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

by Dorothy Wiley

  Despite these hardships, we are also blessed. I have not told Stephen yet, but I am with child. I know our daughters are precious to him beyond measure, but I pray this time we will have the son I know he desires. I know being with child will make this trip more difficult for me, but children come in God’s time, not ours.

  Jane closed the journal, put aside the ink and quill, then leaned back against a Sycamore tree. A cool breeze wafted over her face, blowing wisps of her hair against her ears and neck. Baby Mary slept next to her knee. A patchwork quilt covered the damp ground beneath them. She enjoyed just watching the little beauty sleep. She thought about Stephen and how handsome he looked when he was asleep—when his cares and ambition did not burden his fine face. Her cheeks and neck heated as an overwhelming urge to kiss him suddenly seized her. And she wanted to feel his strong arms around her. To love him. But their lack of privacy made being amorous rare and beyond difficult. Soon, she promised herself.

  She inhaled deeply, taking in the soothing earthy fragrance of this tranquil place, and let her breath out slowly. These few moments to rest and record her thoughts were precious and she savored the serenity.

  But the moment’s quiet peace did not last long.

  Martha ran up. “Mama, Uncle Sam said to fetch you. Amy’s face is red and her eyes look strange.”

  She quickly gathered Mary and the quilt in her arm, grabbed the journal and ink, and hurried with Martha to Sam.

  Sam rested against his saddle, holding Amy, her head leaning against his broad shoulder. Amy’s tiny fingers played listlessly with the fringe of his buckskin shirt.

  “She wandered over here a little bit ago and climbed on my lap. Knew she was sick as soon as she sat down,” Sam said, concerned.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?” Jane asked, feeling Amy’s forehead. Her daughter felt blistery hot and red patches covered her cheeks and neck. Jane tried not to show Amy the fear that gripped her heart. The child was quite ill.

  She climbed into her wagon to lay Mary down and went back for Amy. She put Amy next to Mary on the pallet the girls used, then stuck her head out the back. “Get your father,” she told Martha, who stood with Polly nearby.

  “What’s wrong?” Stephen asked, peering inside the wagon, the moment he reached it.

  “Girls, take the bucket and get some water so I can make a broth for Amy,” Jane told Martha and Polly, before answering.

  As soon as they were alone, her eyes burned with tears wanting to fall. “Dear God, Stephen, Amy’s burning up and shaking with chills. I don’t know if its exposure to all these rain storms or yellow fever. I just know she is terribly ill.”

  “Yellow fever? It killed thousands in Philadelphia a few years ago. It can’t be that. She just has a chill is all,” Stephen said firmly, dismissing the notion.

  “Remember the symptoms of Yellow Fever, fever and chills? Exactly what she has. It killed indiscriminately. Some got it while others in the same family didn’t.” Biting her lip, she turned her eyes back on her daughter. Her mood veered sharply from worry to anger. “I’ll make her some herb and oak bark tea. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Stephen climbed inside, and felt Amy’s face. “I’ll sit with Mary and Amy while you find and mix the herbs.”

  This time she detected worry in his voice and it alarmed her.

  Jane quickly put some of the water on to boil and took the rest to the wagon to wipe Amy down. She removed her girl’s dress and mopped her body with the cool cloth, then handed the rag to Stephen.

  “Keep wiping her down, especially her forehead,” she told Stephen. “I’ll go brew the tea.”

  While Jane made the herb tea, Stephen stayed with Amy. His girls had never been seriously ill before and the shadow of worry hung over him. Before long, a dread—dark and terrifying—crept into him. He tried to ban it, but couldn’t. He began to pray.

  The sound of trotting horses lifted him back from the retreat of prayer. He wiped Amy’s forehead before climbing out of the wagon.

  “Hope John’s luckier than we were,” William said, as he and Bear dismounted.

  “Amy’s ill,” Stephen said at once.

  “How bad?” William asked.

  “I don’t know. She has a bad fever. John’s down at the creek. Tell him he’ll need to cook the fish he catches for dinner so Jane can tend to Amy.”

  Bear’s bushy eyebrows grew closer and his face looked troubled before he said, “I’ll tell him, and I’ll water these thirsty horses too.”

  “Can I do anything?” William asked.

  “Pray,” he answered.

  Jane brought the tea to the girls and then yelled, “Stephen, come here.”

  He didn’t like the desperate sound of her voice. He and William both jumped to the back of the wagon and looked in.

  “Mary’s getting warm too. Feel her,” Jane cried, moving the baby closer so he could reach her. “God, why?”

  He ran his palm over Mary’s little head, indeed quite warm. “Jane, just do your best. That’s all you can do,” he said, trying his best to calm her, despite his own rising panic. He glanced back at Martha and Polly who stood nearby. “Help Uncle John get dinner ready,” he told them.

  “I’ll make coffee and bring you both some,” William offered.

  Stephen climbed back into the wagon. “Here, let me hold Mary while you wipe down Amy. When did Amy go to sleep?”

  “A few minutes ago. The fever made her drowsy. The tea didn’t help,” Jane said, panic entering her voice. “What if she doesn’t wake up?”

  “Give it time. She just drank it. Can the baby take any?”

  “Yes. Here’s her baby cup. She just started drinking from it this week.”

  Stephen was sorry he hadn’t noticed that. He gently held the little pewter cup to the toddler’s lips. What a beautiful girl. Had he taken the time to notice even that before now? Mary’s red curls hung damp and limp as the fever climbed. Her eyes studied his face—eyes that somehow knew he was trying to help her. She took a small sip. Jane had flavored it with honey and Mary seemed to like it. After taking another swallow, she managed a weak smile up at him. Then, cradled in his arms, she too fell asleep. He laid Mary down and covered her with a warm blanket to keep the chills at bay, before returning to the others.

  He didn’t want to eat, but tried to bring Jane some food. She refused it and he returned to the campfire. John fed fresh fish to the rest of the group. After dinner, Little John, Martha, and Polly snuggled by the fire as John read to them. Within minutes, all three children slept soundly and Stephen covered them with blankets and tucked them in.

  Sam, William, Bear, and John decided to alternate sentry duty to keep a careful watch over their camp. Now that they were in unfamiliar country, unsure of what they might encounter, at least one of them would be awake at all times.

  He rejoined Jane and the night stretched endlessly. The dark sky matched their growing despair as they grimly watched both daughters slowly slipping away. Mary’s breathing grew slow and shallow and fever burned red through her face.

  Amy began coughing and as the night progressed, the cough worsened. “Mama, Mama,” she whimpered repeatedly, each time tearing at his heart.

  Jane stared grim-faced at him. “I can’t believe they’re both so sick at the same time.” She started to cry, unable to hold back her tears of worry any longer.

  Helplessness made him miserable. With each passing hour, his sense of vulnerability grew, like a black hole growing bigger and darker, pulling their daughters away.

  He sensed Jane struggling to remain calm, but as she caressed Mary’s sweet face with the gentle hand of a loving mother, her face suddenly contorted with fear. “She’s barely breathing,” Jane cried out, desperately cradling Mary against her breast.

  He looked on, numb with dread, powerless to help. He dropped to his knees, bowed his head. His spirit reached for God. “Lord don’t. Please do not take her. Not this little one. She has lived but one short year. If someone must die on t
his trip, let it be me, not these innocents. Let it be me who pays for my dreams.”

  Tears slipping down his cheeks, he turned his eyes to Jane. What he saw on her face filled him with terror. He grabbed Jane, wrapping his arms around both her and Mary, desperately hugging them both to his chest.

  The tears of both parents fell on their dead daughter.

  Grief exploded through his mind and body, nearly blowing him apart. But for Amy’s sake, he would not let this nightmare consume him, not yet. He forced himself to throttle his emotions. They had to find a way to save Amy. He helped Jane, who cried continuously, wipe Amy’s forehead with a cool cloth more times than he could count. He prayed without ceasing. He held the tiny hand of the three-year-old in his own, as Jane talked to her, trying to keep her alert, trying to soothe all their fears.

  “Mama, I see…,” Amy said, barely above a whisper.

  “See what my darling?” Jane asked, looking into their daughter’s dimming eyes.

  “Look,” Amy said, raising just a finger to point. “It’s baby Mary.”

  Her sister’s name would be the last thing Amy would ever say. She died just before dawn.

  Overwhelmed with soul-breaking sorrow, Stephen stumbled from the back of the wagon, nearly collapsing to the ground. He could not bring himself to tell the others. He didn’t have to. Sam, John, William, and Bear, already awake and waiting nearby, knew as they listened to Jane’s terrible wailing cries. They grabbed him to keep him from falling. Bear put an arm around his shoulders and nearly carried him to the cook fire. William poured him a cup of coffee. He shook his head, refusing it.

  He stared into the fire, and gave his mind up to the shock and horror.

  His brothers did their best to console him and comfort Jane. But there was no solace, only pain—overwhelming heart-crushing sorrow. And nothing they could do would change that.

  Losing two daughters in the same night was beyond brutal. It was misery incarnate. Here, in person, trying its best to conquer him. He sensed its presence, clawing, grabbing for him, wanting to take his soul to dark foul places. He didn’t know how to fight back.

  And misery found yet another tactic for torture. Watching Jane suffer. Hearing her weep broke his heart. He couldn’t stand to see her consumed by sadness. He thought she might cry herself blind. Helpless, this was the one time he could not be her hero. He didn’t know how to help her. He couldn’t help her.

  As the sun rose, so did his anger. He wanted to lash out at somebody, especially himself. “Edward was right. God is punishing me. I wasn’t satisfied with what I had. Edward warned us this would happen. Why didn’t I listen?” he yelled at his brothers. “Why didn’t you make me listen?”

  “You are not being punished,” John said.

  Unable to bear hearing Jane weep any longer, and afraid he would scare the other children with his anger and grief, Stephen took off on foot. But each step away from her only made him feel worse. He should be by her side, but he needed time to figure out how to help her. How to help them both.

  He hurried toward the woods. He started to run. He wanted to be alone, completely alone, to flee from misery, before it possessed him completely. He ran as fast as he could, winding through the trees, his feelings taking control of him—his mental strength weakening by the moment. He wasn’t used to losing control. But, overcome by the depth and strength of his grief, he did lose control, even of his body. He fell to his knees, unable to take another step.

  His head threatened to explode. His stomach rolled inside him. He wanted to vomit but couldn’t. He wanted to scream and did—from deep within—the scream of a heart ripping apart from grief. He clawed at the earth and then beat the ground repeatedly with his fists, sobbing uncontrollably for the first time in his adult life.

  “I’m so sorry, so sorry, so sorry,” he wailed repeatedly, his fists grabbing again at the ground. “This is my fault. What have I done? Amy forgive me. Mary forgive me,” he pleaded, looking through tears at first one and then the other handful of dirt he held in each hand. “I gave you up for dirt in some faraway place. Was it that important?”

  Never feeling more miserable or alone, he collapsed, lying on his side, giving in to grief and exhaustion. His fists still tightly held dirt in each hand, just enough to bury him in guilt.

  “Forgive me, but I believe God wants me to speak to you,” John said quietly, walking up behind him.

  He stood at once. He fists clenched at his sides, his mouth contorting in a rage of fresh grief. “Leave me,” he growled, pointing away. “Leave now!”

  “I will not leave you.”

  “I don’t want you here. Go! Go comfort Jane—she needs you more than I.”

  “Stephen, remember the story of Job. God may allow you to suffer, but he will never forsake you. But, neither can you forsake Him. The one thing you feared the most has happened. Their safety was the only hesitation you had in deciding to come. I know Edward’s words haunt you now. But he was wrong. We cannot live in fear, securing ourselves from perils and avoiding the life we are destined to lead. Sam’s right—danger is a part of life. The part that makes life real. You were destined to make this trip. That was God’s will. We cannot question His wisdom. Your girls were gifts from Him but only for a short while. We will never know why. Only He knows how much time each of us has on this earth.”

  “Damn it, I shouldn’t have brought them. They could have stayed with Edward until it was safe. Now it’s too late, too late to keep them safe.”

  “The girls would have been miserable without you. We all decided this together, you, Jane, and the rest of us. Do not put it all on you. Even your broad shoulders need not carry the responsibility of all our decisions. We are all a part of this—and we will stand together, through whatever tribulations we must endure.”

  “I don’t have the strength.”

  “You don’t have to,” John said, “just have the faith.”

  John wrapped an arm around his shoulders and gently turned him back toward their camp. He let the dirt in his hands slowly slip through his fingers.

  “Faith,” he whispered, as he began the long walk back to his wife and...two daughters.

  CHAPTER 23

  That afternoon, Jane slowly climbed into her wagon, dreading what she must do. John had offered, but she refused his help. They were her babies and she would take care of them.

  She redressed Amy, and then carefully placed each child in soft cloth. She kissed their foreheads and studied each of their faces one last time before she forced her trembling hands to cover their heads with the shroud.

  Her tears fell repeatedly on the fabric as she shakily wrapped them.

  “I’m sorry. My kisses weren’t enough,” she whispered, her lips quivering, and her heart breaking into two halves—one for each of her departed daughters.

  Bear dug a single tiny grave to hold both of them under a majestic old pine. He lined the bottom of the grave with pine needles, making a soft bed for them. When Bear finished, Stephen turned to find Jane.

  “It’s time,” Stephen gently whispered to her.

  He helped her climb out of the wagon. She seemed on the verge of collapsing, but he saw her force herself to straighten her back and steady her breath. She gripped his hands as though she were desperate for his strength. She would need his strength this day. He would have to have enough for both of them.

  Bear carried Amy and William carried baby Mary. Behind them, John escorted Stephen and Jane, his long arms wrapped around each of them. Sam and the children followed slowly.

  He stared at the empty grave as they approached. It waited eerily—for his daughters. Waited for them to fill it with two young lives—lives taken away from him forever. It was the worst thing he had ever set his eyes upon. He hated it.

  Bear laid Amy in first and then William gently put Mary next to her.

  John removed his hat, as did the other men. “Grief such as this has no cure, only a dulling brought on by time,” John said. “Do not blame God.
He does not cause innocents suffering and affliction. His enemy does. Because he wants to stop us from carrying out God’s will. I pray that this experience will only strengthen our faith. For we know that through terrible times, God never leaves us. Though we may lose members of our family, we never lose Him. We believe it is His will for us to go to Kentucky. We will get there, no matter what obstacles fall in our way or what sadness we must overcome. These two angels are His now, no longer ours. He will care for them and protect them far better than we can. Stephen and Jane, you will be together again with your daughters in His Kingdom and in His time. Until that time, Lord bless them. Amen. Let us sing.”

  “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;

  Praise him, all creatures here below;

  Praise him above, ye heavenly host; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

  Stephen couldn’t sing. Neither could Jane. As the sorrowful group sang the old hymn, he watched as his wife slipped away.

  As Bear and William began gathering nearby rocks, the surrounding forest stood eerily quiet, as though all creatures had indeed heard the old hymn.

  Stephen could only watch.

  Sam held the hands of his other two girls, who probably had only a vague understanding of what they just witnessed. “Mary and Amy are in heaven,” Sam told the children. “All believers will go there. Some have to go sooner than expected.”

  “But I want to play with Amy,” Polly said, her face reflecting the confusion of grief.

  “We have to wait till we’re together in heaven,” Martha gently explained.

  Tears slid down Martha’s cheeks, despite how brave she was trying to be.

  Sam leaned down on his cane and looked directly at her. “Your baby sisters loved you. They knew that you loved them too.”