

  “Is that what you want, Niece? To go north?”

  She thought of Betsy. Wouldn’t things be better now that the highwaymen were gone? Even now, a group of travelers —families, men, women, and children —were camped out at Cypress Creek, some considering staying, farming the freshly cleared land.

  “I will do as you say, Uncle.” She lowered her gaze.

  “What of the young man, Caleb O’Shea? Have you not thought of him?”