by Pam Hillman
Please don’t ask me this, Uncle. Not yet.
“Alanah?”
“He has not returned from Natchez. And —and he made no promises.”
“I see.” Her uncle rested his head against the pillow, eyes closed. “It is no longer my wish to go north. And I know it’s not God’s will. I’ve known all along. When I was at death’s door, I realized I’d been running from God all this time. I was running back to the safety and security of my childhood in Pennsylvania, when God wanted me to run toward Cypress Creek and Natchez Under-the-Hill.” He opened his eyes, pinned her with a look. “And when I refused to go where He wanted me to go, He sent Micaiah and the others here, to Cypress Creek.”
“God wouldn’t do that.” Alanah stared at her uncle in horror, thinking of all that Betsy had been through, the evil the highwaymen had perpetrated on innocent travelers in and around Cypress Creek and the river.
“Would He not?” Her uncle sighed. “I’ve been a fool, turning my back on the wicked that God sent me to save, including Micaiah. As soon as I am able, I must go to Natchez.”
“To see Micaiah?” Her heart slammed against her rib cage. “To what end?”
“To do all I can to save his soul from eternal damnation.”
Caleb jerked awake to the sound of Gimpy’s breakfast gong.
Heart pounding, he blinked at the top of the tent he shared with Tiberius, the first light of dawn spilling over the horizon, bathing the logging camp in a golden glow. They’d returned from Natchez late last night after everyone had long gone to bed. And as much as he’d wanted to go to Alanah, sneak off somewhere quiet, and continue the conversation they’d started four days ago, the middle of the night was not the time for such goings-on.
His grogginess vanished as anticipation of what the day would bring flooded him. He rolled to his feet, washed away the grime of travel, and quickly dressed.
Tiberius’s bed was empty, the Moor having no doubt gone in search of Lydia. How long it would take for his friend to soften that woman’s resistance was beyond Caleb’s ken. But the process sure was interesting to watch.
The camp buzzed with activity as men gulped down breakfast in preparation for the hard workday ahead. In spite of the clash with the river pirates, the logging operation must go on. They had contracts to fulfill in Natchez.
Connor and Quinn stood on the bluff overlooking the sandbar, deep in conversation. Quinn looked to be about to explode. Caleb pivoted and headed in the opposite direction. An altercation with his brothers was the last thing he wanted right now. Would Alanah be stirring? Surely so. She was an early riser. He’d search her out, make his intentions —
“Caleb.” Connor’s voice pulled him up short. “Could I have a word with you?”
Blowing out a breath of frustration, Caleb changed course and headed toward his brothers. Connor would want a report of everything that had gone on in Natchez. Best to get it over with. William Wainwright joined him, and he slowed his pace to accommodate the man’s limp.
“Should ya be up on that leg?” Connor scowled at William.
“I’m fine.” William turned to Quinn. “How did the trip downriver go?”
“We made it without issue. The raftsmen knew their business, and both the cotton and the timber were delivered safely.” Quinn chuckled. “We caused quite a stir in Natchez, we did.”
“And the captives? Did they give any trouble?”
“We did no’ give them the chance.”
William shifted his attention to Caleb. “And you delivered Micaiah to the palisade as well?”
“Aye. He is locked up, and I do no’ think he’ll escape that jail as easily as he did the one in French Camp.”
“Good. Maybe things can get back to normal around here, and we can concentrate on the business at hand instead of fighting highwaymen and river pirates.” William settled himself on a stump. “I for one am ready to go home to my wife without worry over the state of affairs here. Connor, what say you?”
“Aye. I’m in agreement.” Connor turned to Caleb. “Which brings me to the reason we wanted to talk to you, Caleb.”
Caleb’s attention shifted from Connor to Quinn to William. Each man watched him carefully, a different look on his face.
Connor’s furrowed brow made Caleb wonder exactly what the three of them had been up to. Quinn’s folded arms and stormy countenance convinced him he didn’t really want to know, but William’s grin gave him the impression that whatever it was, it shouldn’t end in blows, regardless of Quinn’s glower.
He supposed he could be thankful for that. He took a deep breath. Might as well get it over with. “I’m listening, I am.”
Connor nodded at William. “Tell him.”
“Very well.” William cleared his throat. “Caleb, it’s imperative that I spend more time at Wainwright Hall. I have a wife and responsibilities there that need my attention. Connor and Quinn are in similar predicaments. Connor is needed at Breeze Hill, and Quinn at Magnolia Glen. We find ourselves in a quandary, as none of us have time to oversee the logging camp as well as meet our other obligations at home.”
“So after routing the river pirates, ye’re just going t’ scuttle the logging camp, eh?” Caleb glared at the three of them.
Quinn stared at him as if he’d gone crazy. “Whatever gave ya that idea, ya blockhead?”
“Ya heard what he said, did ya no’?” Caleb flung an arm at William. “He’s shutting down the logging camp so that the three o’ ye can run home t’ yer wives.”
Connor slapped a hand on William’s shoulder. “Well, you botched that, did you no’, Master William?”
“It appears I left something out. That powder Lydia gave me for pain must have muddled my thinking.” William rubbed his temple, then gave Connor a slight bow. “I give you leave to explain it all in due fashion, sir.”
Still chuckling, Connor turned to Caleb. “You’re right about going home t’ our wives, Caleb. All o’ us couched that desire beneath talk of responsibilities, plantations to run, cotton to harvest, laborers to oversee, but the truth is that a man should be with his wife, his children, his family. But we’re no’ about t’ abandon the logging camp. It has proven too valuable a resource for that.”
“What he’s trying t’ say is that they want t’ turn the whole thing over t’ ya t’ oversee, lock, stock, and barrel.” Quinn scowled at them all. “I do no’ think it’s a good idea, but I do no’ seem t’ have any say in the matter.”
“Well, there you go, Wainwright.” Connor tossed his arm around William’s shoulder. “With that rousing endorsement from Quinn, I have no doubt Caleb will take on the job or die trying.”
Caleb stared at the three of them. “No, I canna accept.”
Quinn snorted. “I told ya he wouldna be interested. He’s still got the wanderlust, as always.”
“’Tis no’ that.” Caleb looked at the dirt at his feet. “I do no’ —I do no’ deserve what ye’re offering. I abandoned Quinn and the lads back in Ireland, without a backward glance. And . . . if you knew the things I’d done, you’d —”
“Caleb, there’s no’ a man among us who has no’ done something we’re no’ proud of.” Connor clasped his arm, forcing him to look him in the eye. “The difference is we’ve asked God’s forgiveness for those sins. That’s the important thing. Will you stay?”
Alanah slipped into the forest, barely heeding the dew that dampened the hem of her skirt. She needed to think and to pray. Uncle Jude’s decision to follow God’s will and go to Natchez Under-the-Hill and preach left Betsy and her with an uncertain future.
She wandered aimlessly, her thoughts ricocheting between what her heart told her to do and what God’s will might be. She didn’t want to make the same mistakes her uncle had confessed to. Out of habit, she dug roots, picked berries, made note of every medicinal vine and herb that she could use.
God, is it Your will for us to go to Natchez with Uncle Jude? Please, Lord, I cannot . . .
The thought of exposin
g her sister to Natchez Under-the-Hill filled her with terror, but if Uncle Jude went, wouldn’t they be expected to go as well?
Perhaps they could rebuild here in Cypress Creek, but with what resources and to what end? The locals would frown on the women living alone, even though they’d been alone most of the time as it was. The only reason no one ever said anything was because Uncle Jude came home often enough that it gave the appearance he was the master of the house. Tears pricked her eyes.
Lord, show me Your will . . .
Time passed as she prayed and wandered the cut-over forest she’d thought would be destroyed by the loggers. She found clumps of catnip growing in the newly exposed undergrowth, a meadow dotted with red clover. Her gaze landed on a decaying log, the riot of multicolored mushrooms exploding over the log making her smile. She dropped to her knees, fingered the mushrooms, then spotted more on the stumps close by. Bright reds, blues, greens, creams, and vibrant yellows. She’d never seen such colors this close to home. How . . . ?
Had the loggers brought more than desolation to the forest? Had they also brought new life in ways she hadn’t thought of? Warmth spread through her and she realized that this was where her heart was. The forests, the swamps, the bluffs. Foraging was her home, not Natchez. But was it where God wanted her to be?
She leaned against the base of a tree overlooking the meadow filled with clover, then rested her head against the bark at her back. It was easy to feel at peace sitting beneath a tree in the forest she’d called home for as far back as she could remember.
Lord, show me Your will . . .
“Alanah?” The quiet was broken by Caleb’s voice calling her name.
Her heart gave a little joy-jig inside her chest. Caleb.
She stood, saw him across the field walking toward her, his eyes trained on her face. She’d feared he wouldn’t return now that the threat from the river pirates was eliminated, that he and Tiberius would go to sea again, but here he was, in the flesh.
Unable to contain her joy, she hastened toward him. But suddenly shy, she stopped short of throwing herself into his arms. He seemed not to have any qualms about marching right up to her.
She sucked in a breath as he stopped inches away, his dark eyes catching, holding hers. Without a word, he reached up a hand, cupped her jaw, the tips of his fingers warm against her skin. His thumb nudged her chin up, and in an exquisitely slow movement, he closed the distance between them.
As their lips touched, Alanah sighed.
This was home. The forest and streams, the herbs, the roots, the flowers, and Caleb.
He broke off the kiss, rested his forehead against hers. “I missed ya, lass.”
“I missed you, too.”
He ran both hands down her arms, took her hands, and laced his fingers through hers. Resting their entwined fingers against his chest, he smiled into her eyes. “I have something t’ tell you.”
“And I you.” Her insides turned to mush. Would he confess his love for her? He hadn’t said anything about love, just that he’d missed her.
One side of his mouth quirked up. “A lass always has the first say.”
I love you. Her stomach gave a slow roll of panic as the words tumbled over each other in her mind. Should she . . . ?
“Uncle Jude has decided not to go north after all,” she blurted out. “He’s going to Natchez Under-the-Hill to preach.”
Did the warmth in Caleb’s eyes fade at the news or was it a trick of the light? “And what o’ you and your sister? Will you go as well?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged, looking around at the sun-kissed meadow. “That’s what I was doing out here. Asking God to show me His will.”
“And did He?”
“I . . .” Tears misted in her eyes, and she blinked them back.
“What’s this? Tears?” Caleb let go of her hands and swiped at the tears with his thumbs. “No tears, lass. Surely ’tis no’ as bad as all that.”
“No, I suppose not. If God wills it, I don’t want to go to Natchez. My heart is here.” She lifted her gaze to his, her voice lowering to a whisper. “With you.”
A slow smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then his arms were around her, and he lifted her off her feet and twirled her around, his laughter filling the meadow with joyous sound. When he stilled, he let her slide back to the ground, his dark eyes shining. “As is mine.”
“Truly?”
“Aye. I love ya, lass, and I want t’ spend the rest o’ my life with you as me bride.” His attention shifted, swept the meadow dotted with clover, then swooped back to her face. “Here, at Cypress Creek, managing the logging camp for the Wainwrights with me brothers and friends nearby. Does that suit your fancy, lass?”
What he’d said about running the logging camp vaguely registered, but there would be time enough later for her to find out exactly what that meant. For now, only one thing mattered, and it didn’t have a thing to do with logging.
“It suits me just fine.” Alanah searched his face, saw the love shining out of his eyes.
He lowered his head to kiss her again, but Alanah pressed the tips of her fingers to his lips, holding him back. He eyed her with curiosity in his expression. Smiling, she wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, and whispered, “I love you, too, Caleb O’Shea.”
Then, without reservation or fear, she pulled him close and kissed him.
Epilogue
Breeze Hill Plantation
ONE YEAR LATER
Connor O’Shea stood on the balcony overlooking the lane that led to the trace. One by one his family gathered, but not for a happy occasion.
No, the circumstances were far from pleasant, but not totally unexpected.
The man who’d inadvertently seen that Connor’s and his brothers’ futures were secure now reposed in his sitting room, his wasted, scarred body prepared for burial. The curtains were closed, mirrors covered, and Martha and Susan spoke in whispers as they prepared food for the mourners.
In the distance, the fields were white with cotton ready for harvest, but no one worked the fields. The sawmill was silent, the blacksmith’s hammer did not ring, and a black banner over the sign at the end of the lane alerted strangers to pass on by: the inn at Breeze Hill was closed for mourning.
Quinn and Kiera had arrived from Magnolia Glen late yesterday. They’d taken up residence in the wing he’d built for Leah and little Jon before she’d married William and moved to Wainwright Hall. In spite of the sadness of the occasion, a chuckle of humor rumbled from his chest. His brother’s three-month-old twins would certainly put the wing with its sitting room and nursery to good use.
The sound of jingling harnesses and the clop of hooves reached him from somewhere down the lane. Could it be Caleb and Alanah? He’d sent word to Cypress Creek and to the Wainwrights yesterday, knowing the journey would take time.
Finally a wagon rolled into view, then another and another. Caleb and Alanah, followed by most of the logging crew. Caleb had more than proven his worth at Cypress Creek. The river landing flourished with new families excited about harvesting their first crops in the fertile soil along the river. The logging crews had become expert at cutting logs, lashing them together, and sending them downstream to meet Natchez’s ever-growing demand for lumber.
Tiberius and Lydia rode in the back of the wagon, along with Alanah’s sister, Betsy. The girl had recovered from much of the trauma of her ordeal, but who knew what demons she battled in the dark of night? Tiberius had finally broken down Lydia’s defenses, and she’d agreed to marry him. They’d jumped the broom and spoken their vows before Reverend Browning six months ago.
As the wagons drew nearer, Connor searched the group and wasn’t surprised to see that the reverend wasn’t with them. True to his word a year ago, the reverend had made haste to Natchez as soon as he was able. As if to make up for lost time, he continually preached repentance to all who would listen in Natchez U
nder-the-Hill and begged for entrance into Gayoso’s prisons. He’d finally been granted leave to preach to the prisoners, to do his best to save their souls even if he couldn’t save them from whatever earthly punishment they faced.
And Micaiah Jones? He’d hanged for his crimes, but not until he’d spent hours with the reverend. Had he repented of his sins and asked God to forgive him before his day of reckoning? Only God, and possibly Jude Browning, knew.
“I heard wagons coming down the lane. Is it Caleb and Alanah?”
He turned, saw Isabella walking across the balcony toward him, little Matthew asleep on her shoulder. “Aye.”
She reached his side, and his heart twisted at the dark circles under her eyes. He took his son, hoisted him to his shoulder, and felt a tug on his heartstrings as Matthew’s pudgy hand fisted in his shirt. Without so much as opening his eyes, the baby’s bow lips pursed; then he snuggled up under Connor’s chin and relaxed again.
“It’s good to see them, but not under these circumstances.” Isabella’s voice broke, and he had no words to comfort her.
Instead, he wrapped his arm around her and tucked her against his side. She rested her head against his chest, and he dropped a kiss on her temple, feeling the soft brush of her hair along his jaw.
She reached up, enclosed their son’s tiny fist inside her hand, and whispered, “He would’ve wanted it this way, don’t you think? To go . . . to go quickly . . .”
“Aye.” Tears stung Connor’s eyes, but he blinked them away. “He would no’ have wanted it any other way.”
Chapter 1
Natchez Under-the-Hill on the Mississippi River
MAY 1791
Connor O’Shea braced his boots against the auction block and glared at the crowd gathered on the landing.
Vultures. Ever’ last one o’ them.
The stench of the muddy Mississippi River filled his nostrils, and the rude shacks along the riverfront reminded him of the roiling mass of humanity in the seaports back home in Ireland. Hot, cloying air sucked the breath from his lungs, and the storm clouds in the sky brought no relief from the steam pot of Natchez in May.