by Pam Hillman
“What happened?”
“We had them in our clutches, and then someone warned them.” Pierre swore in French. “It was the Irishman from the inn. The one with the Bartholomew woman. I heard him yell out.”
“O’Shea? He’s nothing but an indentured servant. Nothing to be concerned about.”
Pierre rubbed his head. “He put a crease in my skull, and I aim to make sure he pays for it.”
Pity the bullet didn’t do more than graze the numskull. “Never mind about O’Shea. Why in heaven’s name did you attack the soldiers in the first place? For the woman? I’ll not have you plundering and killing women and children. We want people to travel the trace, not avoid it. Do I have to remind you the coin flowing along that road is what’s lining both our pockets?”
Pierre looked at him like he’d lost his mind, his flat black eyes as unemotional as a rattler’s. “Oui. The coin. The lovely Mademoiselle Watts was a decoy for a transport of Spanish gold hidden in a false bottom of her carriage.”
Nolan kept his surprise from showing by sheer force of will. How did Pierre know these things? He scowled. “And you knew this but executed a half-baked idea that failed?”
“It only failed because the Irishman was there.”
Nolan stood, sauntered to the edge of the porch, and spotted Turnbull readying for his departure. But he’d be back as soon as he delivered this last batch of slaves to Natchez. Nolan’s instincts about the man’s character had proven true. He’d do anything for money.
And being a slave trader gave him reason to travel from plantation to plantation without being questioned. Just the kind of man Nolan could use. And one who would follow orders, unlike the hotheaded Frenchman standing behind him.
“You need to lay low for a while. Bartholomew is on his guard now, as well as Minor and the governor. They’ll have the militia swarming the bluffs for days to come, looking for the men who waylaid those soldiers.” He turned from the window. “And, Pierre. Don’t come to Braxton Hall again. Your presence here puts us all at risk. Should you need to contact me, send word through Turnbull.”
“The slave trader?” Pierre sneered. “You’ve changed, Monsieur Braxton, since your sainted mother died.”
“My mother was no saint.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But she was loyal to a fault and generous.” Pierre’s gaze panned the well-appointed office, the heavy oak desk and the plush upholstered chairs. “I have wondered how the Braxtons came about Braxton Hall. Neither you nor your mother strike me as English aristocrats.” His scan stopped on the oil portrait hanging over the fireplace. “Of course I never met your father.”
Nolan bristled. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing.” Pierre opened the door. “I was just making an observation. But one does wonder.”
Nolan glared at the door after Pierre left.
Yes, it was time to sever all ties with Pierre Le Bonne.
Chapter 18
CONNOR STOOD ON TOP of the log suspended over the saw pit, pulling the whipsaw upward. Jim pulled it back down.
Up. Down. Up. Down. The seesawing motion became monotonous after a long day.
Horne and his boys were snaking more logs in, and after Connor and Jim finished sawing this one, he’d let Jim try his hand as top dog. The boy had the strength for it and the concentration to make a straight, clean cut. With Jim and Toby working the pit saw and Horne and his boys felling trees, it would free Connor up to work on the house more.
Truth be told, he wanted them all to be able to work the saws as well as wield a hammer. Skills they could use no matter where they were.
Lizzy came tearing along the wagon road from the big house. She skidded to a stop at the saw pit and squinted up at Connor. “Mr. Bartholomew wants you right away.”
“Jim, I’ll be back soon. You can stack some of that lumber while I’m gone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Connor jumped off the log and headed toward the house. “Something wrong?”
Lizzy hurried to keep his pace. “Nope. Don’t think so. Leastwise, nothing really bad. Mr. Bartholomew wasn’t yelling or nothing like that.”
Connor grinned. “I see.”
“But there was a whole passel of soldiers at the house about an hour ago, all smartly dressed in their uniforms.”
Connor’s amusement fled. “Soldiers?”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”
Connor stopped at the well, brushed sawdust off his clothes, and used his neckerchief to wipe the worst of the dirt and grime off his face. He hurried through the courtyard, bounded up the gallery steps, and rapped on Mr. Bartholomew’s sitting room door.
“Come in.”
“Mr. Bartholomew, sir. Lizzy said you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Connor. Come in. Have a seat.” Mr. Bartholomew motioned to the settee, waving a piece of parchment in the air. “I received this letter from the governor this morning about the incident with Captain Minor and Miss Watts.”
“Sir?” Connor sat on the edge of the settee, pressing his damp palms against his breeches.
“At ease, man. It’s not bad news.” Mr. Bartholomew chuckled. “The governor sends his deepest gratitude for what you did to warn Miss Watts’s traveling companions of the danger they were in. He says, and I quote, ‘Without Mr. O’Shea’s presence of mind, I fear that dear Miss Watts might have been accosted or lost to us forever. It is with deepest gratitude that I extend my undying regard to Mr. O’Shea.’”
Connor swallowed. “It was the least I could do.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less of you, Connor.” Mr. Bartholomew placed the letter on a side table and folded his hands together. “However, expressing gratitude isn’t the only reason the governor sent a message posthaste. It seems he and Captain Minor believe the highwaymen are led by someone in a position of power with possible access to government secrets. So naturally he’s quite concerned.”
“Someone from this area, north of Natchez?”
“Yes, that seems likely as attacks on travelers have been more prevalent in this area in recent years.”
The possibilities ran through Connor’s mind like quicksilver. Wainwright, Hartford, Braxton. Five men, including the younger and elder Wainwrights and Hartfords. He’d heard tell of a handful more plantation owners, though he hadn’t met them. Even the proprietors at Mount Locust or Harper’s Inn could be suspect.
“What does the governor propose?” Under other circumstances, Connor wouldn’t have dared to ask his master such a question. But Mr. Bartholomew had taken him into his confidence, so he felt the question was justified.
“The governor requested my presence in Natchez. Regretfully, I had to decline the invitation. My health makes travel impossible. We’ll keep our eyes and ears open and try to ferret out the guilty party. And that’s where you come in.”
“Sir?”
“You’re aware of the misfortune that has befallen me and my family, so I won’t belabor the point. I am confident you had no hand in any of what occurred. I also believe you have the utmost integrity, and now Captain Minor and the governor himself are also indebted to you.”
Connor kept silent and waited, unsure what Mr. Bartholomew wanted of him.
“I’ll speak plainly.” Mr. Bartholomew leaned forward, a guarded look on his scarred face. “Connor, if something happens to me, I need to know I can depend on you to look after Leah and Isabella.”
“Nothing’s going to happen—”
“We don’t know that.” Mr. Bartholomew held up a hand, then turned both hands, palms up, his fingers curled like claws. “Who would have thought a year ago that I’d be this helpless?” His gaze lifted to Connor’s. “Do I have your word?”
Connor nodded. “Yes, sir. You have my word.”
A cool breeze blew across the porch, lowering the temperature from the sweltering heat of the day. The sun sat on the horizon, ready to dip out of sight any minute. Isabella and her father relaxed on the porch right o
utside his room.
“Papa, what are we going to do?” Isabella asked. “If they destroy all the cotton this year, we won’t have enough to pay our creditors or enough to see us through the winter months.”
“Or enough to send for Connor’s brothers.”
“We won’t have the coin to send for any of his brothers, let alone all of them.” A twinge of concern hit Isabella. “Has he said anything?”
“No. Nothing. But he almost has enough lumber to start the repairs, and he should be finished after harvest. He’ll expect me to follow through on our agreement.” Her father set his rocker into motion. “As I should. He’s been a huge help to us. To everyone. You did well in choosing him.”
She sighed. “Seems like things have only gotten worse instead of better since he arrived.”
“I’m convinced our troubles have little to do with Connor’s arrival.” Her father frowned. “Mews says the cotton was damaged beyond repair. At most, we’ll pick a third of the crop we hoped for.”
Isabella suspected as much. While she couldn’t gauge the yield to the extent Mews could, she’d been by the field several times in the last few days, and she’d come to the same conclusion on her own. There had to be a way to bring in extra cash to see them through the winter months. She bit her lip as an idea formed.
“We could sell the lumber. You and Jonathan were building up a reputation in Natchez. When I visited back in May, there was construction everywhere.” She warmed to the subject. “They’re desperate for lumber.”
Her father tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. “It would delay the repairs on the house.”
“If we don’t have money to buy staples and seed for next year, we’ll lose the house and everything else anyway.”
“True. It’s too late to plant more cotton, but we could sell some of the lumber. I can send Connor to Natchez with a list of contacts—”
“You’d send Connor to do your business?”
“Who else is there? I can’t go, and Mews hasn’t the head for business.”
“Send me, Papa.”
“Ah, Isabella, it’s too dangerous. And you’re a—”
“A woman. But please let me go. I can travel with the Wainwrights and stay at Wainwright House, and your contractors can meet me there. They’ll understand, knowing your health prevents you from making the journey.”
Her father shifted, pushed his rocker into motion with one foot. She waited, hardly daring to breathe. Finally he nodded.
“Yes, that might work. I have some letters to send that can’t wait. Wainwright’s party is sizable enough that you should be safe.” He smiled. “You’ve got your mother’s beauty and your father’s business sense, so it stands to reason that you should go along. Connor can select the best lumber to send.”
“You’ll send lumber this trip, without a contract?”
“Only a wagonload, or maybe two or three. There’s nothing like a small taste to whet the appetite. I’m confident you and Connor will negotiate the best price.”
“Connor? You’re sending Connor?” Isabella’s heart sank. The trip would take four to five days at least. How would she manage being in close proximity with him for that long? “Why not send Mews?”
“Connor knows lumber, and I’d feel better if he were along. Mews and Toby can help drive the wagons.”
“But—”
He held up a hand. “I’ve agreed to let you go. But if you insist on arguing with me, I’ll revoke my permission and let Connor handle it.” His countenance softened. “It’s for your own good. I trust Connor with your life.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good.” Her father regarded her, his expression filled with concern. “Isabella? Is something wrong between you and Connor?”
“What do you mean?” Heat rushed to her face, but she held her father’s gaze, hoping the shadows hid her embarrassment.
“You think I haven’t noticed? Your eyes flash just like your mother’s used to when I mention his name. You leave the room when he comes to give me a report. And he won’t even look at you.” His scarred face hardened into a scowl of terrifying proportions. “Has he taken liberties or offended in some way? If he has, I will have him hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
“No.” Isabella wished for the ground to open up and swallow her. If her father knew that Connor had kissed her, he might very well do as he said. She looked down, her voice dropping to a whisper. “No. It’s not like that.”
“Isabella, look at me.” His voice was soft, tender.
She bit her lip and looked up.
“You’re a woman grown. Many women your age are already married with children. But I can tell from the look on your face that you’re affected by talk of our indentured servant. Do you think he’s not good enough for you because he’s a servant?”
“No, Papa. You taught me to never judge a man by his station in life or his material possessions.”
“Yes. And now that you know a bit about your family history, you know why I’m willing to give any man a fair chance.” Her father looked across the gathering twilight at the fields in the distance. “I had nothing but the clothes on my back when I came here, and I hacked this plantation out of a canebrake, fought off snakes and wild hogs, attacks from the natives and the highwaymen. It wasn’t easy, but I persevered.”
“And somebody seems determined to take it all away.”
“I don’t understand why. It’s common knowledge that I won’t sell Breeze Hill. I’ll die here.” Her father reached out and took her hand, tears shimmering in his eyes. “Perhaps I’m a foolish old man, grasping at hidden menace in the shadows where there is none.”
He gestured toward the quiet fields, the lights flickering on in the cabins nearby. The occasional sound of laughter floated on the breeze as the handful of tenant farmers and indentured servants enjoyed their supper before bedtime. Soon, Mews would play a lively jig on his fiddle before shooing Toby and Lizzy off to bed.
“On nights such as this, I think that maybe I imagined it all. What if Jonathan’s death was random? What if he was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time? What if lightning struck the cotton and caught the house on fire by chance? What if it was a coincidence you and Leah just happened to be taking an evening stroll when those riders came through?”
“And the cotton fields? Do you think it was a coincidence those men trampled half the cotton?”
“No. But they were being pursued by the governor’s militia. Mayhap they took their anger out on the nearest victim—our cotton.” He shook his head. “But I can’t help but worry. I just wish . . .”
“What?”
“I wish you’d take Leah with you.”
“To Natchez?”
“Yes. I could make arrangements for her and the babe. I’m sure Wainwright—”
“She won’t go. And besides, Martha would never allow it—it’s too close to her time.”
“I suppose you’re right. I can’t help but wish that the two of you—and the babe—were tucked safely away in Natchez.”
Isabella clasped his hand in hers. “Papa, we’re as safe here with you as we’d be in Natchez. If trouble is going to find us, it’s going to find us wherever we are.”
“Natchez?”
Connor gripped the adze and gaped at Isabella. Surely he hadn’t heard correctly. “What about the terms o’ my indenture?”
“All in good time. I’ve got business in Natchez, and Papa insists you go along as my escort.” Isabella’s gaze shifted, avoiding his. There was something she wasn’t telling him.
“You? And me?”
When he agreed to Mr. Bartholomew’s request to protect Isabella and Miss Leah, he’d never dreamed that meant traveling along the trace with them. He scowled. “Don’t tell me that Miss Leah is going too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s in no condition to travel.” The way she jutted her chin and the two bright spots of color on her cheeks told him the idea had been discussed but apparently discarded.<
br />
She crinkled her nose as if she smelled something tainted. He narrowed his eyes. Well, she wasn’t the only one who detected a foul odor in the air. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d orchestrated this whole trip to spend time with him. It was the kind of thing Charlotte would have done.
But he couldn’t believe she’d want to spend that much time with him after he’d kissed her, then promptly insulted her by keeping his distance. He’d managed to avoid her quite successfully the last few days. But heaven help him—being thrust into close proximity with her for days on end might dismantle the carefully constructed wall he’d built around his heart.
“There’s nothing in my contract stating I would be traveling back and forth to Natchez.” Connor hacked away at the log resting on a pair of sawhorses, taking his frustration out on the hapless beam. Chips of fragrant wood curled off the timber and landed at his feet. “That’ll take two or three days.”
“Four. At least.”
He forced himself to relax his death grip on the adze. He might as well accept the inevitable. “Why am I being ordered t’ Natchez?”
“It’s not an order.”
“It might as well be. You’ll be with the Wainwrights. Surely your father trusts them enough to look after you.”
“That’s not the only reason you’re needed. We’re—um—” she paused, looking uncertain—“we’re going to secure some lumber contracts.”
Connor bit back the urge to ask if she was daft. “That lumber is earmarked for repairs. I won’t be party to hauling it off to Natchez.”
“If I had my way, you wouldn’t be going, but Papa insists. He says I need you to help set up the accounts with the buyers.” She crossed her arms and gave him a look that said she was fully capable of handling the negotiations on her own. “But after this trip, you won’t have to worry about it. Mews and the boys can handle the deliveries and you can stay here and move forward with the repairs on the house.”