Wilderness Trail of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 1)

by Dorothy Wiley

  Gradually, her hands steadied and her breathing returned to normal. She placed Mary in Martha’s arms again and stood on wobbly legs.

  “We’re all right now. We’re all right. We’re all right now,” she repeated over and over.

  But had Bomazeen come alone?

  CHAPTER 7

  The house, bathed in early morning light, soon came into view. All the windows appeared locked and shuttered. Stephen’s gut clenched. Something was wrong. Both men kicked their horses to a full run.

  Moments later, he flew off the side of the gelding, his musket pointed at his front door.

  Sam unsheathed his knife and slid off his mount in a single smooth motion.

  “Jane. Jane, are you all right?” Stephen yelled, praying that she would open the door and scold him for shouting and waking the children. He pushed against the door, but it didn’t budge, bolted from the inside. “Jane!”

  The door flew open. “Stephen!”

  Jane leapt into his arms, a pistol in her hand. Never had she felt so good in his arms. Never had he needed to hold her more. He hugged her fiercely, his heart still beating wildly.

  “Sam, she’s here. She’s fine,” he called out, relief filling his heart.

  Sam rounded the corner from the side of the house. “Thank the Lord. I was just about to break through the bedroom window.” The long blade he still held sparkled in the bright morning sun, bouncing reflections like a highly polished mirror.

  Stephen guided Jane back inside. He cupped her face in his hands and peered into her eyes. He saw pain there he had never seen before. He noticed the torn bodice pinned to the front of her gown and blood on her skirt. Her lips and chin trembled. His heart tightened in his chest as he took in the sight of her. “Tell me,” he managed to say.

  “He’s dead,” she cried. “He’s dead. He was about to…”

  Jane couldn’t continue. She pointed outside with a shaky hand and then put her fingers over her mouth. She seemed to be trying hard to hold in the emotions threatening to empty out of her. She pushed past him and headed for the porch.

  Stephen and Sam followed.

  “Where is he?” Jane demanded.

  “Who?” Both men asked in unison.

  For the first time, Stephen noticed the smeared blood on the porch. “What happened here?”

  “No…he’s got to be here. I killed him!” she shrieked, her eyes frantically darting around them.

  Stephen gently grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Who did you kill?”

  “Bomazeen.” At the sound of the name, unspoken fear came alive in her eyes.

  Sam leapt from the porch and began to study the ground. “If he’s here, I’ll find the bastard. I’ll check around back.”

  Thankful his brother was there, Stephen could focus on Jane. Sam had the trained eyes of a soldier and if anything was amiss, he’d find it.

  “The girls?” Stephen asked, holding his breath until she answered.

  Jane pointed upstairs. “They’re finally asleep. It was after midnight before the poor darlings stopped crying.” She looked up. “Oh dear Heavenly Father, thank you for your mercy upon us.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment and silently also said a word of whole-hearted thanks.

  “Stephen, he nearly….killed Mary,” she sobbed. “He was going to take me to Chief Wanalancet. He said the Chief wanted me for his wife and married my spirit with his peace pipe. And he was going to make Martha a slave,” she said, her voice breaking, barely able to get out the words.

  “Is Mary all right?” he demanded.

  “She’ll have bruises around her neck, but her crying seemed normal, and she finally slept, so I think she’ll be fine.”

  “Did Bomazeen hurt you?” He held his breath, bracing himself for what was coming.

  Jane touched her cheek. A blue bruise showed through her pale skin. “He tried. He came close. So close.”

  Stephen watched as she squeezed her eyes closed. He kissed her eyelids tenderly, wanting to remove the image from her mind, and then laid her head against his chest. “What happened to your arm?”

  “I opened the door and I saw him, standing there, his evil eyes staring at me. I dropped my teacup. Later, when I pulled him outside, I fell and cut my arm on the shards. Mother of God, he almost killed Mary.” Her voice and lips trembled.

  Sam joined them again. “There’s a trail leading into the woods. Jane, how did you manage to shoot him?”

  “He got angry because the baby was wailing. I picked her up. He grabbed Mary away from me and dangled her by the throat. Martha got mad and charged him. She was so brave. She kept trying to pull Mary away from him.” She paused for a moment to catch her breath. “While she distracted him, I managed to get the pistol I keep under the baby’s mattress, and I shot him. I had to shoot from an awkward angle because he had one of my arms pinned behind my back, but the bullet hit the side of his head.”

  He turned to Sam and said, “It’s a trick her father taught her. No one expects a gun to be underneath a baby. The girls know not to touch it, and the baby’s not strong enough to lift the mattress.”

  “Your Papa taught you well. Good thing. It saved the lives of three of your girls and you and Martha from the unspeakable,” Sam said. “Someone helped Bomazeen into the woods. He was half walking and half drug. Must have been the one hiding their mounts.”

  “He’s still alive?” Jane gasped and pressed her hand against her mouth.

  “Your shot must have grazed his head and knocked him out. Someone helped the bastard into the timbers and onto a horse.”

  “That man’s not human. He’s a damned demon,” she swore.

  Stephen could only hug Jane against his chest, where his heart still pounded. He could not believe that monster had entered the sanctuary of their home. His family was supposed to be safe here. His baby was supposed to be safe. He should have been here. His entire body tensed with the effort to control his anger. But now, he needed to help Jane.

  “It’s over now. Let’s get you back inside,” he suggested.

  Jane raised her head and nodded. She allowed him to usher her into the house, but then stopped, locked her arms tightly around his waist and sobbed into his chest. She had likely kept her emotions under tight control all night. But now, with him here, she was free to let go of some of the hurt.

  Stephen gently stroked the top of her head, giving her time to cry. Best to let the poison out. The ordeal understandably traumatized her. “You’re safe. I’m here now.”

  After several minutes of quivering in his embrace, she sniffled and dried her eyes with her apron. “I was so frightened. Thank the Lord you’re finally home.”

  “Jane, your bravery astonishes me. I’m so proud of you.” He kissed her forehead. “Most women would not have had the courage to fight back.”

  “Here drink this,” Sam said, as he offered her water.

  Jane eyed the water dipper, then shook her head and buried her face on Stephen’s chest again. “Once I made sure Martha and the baby were not badly injured, I somehow dragged him out to the porch and then bolted the doors and windows. I didn’t want to risk going outside. All I could do was stay awake and keep my pistol pointed at the front door.”

  “You did all you need to do. Sit down now and rest. You’re exhausted,” Stephen told her, guiding her to her favorite chair.

  “I’m going after them,” Sam said.

  “You shouldn’t go after them alone. But I can’t leave Jane and the girls. Wait for Bear. He should be here soon,” he suggested.

  Sam headed for the door. “There’s no time. The trail is already getting cold.”

  “I’ll have Bear come after you when he gets here,” Stephen called out as Sam left.

  “How did you get home so soon? Didn’t you go to Durham?” Jane asked.

  Stephen bent down beside Jane and took her hands. “Yes, I was at Harry’s Tavern, where I ran into Bear. Harry told us Bomazeen killed Widow Andrews. As soon as I h
eard, I borrowed Bear’s horse and left at once.” He told her about the rest of his night.

  “Oh, Mrs. Andrews, the poor soul,” she said hoarsely. “He must have killed her on the way here. Dear God.”

  He didn’t want to tell her the grizzly details of the killing. She’d been through enough and her nerves were still too raw. As he stood up, he realized his heart was still hammering in his chest. He took a deep breath to steady his own shaky nerves.

  After stoking the fire and making certain Jane was okay, he stepped out and scanned the woods around their home, almost hoping he would spot the bastard. If he ever got his hands on Bomazeen…

  Jane vigorously attacked the blood on the porch’s wooden planks with a bristle brush and strong lye soap. The morning sun bathed her as she worked, the good light aiding in her cleaning efforts. Wanting to rid her home of the last traces of the ordeal, she scrubbed as she had never scrubbed before. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead.

  She wished she could wash Bomazeen away from her mind as easily. She pushed a long strand of hair out of her way, so she could see more clearly. She stopped abruptly. Hair. The white hair on Bomazeen’s belt belonged to Widow Andrews. She gasped in horror. Choking back sobs as she remembered how lovely that silver white hair had been. She could see it clearly in her mind as she remembered Mrs. Andrews. “You son of a …,” she hissed aloud and smacked the porch with her wet brush. She wished she had killed Bomazeen. “You deserve to burn in hell. Burn forever. Burn without dying. I hope the first thing to burn is the hair on your head.”

  The unpleasant task completed, she stood and stared down at the scattered pieces of her treasured teacup, finding it hard to focus on them through her tears. She slowly gathered the larger pieces up in her apron, then found a shovel and buried the broken shards beneath her favorite tree.

  Returning to her bucket, she threw the dirty water as far as she could, hot angry tears pouring down her checks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  The girls, exhausted from the trauma, still slept upstairs so she took the time to wash herself, comb her hair, and change into a fresh dress and apron. Still uneasy, and with Stephen at the barn, she put her pistol back under the baby’s mattress and stuck a knife in her apron.

  Next, she cleaned off the mess Bomazeen had made of her table and washed the water bucket and dipper. She got fresh water from the cistern and started a pot of coffee before going out to the hen house, feeding the chickens, and then gathering their eggs. She appreciated how the chickens ate the bugs around the place and turned them into food for her family.

  Her sack of potatoes was still half-full and she peeled a dozen and started them frying on the iron skillet. Doing these ordinary things kept her mind busy and off her ordeal. She’d taken these simple tasks for granted in the past, but today these small chores had more meaning. She realized how close she had come to not being able to do them for her family.

  Jane finished kneading biscuits and put them in her Franklin iron furnace. Whenever she used the stove, she silently thanked Benjamin Franklin who had invented the new style of stove. It had a hood-like enclosure and an air box in the rear, allowing a fire that used a fourth of the wood used by cast iron stoves. She smiled. Stephen had saved for a year and ordered the stove for her to celebrate their fifth anniversary.

  She sat in her wooden rocker to breastfeed Mary. As the milk flowed, profound relief slowly filled her. Her baby was safe, snuggled securely against her. Only Bomazeen’s scratch across her breast remained to darken the moment. But the wound would heal soon. She cuddled Mary against her and softly kissed the baby’s head as she fed. She wanted to weep again, but this time from overwhelming relief and thankfulness.

  The delicious smell of the biscuits baking and potatoes frying with onions filled the house. The girls soon woke, calling for her. She detected fear in Martha’s voice and couldn’t blame her. But children have a way of bouncing back and she prayed they would soon forget the trials of last night.

  “It’s safe girls. Come on down now.” She pulled a well-satisfied Mary away from her breast and laid her back in the cradle.

  The girls slowly descended the stairs. Martha held the hands of both her sisters. They peered wide-eyed, warily looking around the room.

  She went to them, hugging, and kissing each one. “Don’t worry, your father came back early this morning with Uncle Sam. He’s out at the stable now feeding the livestock,” Jane said. She deliberately didn’t mention Bomazeen or that Sam was tracking him.

  “Are you okay Mama?”

  Martha asked the question so sweetly it made her want to weep again. She turned away from her daughters so they could not see her eyes brighten with tears. “Yes, dear. I’m just tired. Will you girls help me with baby Mary? Her cloth needs changing and I’m done feeding her now.” She hoped taking care of their baby sister would help the girls get back to normal. She needed to talk to them about the ordeal, but she wasn’t ready just yet. Soon, but not now.

  How long would it take to get over the wound Bomazeen inflicted on her mind? Maybe it would eventually just be an ugly scar. That was the irony of it. Physical injuries often heal with little or no permanent damage. But traumas of the mind are not so easily erased. Some never go away. They are always there, just below the surface, capable of returning unbidden with fresh intensity and pain. She stirred the potatoes and banged the wooden spoon against the side of the pan so hard it cracked.

  Stephen unsaddled Bear’s horse. After their long journey, the worn out mount would need a good rest. Scowling as he worked, he tugged at the saddle leathers more aggressively than needed, releasing the girth. The gelding sidestepped and he realized that he was making the poor tired animal nervous. He stroked the horse’s neck soothingly and then got him a generous portion of feed and fresh water.

  He paced across the barn, as an icy apprehension twisted around his heart. He wasn’t worried for Sam. It was unlikely his brother could catch up to Bomazeen, and if he did, it was Bomazeen that needed to worry.

  What had his stomach in knots was that Jane had only wounded Bomazeen. The fiend will likely come back for her. The threat wasn’t over. It was worse now. Men like Bomazeen don’t give up.

  Well he didn’t either. He would find a way to keep her safe.

  CHAPTER 8

  As the sun contemplated setting, Bear pulled up, the wagon team covered in sweat and breathing hard. “I pushed them as much as I dared. Is everything all right here?” Bear yelled.

  Stephen had been waiting alone for Bear on his porch, thinking through their predicament. He did not want to worry Jane. She had endured enough already.

  “Jane and the girls are safe, but no,” he said, coming down the porch steps. “I’ll explain later.” Thankfully, Bear didn’t press him.

  They unloaded the supplies—seed, coffee, flour, cornmeal, honey, salt, cheese, oats, and the cloth for Jane.

  “Hope she’ll be likin’ the fabric. ‘Twas the first time I ever bought cloth. And I surely hope it will be the last,” Bear said.

  Stephen grimaced, remembering Jane’s torn dress and what nearly happened to his wife. She would need the new cloth to replace the torn gown. Cackling chickens scattered out of their way as the two men took the wagon and feed to the barn, then stacked the sacks in neat piles. His barn was more orderly than most, and he took pride in its upkeep.

  “I’m in your debt Bear for bringing our supplies and for the loan of your horse,” he said as they finished unhitching and caring for the wagon team.

  “’Tis my pleasure to be of service,” Bear said. “Tell me what’s happened then. I can tell ye’re worried.”

  “Bomazeen,” Stephen snarled. “He was here and tried to steal Jane and Martha.” The words made him want to choke. “He nearly had his way with my wife and wanted to trade her to the Pennacook Chief. He would have killed the three youngest. Jane managed to sneak out her pistol and she shot the bloody bastard.”

  “She killed him?” Bear asked, h
is eyes widening.

  “She thought he was dead, and drug him outside, but the bullet must have just grazed him. Someone helped him and they left on horseback. Sam went after them. He’s been gone since early this morning. He wanted you to follow him, but you’ll have to wait until morning. It’ll be dark in less than an hour, impossible to follow their tracks.”

  “Och! The men of this state have tried to track that beast through the woods for years and Jane manages to shoot him,” Bear marveled.

  “I’m afraid she’s in danger. Bomazeen will come back for her.”

  “Aye. Disease decimated many of the Pennacooks. Not many remain in the White Mountains. Smallpox killed most of the women of the tribe last year. I just heard in Durham yesterday that they started raidin’ from here to the Canadian border, takin’ women captive. They’re difficult to stop because they sneak in and out quickly, leavin’ nothin’ to follow. These natives like strong women. They do most of the work and tend the crops. Aye, the threat is real. The Chief could send Bomazeen and more braves after her again. I’ll stay with you until we know ‘tis safe,” Bear offered.

  Stephen had little respect for some of the Algonquian tribes. He had heard many stories from Sam. On more than one occasion, Sam saw them fight alongside the British during the Revolution. During a battle in the Mohawk Valley, decimated Continental troops suffered more than 400 casualties, many at the hands of the natives. Sam had not forgotten, and neither had he. But, he also knew that other natives had helped many colonists. Some built trusted relations with them and even owed their lives to the aid provided by friendly Indians. But the British purposely tore through those bonds of trust and kept tensions high, making peaceful relations with the tribes difficult. And it rankled him that men like Bomazeen kept the pot stirred, sometimes to over boiling.

  “I’m not sure it’s ever going to be safe,” Stephen said. “The British continue to arm these natives and encourage them to resist us. You’re right, they are exceedingly difficult to fight—they grab women quickly and then disappear without a trace. Bomazeen targeted Jane for the Chief. The fact that she shot a man like Bomazeen will only make her more desirable to the Chief. Bomazeen’s wounded pride will make him come after her as soon as he’s able.”