by Pam Hillman
“Thank you for worrying, Jim, but I don’t have a choice. It’s much too soon, and Leah needs me.”
Connor realized her intention and reached for her hand, assisting her from the carriage. Grateful eyes, laced with fear, pierced his before she turned away, intent on her mission.
Would the boys stop her? When the lads didn’t protest, Connor grabbed the horse’s reins just below the bit. Decent stock, the lathered animal still needed rest before making the return journey.
“Mistress, it’s too dangerous.”
“I’m going.” She faced him, a stubborn jut to her chin.
“I may be new to Natchez, but I’ve been here long enough to know the dangers of traveling that road alone.”
“Mr. O’Shea, I won’t argue that fact.” She stood tall, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. “But my sister-in-law needs me, and nothing you can say will prevent me from going to her. Stand aside.”
Her chin thrust forward, dark-brown eyes flashing, she somehow made him feel as if she looked down at him instead of up. He took a deep breath, struggling to remember his place. She owned the horses, the carriage, and for all practical purposes, she owned him and the three youngsters gawking at the two of them. Well, if she meant to dance along the devil’s backbone, then let the little spitfire flirt with death. No skin off his nose. But at least he could give her a fighting chance.
He addressed the stable lad. “Those carriage horses broke to ride?”
“Yes, sir.”
He faced Miss Bartholomew, having a hard time showing deference to a woman as daft as this one. “Mistress, if it’s all the same to you, let the lads switch the saddle to one o’ the fresh horses. This one could do with a bit o’ rest, if ye don’t mind me saying so.”
She looked away, the first sign of uncertainty he’d seen. “Thank you, Mr. O’Shea. In my haste, I didn’t think of the horse. Jim, do as he says, and be quick.”
Two boys scurried to unhitch the horses from the carriage while Jim stripped the saddle from one of the lathered animals. In moments, they had the mare ready, and Connor assisted Miss Bartholomew into the saddle, taken aback that she didn’t have any qualms about riding astride. He glimpsed a fringe of lacy ruffles just above a pair of worn leather boots before her skirts fell into voluminous folds around her ankles.
“Jim, make haste to Mr. Wainwright’s. He’ll see you all safely home on the morrow.” She spoke to Jim, but she looked at Connor as if she left responsibility for the boys on his shoulders.
“Yes, ma’am. Will you be all right? Shouldn’t I—?”
She reined away, the animal’s hooves kicking up dirt as it raced to the top of the bluff and disappeared northward. Connor shook his head. Crazy woman. To take off in a dither just because of the birth of a babe. The whole lot of them would probably arrive before the child made an appearance.
“I’m such an idiot.” Jim threw his hat in the dust and let out a string of curses. “Why didn’t I go with her?”
“She didn’t give you much choice, lad, rushing off like she did.” Connor led the extra horse toward the carriage.
“It’s a day’s ride to Breeze Hill.”
Connor whipped around. “A day’s ride?”
“Yes, sir. And the Natchez Trace ain’t safe for nobody, especially a lady. Mr. Bartholomew will have my head, he will.”
Connor raked a hand through his hair. Daft woman.
“Saddle up the other horse, lads. I’m goin’ after her.”
Chapter 2
OH, GOD, not Leah too. Not the babe. Please, God.
Fear clogged Isabella’s throat as she left the outskirts of Natchez, her horse’s hooves pounding out a staccato rhythm that rivaled the rapid beat of her heart.
Was God listening to her prayers born out of desperation? She wanted to believe He was. Surely He wouldn’t take Leah and the babe, too. A hard knot of resentment lodged in her throat. But that hadn’t stopped Him from taking her mother and Jonathan.
Was she casting blame where it wasn’t due? Her heart hardened. God might not have taken them from her, but He’d allowed their deaths. So wasn’t it the same thing?
Shame followed on the heels of her resentment, and she was torn between asking God to save Leah and the babe and asking Him to forgive her unbelief.
When her mount stumbled on the rutted lane, she was almost glad for the distraction. She grabbed for the saddle horn and eased back on the reins. She’d do well to set a slower pace. No need in breaking her horse’s neck or her own. She squirmed in the saddle, unused to riding astride. But riding astride was the least of her worries right now.
The last year had brought many changes into her life. She’d gone from being the pampered daughter to becoming the caretaker, not only of her father and her widowed sister-in-law, but of the plantation itself.
Bulging clouds rolled in, and a fine mist began to fall, rain no longer a threatening possibility, but a reality. A twinge of fear at the journey ahead snaked through her as she eyed the tall pines closing in on each side of the trail. Should she turn back? But what if Leah lost the baby? What if her sister-in-law died? Even as she battled her indecision, Isabella continued toward home, reasoning that the rain would be in her favor. No one, not even the thieves who plied the trace, would suspect anyone of traveling on such a dreary afternoon and into the night.
She heard a shout and glanced back. Connor O’Shea sat astride the other carriage horse, his boots dangling below the stirrups. She didn’t take time to wonder at the relief she felt before she reined in. Instead, she squared her jaw and concentrated on his motive for following her. If he insisted she return to Natchez, she’d put the man in his place faster than the jagged lightning streaking across the darkening sky.
He pulled to a stop, his forehead furrowed in concern. His green eyes caught and held hers. “Jim said it’s a day’s ride to the plantation. Seeing as it’s so late in the day, I’m hoping you don’t mind if I ride along with you.”
“I’ll be fine.” She lifted her chin, determined to show Mr. O’Shea that she could take care of herself.
A tight smile twisted his lips and he inclined his head as if it was all he could do not to argue. He dismounted and reached to lengthen the stirrup leathers. His gaze met hers over the back of the horse. “In good conscience, I feel obliged to accompany you. With your permission o’ course. Many a man has lost his life along this stretch o’ road.”
Something akin to a knife twisted inside Isabella’s chest. Jonathan.
One glance at the stubborn jut of his chin convinced her he wasn’t turning back. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. My need to be with my sister-in-law overrode my common sense.”
“O’ course I’m right, mistress.” A cocky grin swept over his face, banishing his earlier deference.
Isabella stiffened. She’d better set this one straight right away, or he’d never mind his place at Breeze Hill.
“Mr. O’Shea—”
“Might as well call me Connor, seeing as how I’ll be working for you the next few years.” He swung into the saddle, the stirrups set to accommodate his long legs. He jerked his chin toward the road before them. “After you, mistress.”
She pressed her lips together. Somehow Connor O’Shea had taken control of the situation, and she didn’t know how to wrest it back. But it didn’t matter. Truth be told, she didn’t begrudge his company. Without answering, she led the way deeper into the wilderness toward home.
They rode on, the shadows along the narrow path lengthening, darkening with the hour and the mist that turned to rain. Isabella wished for an oilskin cloak to turn the water as her garments became more soaked by the hour. Miserable and cold, she came alert when Connor grabbed her reins and jerked his head toward the shadowed woods.
“Riders.”
He spurred his horse up a steep incline into the thick undergrowth beneath massive oaks and towering pines, the animal scrambling for purchase on the slick ground. Isabella didn’t question but foll
owed, vines and briars clawing at her skirts, the horses’ hooves kicking up the smell of decay from the leaf-strewn ground. Well hidden in the forest, Connor jumped from his horse and reached for her, his hands spanning her waist.
Isabella kicked free of the stirrups and let him lower her to the ground. She peered through the mist, thankful for the shadows surrounding them.
“Where?” The word came out a whisper of breath between them, no more.
“There.” He leaned in close and pointed. “Keep your mount quiet.”
Isabella cupped her horse’s muzzle, soothing the quivering animal with hushed murmurs. All too soon, the sound of jingling harnesses and the slap of hooves splashing against the rain-soaked road reached her ears.
“Don’t move. Don’t even breathe,” Connor whispered, his attention fixed on the trail.
Heart pounding, Isabella searched the shadows. Moments later, she spotted movement along the serpentine roadway. A dozen or so rough-looking riders and three wagons passed along the sunken trace mere feet away. Her skin crawled when one man looked right toward the spot where she stood. But his gaze, hooded by a slouch hat, slid past without pause, and he rode on.
Gradually the thundering of her heart slowed to painful thumps, keeping time with the steady drip-drip of rain plopping against the underbrush. Might the party of men be law-abiding citizens? It was just as likely they were cutthroats and thieves preying on hapless travelers on their way north after delivering their goods downriver from the fertile Tennessee and Ohio River valleys. One never knew, so it was best to avoid the unknown if at all possible.
Isabella eyed the broad back of the man who stood between her and possible death. And what of Connor O’Shea? She knew nothing about him, other than what Mr. Bloomfield had told the crowd gathered at the auction. Would he protect her with his life should they be discovered? She shivered and closed her eyes. Would her determination to be at Leah’s side get them both killed?
The urge to pray nagged at her conscience, but she pushed it away. Surely God mocked her pleas that only surfaced when she needed Him. Moments ticked by without any movement from her companion; then the tense set of his shoulders relaxed.
“They’re gone.” He led the way back to the road and helped her mount. The rain fell harder, and Isabella pulled her light traveling cloak around her. But the garment did little to deflect the chill brought on by both the rain and the close encounter with the party of strangers.
Connor held her horse back, scowling as his gaze swept her from head to toe. “How far is it to the nearest inn?”
“An hour at most. But it’s a rough place. Papa never stops there.”
“We will tonight.”
Isabella didn’t argue, but she wouldn’t set one foot in Harper’s Inn. They’d press on when the time came.
The rain was falling in sheets by the time she spotted the inn in the distance. Connor stopped in front of the crude stable just as three men emerged and mounted their horses.
One man rode close, almost losing his seat when he swept off his tricorne and tried to bow from atop his horse. He grabbed at the saddle horn and urged his mount in her direction, grinning in a drunken stupor. “Good evening, madam.”
Connor edged between Isabella and the man. She breathed a sigh of relief when the tipsy man went on his way without further comment. Connor slipped from his horse and reached for her.
“We’ll keep going.” Isabella clasped the saddle horn, having no intention of dismounting. “As you can see, Harper’s has a reputation for attracting seedy characters.”
“Ye’ll catch a chill, Miss Bartholomew, if we go any further.”
“And what of you, Mr. O’Shea?” Isabella eyed his soaked garments.
“I’m used t’ it.” He shrugged. “In Ireland, not many days passed without a wee bit o’ rain. And Carolina had its share as well.”
She wondered how long he’d been in the Natchez District. But now wasn’t the time to ask. A round of raucous laughter came from inside the two-story building next to the stable. She shuddered. “We must press on. The accommodations at the next inn are much more suitable.”
“How much farther?”
“Two hours, maybe more.”
He shook his head. “Too far. We’ll stay here.”
The stable door cracked open, and a moonfaced lad peered out. “You want to stable the horses overnight, sir?”
“Aye, I do.” Connor tossed the reins of his horse to the lad.
“Mr. O’Shea—Connor—I insist we travel on.”
Connor turned, wide hands splayed against his hips, rain running in rivulets off the brim of his hat.
“Mistress Bartholomew, you may own my papers, but you are the most pigheaded lass I’ve ever known.” He stabbed a finger at the tavern, frown lines pulling his brows together. “I’m going in that inn, finding something to eat and a place to sleep. And if you’ve got one lick o’ common sense, you’ll do the same.”
He stalked off, leaving her sitting astride, the stable lad gawking at her. She glared at his retreating back.
Who was he to be giving orders?
She would ride on. The next inn lay a couple of hours north in the direction those men had taken. Three if the rain didn’t let up.
Her gaze waffled between the rain-drenched road twisting northward and the disreputable tavern.
Connor knew the exact moment Isabella Bartholomew entered the tavern.
A wave of awareness coursed through the motley crew of men and the smattering of women, hardly ladies of Miss Bartholomew’s station. The din barely subsided before it took up again. He’d felt the pause more than heard it, but no doubt about it, the patrons of Harper’s Inn knew a lady graced their presence.
He scowled. There’d be trouble, sure as rain on the moors. But what else could he do? He didn’t want the foolish lass catching her death out in this weather, and neither of them came prepared for being drenched for hours on end.
After placing the last coin in the proprietor’s hand, Connor made his way toward her. She watched him cross the room to her side, her cloak clasped tight around her shivering frame. He leaned in close and motioned toward the stairs that led to the second-story rooms.
“Mistress, I’ve secured lodgings for the night as well as some nourishment.”
Nodding, she lifted her sodden skirts and glided across the room toward the stairs. Hand on the hilt of his knife, Connor stayed close behind, praying they wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention. His prayers didn’t last long.
A hand shot out and snaked around Isabella’s waist.
“Ma chère, looks like you need someone to warm—”
Connor’s knife at the man’s throat cut him off midsentence. “You can be takin’ yer filthy hands off o’ the lady.”
Like a ripple of river water over a sandbar on the Mississippi, a deadly hush fell over the entire room. The man let go, lifting his hands in a gesture of submission. Cold black eyes stared at Connor.
“I did not know she was your woman, monsieur. Pardon.”
“Anybody else touches her, he dies.” Connor’s low voice carried across the room. He nodded toward the stairs. “Go.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Isabella continued on, looking neither to the right nor to the left. As soon as she reached the landing, Connor followed, cat-footed, his senses alert for any sudden movement. The din started up before he placed his boot on the first step, the confrontation already forgotten. He panned the smoke-filled room one last time and found the Frenchman staring at him with rage in his eyes.
Forgotten by all but one.
Seated in the shadows of the tavern, Nolan James Braxton III watched Isabella Bartholomew’s progress up the stairs.
Interesting.
What was she doing in Harper’s? And who was the Irishman?
Perhaps she wasn’t the lady she claimed to be.
She wouldn’t be the first. His own mother had stepped into the role of Mrs. Nolan Braxton II, and no one had been th
e wiser.
“I will kill him.” Pierre Le Bonne slid into the seat next to him. He fingered the long knife strapped to his thigh. “Tonight. I will slit his throat and leave him on the banks of the river, flopping like a dead fish. Oui?”
“Leave it be.”
“Non!” Pierre slapped the table and let loose a string of curses. “He made me to look like the fool.”
The French-Canadian’s face turned red, his black eyes popping fire, ready to do battle for an honor that was as dark and shadowy as the tavern they frequented.
Nolan drained the last of his ale. Pierre’s explosive temper would be his downfall one day. He would be better served to stay calm and collected, unmoved and unruffled by things he could not control.
An art Nolan had perfected.
“You will do nothing. Understand? You should never have grabbed the girl in the first place.”
Pierre glared at him, sullen and unrepentant. But the man would do as he said. Without Nolan, Pierre’s life wasn’t worth the swill left by a ravenous hog.
“Bah! She is nobody or she would not be in such a place as this.”
Nolan pinned him with a look. “She is my future wife.”
“Mon dieu.” Pierre’s expression became guarded. “Pardon, monsieur.”
Nolan ignored him and eyed the stairs. From the deference the Irishman gave Isabella, Nolan didn’t believe this was a lovers’ tryst. A servant, if he didn’t miss his guess. Interesting that she’d appeared in the tavern at all. Still, he could hardly approach her and offer assistance. Not here. Not now. But he would. Soon.
Snubbing out his cigar, he motioned for another tankard of ale. He’d given Isabella enough time for mourning. It was time to make his intentions known. If he waited too long, someone else would ride in and steal her and Breeze Hill right out from under his nose.
And he’d worked too hard to see that happen.
Everything was going according to plan.
Well, not everything.
He hadn’t meant for the plantation house to catch fire or for Isabella’s father to almost die trying to rescue that twit Leah. But even that could work in his favor.