The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  If they could salvage a portion of the cotton crop and sell a bit of lumber along the way, they might be able to limp along until spring when they could plant again. By then, the repairs to the house would be finished, and all the lumber could be sold for profit. Assuming Connor stayed around after his indenture was up.

  His crooked smile tumbled into her thoughts, and she thought back to the last time they’d been alone. Two days ago when she’d written the letter to his brother. He’d signed the letter, mumbled something about taking care of the horses, and left without so much as a by-your-leave.

  But for a brief moment, she’d thought he might kiss her again, and she would have been powerless to stop him. She angled the parasol to block Mrs. Butler’s gaze and pressed a gloved hand to her bosom to slow the pounding of her heart. Not that she’d wanted to stop him. As soon as he’d leaned forward to sign that letter, the feel of his corded arm against her shoulder sent her heart soaring skyward like an eagle in flight, only to plummet the next second with just as much force as it had climbed.

  She’d been more than happy to write the letter, only to feel like a show-off when he commented on her penmanship. His crude letters endeared him to her even more. There was no shame in having had little formal education. Her own father had little to recommend him when he’d settled in Natchez. Clearing land had been his slate, planting crops his quill.

  The closer they got to the center of town, the shops, and the marketplace, the busier it became. Horses, wagons, and carriages clogged the road. Men shouted at each other. The crowded thoroughfare gave Isabella pause, but the stable boy handled the horses with ease, relaxed and in his element. The press of the crowd allowed them to move forward at a snail’s pace.

  Isabella drew in her breath as a contingent of slaves shuffled by, fetters around their ankles, chains rattling as they moved in unison across a wide-open parade ground toward an auction block.

  “No wonder there are so many people in town today.” Mrs. Butler shook her head, lips pursed. “They’re going to have an auction.”

  Unable to tear her gaze away, Isabella watched as the slaves stopped next to the platform, brawny bucks with muscles bulging, women staring stoically ahead, some with babes in arms. One young woman, her head held high, her ebony skin glistening in the heat of the day, caught Isabella’s attention.

  Gentlemen farmers pointed at the slaves, walked boldly up to the men, and motioned for them to open their mouths so they could see their teeth. They stripped the shirts off their backs and prodded at their muscles.

  The carriage moved past the auction site as more men crowded around. Isabella jerked around at the sound of tearing cloth. The young woman she’d seen stood proud, her breasts exposed. Shocked, Isabella gasped and averted her gaze, shame flooding her cheeks.

  She’d seen the auction once in her life, but she’d been too young to grasp the meaning of it all. Now, after learning of her family’s history, she understood her father’s anger, his helplessness at such a sight.

  Had her great-grandmother been subject to the same degradation as the girl she’d just seen? And why wouldn’t she have been? An Irish slave wouldn’t have been treated any differently than an African slave, would she?

  Only a few short years ago, her great-grandmother would have been the one standing on that auction block, being exposed to the greedy eyes of men who claimed to be Christians. Men who would call another out in a duel if his wife or daughter were treated so abominably.

  No wonder her father abhorred slavery.

  His own grandmother had walked the same path as that poor young woman.

  Chapter 21

  CONNOR POUNDED the last nail in place, tossed the bag of shingles to the ground, and swung from the low-slung roof.

  Mews rounded the corner, jerked his hat off, and rubbed his face with his sleeve. “All done?”

  “Yes. It’ll hold through the winter.” Connor scooped a dipperful of water and took a gulp, the tepid moisture cooling his parched throat.

  “Where’s Toby?”

  “Jack took Mrs. Butler and Isabella to the market, and Toby rode along with them.”

  Mews frowned. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea for them ladies to be down close to the wharf today. There’s an auction, and I heard there’s a horse race too.”

  Connor grabbed a rough towel off a peg, scrubbed it down his face, and dried his arms. “That shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”

  “The auction draws a big crowd of plantation owners and miscreants, too. And the race could be anywhere. They rope off several streets for some of those races and have a regular fracas. Bystanders have gotten trampled. A few have even been killed.” Hands planted on narrow hips, Mews scowled. “I don’t like it one bit. Not Miss Isabella and Mrs. Butler being down there, and not the boys either.”

  “We’d better go find them, then.” Connor tossed the towel toward the peg and headed for the stables. “Better safe than sorry.”

  They saddled up and headed toward the wharf, Connor letting Mews lead the way. As soon as he saw the crowded streets, worry knotted his stomach. Mews was right to be concerned. Today was not the day to frequent the market. They turned and rode down a street parallel to the course laid out for the race. A group of riffraff surged across the cobblestones in front of him, and Connor sawed back on the reins to keep from running the boys down.

  “Is there someplace we can leave the horses?” he shouted to Mews. “It would be better to continue on foot.”

  “There’s a stable not far from here.”

  “Stable the horses, then. I’ll start looking.” Connor dismounted and tossed the reins to Mews.

  “Head that way.” Mews pointed toward the thickest part of the crowd. “You can’t miss the market. It’s across the way there.”

  Connor dove into the close-packed crowd, pushing and shoving his way through. He made it to the rope that sectioned off a wide street. People hurried across, intent on getting to their destinations before the horses came tearing through.

  “How many riders in the race?” Connor asked a man standing next to him.

  “Upwards of twenty is what I’ve heard.” The man’s eyes glowed. “My money’s on Braxton’s thoroughbred. Ain’t no horse can beat that two-year-old.”

  “Braxton?” Connor frowned. Braxton had made his presence known at Breeze Hill more than once over the last few weeks. “He’s riding?”

  “Of course not.” The man gave Connor a strange look. “He’s too big. He’s got a little Negro boy no bigger’n a washing of soap. Kid clings to the back of that horse like he was born there.”

  Connor ducked under the rope and headed down the street at a fast lope. He’d have plenty of time to get out of the way, and until the riders showed up, following the course would be the fastest way to find Isabella and Mrs. Butler.

  Isabella and Mrs. Butler breezed into the dim interior of Mrs. Simson’s dress shop. The proprietor smiled a welcome.

  “Mrs. Butler, how good to see you.” Then she turned to Isabella, hands clasped, beaming. “And if it isn’t Isabella Bartholomew. My dear, you are lovelier than ever.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Simson.” Isabella curtsied, happy that the woman remembered her. She hadn’t been to the dressmaker’s shop over half-a-dozen times her entire life, but the dear woman made a point of keeping up with every lady in the territory, especially if said lady might be a customer someday. “How’s business?”

  “Slow. It is the summer season, you know. As soon as the plantation wives and daughters return to town, I’ll have more business than I can throw a thimble at. Is there something I can do for you?” Her tone sounded hopeful.

  “Nothing for me.” She nodded toward Mrs. Butler. “I’m staying at Wainwright House for a few days, and Mrs. Butler and I decided to come to the market today.”

  Mrs. Butler stepped forward. “I would like a nice piece of damask, Mrs. Simson, if you have any on hand.”

  “Any particular color?”

  “
A pale rose would be ideal.”

  “Yes, I do believe I have something that might be to your liking. Please, have a seat.” Mrs. Simson motioned toward some chairs and a small table. “May I offer you some refreshment? Some tea or lemonade? We just received a shipment of fresh lemons at the market. Such a wonderful treat, isn’t it?”

  Isabella fanned herself. “Lemonade sounds wonderful.”

  “It is dreadfully hot, isn’t it?” Mrs. Simson poured two glasses of lemonade and then moved to the shelves lining her small shop. As she rummaged about for the requested material, she continued the conversation over her shoulder. “How’s your father, Miss Bartholomew?”

  “Much better, madam. Thank you for asking.”

  “Poor fellow.” The woman made a tsking sound with her tongue. “Such a tragedy. Ah, here it is.”

  Mrs. Butler and Mrs. Simson moved to the open doorway to get a better look at the cloth.

  The housekeeper nodded in approval. “This should do nicely. I’ll take six yards.”

  “Wonderful.” The shopkeeper placed the bolt of cloth on a cutting table and started unrolling it.

  A redheaded stick of a man with a long, scraggly beard leaned in the open door. He jerked his hat off the moment he saw Mrs. Butler and Isabella.

  “You ladies might want to stay inside for a while.” An excited grin split his face.

  “Whatever for, Jeremiah?” Mrs. Simson plopped both hands on her hips. “Have you spotted another skunk under your shop?”

  “No, madam. But there’s a horse race over on Canal Street.”

  “Canal Street?” Isabella froze, lemonade held midair.

  “Yes, miss. But don’t worry. Y’all aren’t in any danger. It just might be better to stay here until the race is over and the crowd thins out.” And with that, he scurried away in the direction of the race.

  “I do declare. Men and their horse races.” Mrs. Simson peered out the open door. Men and boys rushed past in a tizzy to get as close to the action as possible. “I shouldn’t be surprised, what with the auction today. Men can’t pass up the opportunity to have their fun.”

  Isabella grabbed her bonnet.

  “Miss Isabella, where are you going?”

  “Toby and Jack are waiting for us on Canal Street. They may be in danger.”

  The race was on.

  Connor didn’t hear the horses coming or see anything, but he could feel it in the crowd lining the streets. A ripple of expectation rolled over the men and boys as they craned their necks, peering northward.

  Where was Isabella? He hadn’t seen the carriage or the women anywhere. Had they changed their minds and headed back to Wainwright House?

  The ground rumbled beneath his feet and the crowd cheered. Up ahead, the street veered to the right, climbing a steep hill. He glanced behind him and saw the first wave of horses turn onto the street, jockeys whipping the lathered animals mercilessly. Two horses were in the lead, neck and neck.

  One rider plowed his mount into the horse next to him, and the second rider almost lost his seat. They paid little heed to the crowd that pressed in from all sides.

  Connor flattened himself against the nearest building as the horses rushed past, breathing hard, pushed to run faster by their riders. A trail of dust rose up to choke him. With the leaders out of the way, Connor knew the rest of the pack wouldn’t be far behind.

  He sprinted the last fifty feet to the end of the street, hoping to see something of the carriage. If it wasn’t here, he prayed they’d left town and headed back to Wainwright’s before this deluge of men and horses.

  A shout rose from behind him, and he glanced back to see a pack of riders spread shoulder to shoulder across the roadway, the riders kicking, screaming, and slashing at each other for position. He turned to duck into the nearest alley, intent on squeezing himself into the press of men shouting for their favorite horse to win.

  Then he saw the carriage on the opposite side of the street a hundred yards away. One of the horses had its foot caught in the traces. Toby fought to hold the frightened animals, while Jack struggled to untangle the lines. Toby threw a wild-eyed look at the oncoming wave of riders. Connor took a step in their direction, then breathed a sigh of relief as Jack got the traces untwisted and the two boys urged the horses toward a nearby alley.

  “Toby!”

  Pure terror shot through Connor when he heard Isabella scream. He caught a glimpse of her brown skirt billowing out of control as she exited an alley and launched herself across the street toward the boys.

  Heart in his throat, Connor shot out of the crowd, his one thought to get to Isabella before the horses did.

  The horses swept toward them. Connor snaked an arm around her waist and kept running, launching himself toward the nearest stoop and rolling out of the way as the horses pounded past. He tucked Isabella under him, praying they wouldn’t be trampled.

  The ground shook with the force of forty hooves slicing into the earth, powered by ten thousand pounds of horseflesh. Dust churned, men shouted, horses snorted as their riders pushed them hard.

  The last of the horses swept past, the crowd following in their wake, rushing toward the finish line to claim victory or weep in defeat. Quickly the crowd thinned, and a few stragglers scurried past, some looking curiously at Connor and Isabella before hurrying on their way.

  Isabella stirred, pushed against Connor’s chest. “Let me go. Where’s Toby? And Jack?”

  “They’re fine. Jack got the traces untangled and they got out of the way just in time.”

  She went limp. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Connor helped her to her feet, holding her by the shoulders. “Are ya all right, lass?”

  “Yes.”

  Her hair hung down her back in dark waves. Tears and dirt streaked her face. Fury, mixed with a desire to sweep her into his arms and kiss her senseless, swept over him.

  He opted for fury.

  “Ya could have been killed,” he bit out through clenched teeth. “In all o’ holy heaven, what possessed ya t’ run out in front o’ those horses like that, lass?”

  “Didn’t you see that Toby and Jack were in danger?” Her eyes flashed.

  “O’ course I saw. And I would have been able to help them if I hadn’t had to rescue you instead.”

  “What makes you think I needed rescuing?” She glared at him.

  “A pack o’ horses was breathing down your neck. Or did ya no’ see that?” Connor pulled her close and tucked his face next to hers, intent on talking some sense into her. Gritting his teeth, he gave her a little shake. “Don’t ever do that again, lass. Ya took ten years off me life.”

  He sucked in a shuddering breath, reliving the horror of what might have been only moments ago. He reached out a trembling hand, his thumb wiping the dirt away. “When I saw those horses bearing down on you, I thought—”

  The tips of her fingers against his lips stopped him, trapping his words beneath their softness. The angry fire in her flashing eyes was gone, only to be replaced by another fire, just as volatile, but much, much more dangerous. Her eyelashes fluttered, lowered, and she slid both arms around his neck and pulled him toward her.

  And Connor was powerless to stop her.

  It occurred to him as he wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her more fully against him that he didn’t want to stop her.

  Not now. Not ever.

  Nolan stood in the shadows of a building across the street, watching Isabella and the Irishman. When he’d seen her dash in front of the wall of horses, a sudden, irrational fear for her life grabbed him by the throat.

  Which was surprising.

  He didn’t love Isabella. He only wanted her for what she could give him.

  Breeze Hill. Along with access to the trace without having to answer to anyone or anything.

  He studied them, Isabella’s arms entwined about the Irishman’s neck, her body pressed against the rough clapboard building, the two of them so wrapped up in each other, the outs
ide world ceased to exist. The Irishman tucked a lock of Isabella’s hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering.

  Nolan’s own fingers curled around the pistol tucked into his waistband, an anger he didn’t know he possessed sweeping through him like a forest fire in the dry heat of August. Isabella Bartholomew belonged to him. Yes, she was simply the means to an end, but she could be more.

  He wouldn’t rule out the possibility that he’d finally found a woman who might stand by his side as he rose in power in Natchez. If the Spanish managed to hold on to the territory indefinitely, having a wife with ties to Spain would work in his favor.

  Yes, Isabella Bartholomew would serve him well.

  His gaze shifted from Isabella toward the man who dared put his hands on the woman Nolan had claimed for his own. A servant, no less.

  Connor O’Shea would die for touching Isabella Bartholomew.

  Isabella held Connor close, all the while thinking she had to stop this madness.

  Connor cared nothing for her. What time he hadn’t been glaring at her the last two weeks, he’d been ignoring her. A tingle of excitement shot through her, and her lips curved into a smile beneath his. But when he wasn’t frowning at her or ignoring her, he was kissing the very daylights out of her, and that made up for all the scowling. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair, and she forgot all about stopping, about madness, about anything but the sweet warmth of his lips on hers.

  Voices reached them as the crowd retraced their steps. Rambunctious men recounting the race, some laughing over their spoils, some cursing whatever fate had led them to bet on losing odds.

  Connor pulled away, the tender look in his eyes fading, replaced by something almost like fear. Or sorrow. She couldn’t tell which, but whatever it was, it drove the warmth away.

  He took her hand and led her down the alley, then another, distancing them from the crowd of men.

  “Connor?” Her voice trembled.

  “Not here. Not now.” He released her and stepped away, just as he’d done on the trip home the first time they’d met, as he’d done after the first time he kissed her. As he always did.