by Pam Hillman
“Transportation, sir?”
“Yes, it’s a day’s journey to the plantation.”
“I see.”
“Mr. O’Shea, if you’ll just sign these papers, you can be on your way.” Mr. Bloomfield handed him a sheaf of papers and stepped back. “Excuse me, sirs, while I attend to Miss Young.”
Quinn made his mark where indicated, then turned to the next page. When he was done, he set the papers aside.
“I trust your passage was uneventful?” Wainwright asked.
“It was—”
“The Blue Heron? Are you quite sure, miss?”
Quinn turned at Bloomfield’s distraught tone.
“Yes, sir.” Kiera Young glanced toward him, then turned her attention back to Mr. Bloomfield. “Is that a problem?”
“Well, miss, the Blue Heron isn’t exactly the place for a lady, if you’ll pardon my saying so. And you have two younger sisters, you say? I’m afraid—”
“Mr. Bloomfield, my brother-in-law sent me to Natchez with the understanding that I’m to be married. The address given was the Blue Heron.” She gave the solicitor the same look she’d given Quinn on board the Lady Gallant. “Might someone please secure a carriage for us?”
“Yes, but . . .” Bloomfield glanced around helplessly.
“Is there a problem, Miss Young?” Marchette interrupted, coming to her aid once again.
“No thank you, Mr. Marchette.” Kiera’s face bloomed with color. “A misunderstanding, perhaps.”
The lawyer pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Miss Young, you seem to be acquainted with Mr. Marchette and Mr. O’Shea. May I introduce one of our leading citizens, Thomas Wainwright?”
“My pleasure, miss.” Wainwright dipped his head. “Welcome to Natchez.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Miss Young, if you would permit me, Mr. Bloomfield is right to be concerned over your welfare. The Blue Heron is not the type of establishment a young lady should rendezvous with her intended.” Wainwright’s smile was filled with fatherly concern. “Perhaps you’re mistaken—”
“There’s no mistake, sir. My brother-in-law made the arrangements, and—”
The door flung open and Patrick barreled inside. “Quinn. Hurry. That man’s taking Megan and Amelia.”
“Taking them? Where?” Kiera lifted her skirts and rushed toward the door.
Quinn hurried after her, pausing briefly on the porch to search the wharf for Kiera’s sisters. In spite of the lengthening shadows, Natchez Under-the-Hill still crawled with humanity. There. At the end of the gangway. His own brother Rory was wielding a broken board, the two girls cowering behind him. A hulking brute of a man with a wicked-looking knife advanced on Rory, the sixteen-year-old no match for the giant.
“Megan! Amelia!” Kiera ran across the wharf, skirts flying.
Quinn sprinted after her, grabbed her arm, and pushed her behind him. “Get out o’ the way, lass.” Palming a knife, Quinn shoved his way between Rory and the brute, his left hand held palm out. “Wait. What’s the meaning o’ this, man?”
“Get out of the way, monsieur. This is none of your affair.”
Quinn crouched, knife at the ready. Looked like he and Rory were in for it, and he didn’t even know what had caused the ruckus. Rough men, silent and watchful, gathered round. Women in rags and children with dirty faces jostled for position. No one offered to help or to stop this.
“Quinn, he—”
“Hush, lad,” Quinn growled at Rory to keep quiet. The man-mountain circling him wasn’t in the mood to talk about whatever had set him off. And from the scars crisscrossing his face, he’d been in enough fights to bury Quinn ten times over.
Dear Lord in heaven, protect me this day. Don’t let me have come all this way t’ spill me guts on me first day in the New World.
“Claude. Enough.” A voice with a heavy French accent cut through the tension. The crowd parted, and a well-dressed man inserted himself between Quinn and the brute with the knife. He turned, his emotionless black eyes boring a hole through Quinn. His craggy face would have been unremarkable, and might have even been considered handsome at one time, but a long, jagged scar ran from his temple to his jawline. His thin lips curved into a sardonic half smile. “My associate is correct. This is none of your affair.”
Quinn didn’t take his eyes off the Frenchman or the thug with the knife.
“He said Amelia belonged to him, that he was going to take her to a tavern and force her to—” Rory’s voice broke over the horror of what he’d heard—“to . . .”
“It is true. These filles are my charges.” The Frenchman stepped forward. “The captain of the Lady Gallant has accepted payment for their passage. My apologies for any confusion my man caused with his limited English. Claude.” He snapped his fingers. “Load up their belongings and let us be on our way.”
“Oui, Monsieur Le Bonne.”
“No.” Rory swung, and in one quick move, Claude caught the board, wrested it from Rory’s hands, and had the knife at his throat before Quinn could stop him. Wide-eyed, Rory stared at him.
Quinn crouched again, his attention jerking from the thug to the well-dressed Frenchman, his heart in his throat as his brother’s life hung by a slender thread. Slowly, he put down his knife, then held up his hands, palms forward. “The lad meant no harm. Just—just let him go.”
The Frenchman lifted his hand, and a hush fell over the crowd. Quinn’s stomach dropped, and he knew he was looking death in the eyes. One word, one snap of the Frenchman’s fingers, and Rory would be dead.
Kiera pushed in front of Quinn before he could stop her. “Monsieur Le Bonne?”
The Frenchman’s gaze raked Kiera, like a merchant giving his stamp of approval on goods received. Quinn barely resisted the urge to strike out at him. Only the knife at Rory’s throat held him in check.
“Please, have your man put away his knife.” She fumbled with the drawstring on her purse. “A letter. Here’s a letter from my brother-in-law.” She held the letter out, hand trembling. “I’m—I’m to be your wife.”
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Acknowledgments
THIS IS MY SECOND OPPORTUNITY to work with the amazing team at Tyndale House. There are many working hard behind the scenes whose names I don’t know, but as someone who’s worked in the corporate world for years, I realize it takes a team to get any job done—and done well. My hat’s off to each and every one of you. Special thanks to my editors, Jan Stob and Erin Smith. I’m learning from the best, and the stars in my eyes prove it. And be still, my heart: Jennifer Ghionzoli, I adore the cover of Claiming Mariah. Thank you!
Thanks to my agent, Steve Laube, the bottleneck in the middle of the hourglass that keeps my writing career flowing at a steady, even pace. He advises quietly but firmly, and from a wealth of knowledge I can’t begin to comprehend.
I can’t begin to list the authors, agents, editors, and contest judges who had a small (and sometimes very large) part in the development of this story. But special thanks to Charlene Glatkowski and Leigh Germann, who read the rough draft of Claiming Mariah long ago. Your insights helped take the story to a higher level.
To The Seekers for everything. It’s so good to know you’re all just the click of an e-mail away. Thank you for the laughs, the sisterhood, and the sounding board on everything from plot points to what to cook for dinner. Leave no woman behind!
Robin Caroll. Ah, dear friend. Without a shadow of a doubt, I know you’re there, day or night. I’m sure you snicker at some of my lame questions and “duh” moments, and you probably roll your eyes when my “Help!” e-mails pop up in your in-box, but I’ll return the favor by programming my magic formulas into your spreadsheets. Promise!
This acknowledgment wouldn’t be complete without special thanks to Daniel Byram and Sean Hillman who, years and years ago, put away their PlayStation games long enough to name the main characters in Claiming Mariah. I’m very proud of the young men you’ve both become.
About the Author
AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR PAM HILLMAN writes inspirational fiction set in the turbulent times of the American West and the Gilded Age. Her debut novel, Stealing Jake, was a finalist in the International Digital Awards and the 2013 EPIC eBook Awards. Claiming Mariah, her second novel, won Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart. She lives in Mississippi with her husband and family. Visit her website at www.pamhillman.com.
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