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

by Dorothy Wiley

  “But Uncle Sam, I didn’t get to say it before they died,” Martha cried. “And now I can never talk to them again. Never, ever, ever again.”

  Stephen stood nearby listening to the conversation. It broke his heart even further.

  “Talk to them now honey,” Sam said.

  “But they won’t hear me,” she wailed.

  “Those dear to us can always hear us, even from heaven. Your love for them makes that happen. Believe me, because I know it’s true.”

  “Truly?” Martha whimpered. “They can hear us in heaven?”

  “Only the ones we love. They’ll hear you. Talk to them, we’ll wait,” Sam said.

  Sam took Little John and Polly aside to give Martha time to say goodbye. He picked up Polly, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “Children need to say their goodbyes too,” Sam said.

  As Stephen stood there, time seemed to pass in slow motion. His whole world felt like it was coming to a stop.

  After a few long minutes, Little John went to Martha’s side and put his arm around her shoulder. Slowly they turned, his arm still comforting her until they joined Sam.

  “Let’s go see if we can help your mother,” Sam said. “She’s going to need our help a lot for a while. Can you girls and you Little John do that?”

  “Yes Sir,” all three said in unison.

  Stephen watched as Bear stood over the grave and stared down. Bear had cherished the girls like his own. Nearby, stood the stack of rocks they had gathered to cover the earth and a large stone he would use to mark the grave.

  Bear had spent hours that day carving the name Wyllie into the stone along with the beautiful Celtic symbol of everlasting love, the Serch Bythol. The design consisted of knots and two trinities. Bear placed the trinities side by side, bonded by a circle showing eternal love, signifying two people joined in everlasting love for eternity. Both Stephen and Jane’s ancestors were from Scotland and the embellishment brought him some measure of comfort. Stephen also believed that the two girls would be joined in God’s everlasting love and that brought him the most comfort.

  Silently, he said goodbye to his daughters for the last time. He swore Sam was right—it felt like they could still hear him.

  He nodded for Bear to proceed.

  “It would be my honor to do this,” Bear said. “Ye do na have to.”

  “Yes, I most definitely have to,” he choked out.

  Bear picked up two spades, handing one to Stephen. He began to fill the grave with earth, forcing his hand to turn the first blade full of dirt into the grave. As the earth slipped slowly off the shovel, sharp grief dug a hole in his heart. By the time they had finished, he felt as if he had no heart.

  He lovingly patted the soft dirt smooth before reaching for the first rock.

  Big tears dampened the earth of the small grave.

  CHAPTER 24

  For several days, Jane could not speak to anyone of her sadness, as though speaking of it would make it happen all over again. When she did try to talk to someone, even with Stephen, no words would come, only tears. Her feelings were still too raw to voice.

  Instead, she floated in daydreams of their farmhouse and the surrounding rolling hills and stunning mountains. They had been so happy there. Motherhood was joyous and warm, not something frozen by grief’s bitter sadness. But that wonderful life and two adorable daughters were gone. Gone forever. Nothing would change that. No matter how hard she tried, she could feel nothing but helpless despair.

  A week later Jane wrote, I have never known such sorrow. I feel like my heart is bleeding within me. My two babies are gone—snatched from my arms by a murderous thief I could not defend them against. How can you fight something you cannot see?

  I had to leave them alone, behind me. I hate that thought. Almost as much as losing them.

  At least they have each other.

  I sat up with them that last night. I knew it would be my last chance to be with them. The others didn’t know I went back to their….she could hardly make herself write the word…grave, after we had all gone to bed. Bear must have seen me leave camp. He quietly stood guard over me all night, just a few yards away. He had carved their headstone with a beautiful symbol of everlasting love. I told my girls, there by their tiny resting place, how much I would miss them. I told them not to blame their father—that they were precious to him and they would always be so. I told them that nothing could ever separate them from our hearts and from our love.

  I will be forever grateful to Bear for his vigil, for giving me peace of mind while I spent that one last night with my daughters.

  I can’t talk to Stephen. I feel like I have lost him too. At first, I wanted him to hold me. He tried, and I pushed him away. Several times. Now, it’s too late. He’s stopped trying. It’s just as well—I don’t want to even speak to him, to learn how bitter I have become. I cannot believe what is happening to me. I am beginning to blame him, and that is making me hate myself.

  I’m also frightened. I am afraid to have the baby I carry. I fear I will lose him too if we keep on with this difficult journey. We should never have left our happy home. If we hadn’t, I’d still have all my babies and a home for our son. Now I have neither.

  Stephen stayed away from all of them as much as possible. Normally laconic, the past week he had been even quieter, barely speaking at all. Sam had tried to reach out to him several times, but he wanted none of it. His mind remained tormented by guilt, and nothing Sam could say would change that. But it seemed his big brother would not give up easily.

  Leading Alex, with a bright morning sun at his back, Sam strode up to him as he was saddling George.

  “From what I recall of what Possum Clark said, we might encounter Cherokee up ahead,” Sam said.

  Stephen tightened the cinch, tugging it tighter when the stallion let out a breath. “Then I’ll keep both eyes open and both pistols loaded,” he said, more sharply than he intended. He buckled the strap. “How’s the ankle?”

  “Doesn’t hurt, but I still can’t put my full weight on it. It’s almost there though. I’ll manage.”

  They mounted their horses and settled into their saddles. “You need to pay more attention to Jane. She’s hurting too. I know you are having a hard time, barely able to handle your own grief, let alone hers too, but you need to share your pain, so she can share hers with you. If you don’t, there’s a real chance she’ll become even more melancholy, maybe never get over this.”

  “She’s made it clear she wants to be left alone. She’s strong. She’ll be fine in time,” Stephen said. He pushed his hat on firmly and rode on, staying well ahead of the others, listening to the rhythmic sound of George walking and the creaking of saddle leather. His groaning heart felt like leather too. He had to do something to reach her.

  Stephen strolled with Martha beside him, glad he had agreed to the walk with her that evening. There is something important about walking with your child. It’s the kind of simple thing you remember years later, when memories of bigger events fade.

  They had decided to pick flowers for Jane to try to cheer her up. Martha knew her mother still suffered terribly and she thought the flowers might help.

  He held Martha’s small hand. It seemed so soft and fragile. He clearly remembered the first time he held the tiny hand of his first daughter—the fatherly pride that filled him and the sudden need to create a substantial future for her. A child has a way of making a man want to do something important with his life.

  Their stroll triggered another memory. Sam Senior had made a special effort to take his youngest son out with him as he made his daily survey of their farm and the rugged hills surrounding it. For Stephen, this was always a special time with his father. Something only the two of them did together. His father never asked the older boys to come along. Perhaps because he understood how much more Stephen loved the land than the others did. Maybe his father had seen the passion Stephen felt for their homeplace as he rode bareback through the
ir pasture. Or had the man seen the pure joy in his eyes when his father gave him his first colt? Or the awe on his face as together they watched a calf being born?

  Together, they had watched the new calf find the tits of its mother, and his father had told him of the importance of land. He could still remember his words: “As is customary, your oldest brother Sam will inherit our family acreage. But you must find a place on this good earth to call your own. For each man, there is a special woman for him alone. And, I believe, there is also a piece of earth that is yours alone. You must find it. You may not find it here. Land is hard to come by and taxes get worse every year. But find it you must or you will never be the man you’re supposed to be.”

  He never forgot. He could still almost feel his father’s big strong farmer’s hand and smell the good earth on him. And his father’s words would be forever etched in his mind. He touched the pouch of soil inside his coat.

  He studied Martha’s hand. Would she be able to walk on her own land with her own child someday and hold the small hand of another generation? Could he keep her safe until then? He had to. He would do whatever it took to ensure that future for her. He promised himself he would let no harm come to her. Ever.

  And he absolutely would succeed in this quest for land. The need for land was not his alone—it spanned three generations. For his father, for himself, for his children, he had to find their land.

  He noticed Martha taking two steps for every one of his, so he slowed his pace. He couldn’t believe he had come so close to losing her too to that devil Bomazeen. Ugly emotions rose quickly to the surface of his mind, like an over-filled pot about to boil over. He swallowed hard, struggling to regain control of his already volatile emotions.

  “Some pretty ones are over there Father,” Martha said, pointing to a cluster of wild yellow daisies.

  “Yes, your mother would fancy those. Pick some, but watch for snakes.”

  She gently picked them, one by one, and carefully formed a large bouquet.

  “It was sweet of you to think of doing this for your Mother,” he said as they strolled back to camp. As guilt rose up in his chest, he lowered his head and eyes, sorry that he hadn’t tried to do more for Jane himself.

  He hadn’t even been able to talk to her. Even looking at her was hard—the fiery sparkle of her green eyes extinguished. Whenever their eyes met, she looked back at him with the unfocused stare of those helpless against death’s terrible power.

  “She’s still sad,” Martha said.

  “We all are.”

  “When will we stop being sad?”

  “Some of us will feel better soon. Some will take longer.”

  “I think you will be longer,” she said.

  He knelt and hugged her, a tear slipping out of his eyes. Martha was right.

  Stephen returned to the campsite irritated with himself because he hadn’t tried to help Jane. “Stop sharpening that knife,” he snapped at Sam. “It’s sharp enough to slice through solid rock.”

  But just how to help her still eluded him. He remembered hearing the wagon squeaking that day. His fists tightened around the wheel’s rim. “Let’s get this noisy wheel fixed,” he told John. Bear and William had gone off to hunt the evening’s meal. “It makes a grinding noise that’s probably annoying Jane. Right now I need to do all I can to ease her mind.”

  “Just needs some grease,” John suggested.

  As he reached into the supply box to get it, an arrow whizzed past John hitting the supply box lid, missing him by a finger’s width. John crouched by the wheel and grabbed his rifle.

  Another arrow sang through the air pinning Stephen’s arm to the side of the wagon. He howled in pain and clenched his teeth. He tried to yank his arm away from the arrow. His flesh began to tear. His skin and the sturdy wool cloth of his jacket were pinned securely.

  “Jane, get the children under cover. Indians!” Stephen yelled. Jane was on the other side of the wagon somewhere and he had to get to her soon, but the arrow had him trapped and exposed.

  He turned in the direction the arrows had come from and spotted an Indian pulling back his bow.

  “Cherokee,” Sam yelled as he aimed his rifle.

  The arrow slammed into the wheel, narrowly missing Stephen’s leg.

  Sam fired and the brave went down. “John, give me cover while I free Stephen.” Sam jumped up and used his knife, slicing through the center of the arrow as if it was made of paper. Then Sam grabbed the arrow and yanked it out of the wood.

  He gasped as his arm came free and fell to the ground, the arrowhead’s shaft still embedded in his skin. The arrow had pierced the underside of his left arm below his bicep. Sweat pooled on his face as he fought against the burning sting splaying around the arm’s muscles like the teeth of a trap.

  A brave stood up from his cover in the trees.

  John fired, but missed.

  Jane admired the bouquet Martha had given her just minutes ago. She inhaled the lovely sweet scent, savoring the fragrance. The flowers had softened the pain in her heart, as Martha had hoped. The bright yellow petals made her smile despite herself.

  Then she heard Sam’s warning and glanced up.

  She first noticed the Indian’s eyes—gleaming with the eager anticipation of a warrior about to make a kill. She could smell the wild scent of him—a scent raw and savage—more terrifying to her than the tomahawk coming for her head because…he smelled like Bomazeen. The scent paralyzed her.

  Time froze.

  She thought of seeing Mary and Amy again. She could almost see them both between herself and the Indian. She wanted to reach out, to run her finger along their soft cheeks. She wanted to hug them to her chest. Her breast ached for her baby.

  She saw William fire his pistol into the brave’s back, then he was rushing toward her, while Bear kept his rifle pointed at the dense timber.

  The force of a bullet threw the brave forward. His head landed facedown at her feet. Blood oozed from the bullet’s hole.

  For some reason, the flowers were falling from her hand, scattering over the dead Indian’s back.

  She could do nothing more than stare at the petals, some of them now being covered by the brave’s blood, turning the cheery yellow petals the color of death.

  Jane suddenly realized what was happening. William grabbed her as terror struck.

  Stephen sighed a breath of relief as William carried Jane to the back of the wagon and nearly hurled her inside. He and Bear must have raced back to camp when they heard shots fired.

  “How many more are there,” William yelled. “I just killed one behind you. Bear and I have our backside covered.”

  “We’ve shot two on this side,” Sam yelled back as he and John finished reloading. Then Sam grabbed the arrow in Stephen’s arm, broke off the arrowhead and yanked the remaining shaft through the other side of the arm.

  Stephen clenched his teeth tightly at the pain. Another arrow whizzed by. This was no time to think about his wound. Ignoring the pain, he grabbed his rifle.

  “There’s at least one more,” Sam hissed, turning his rifle towards the woods.

  Stephen could not balance his rifle to aim because of his wound. He pulled his pistols instead, but knew they would only be effective at close range.

  “Stephen, the children are washing up at the creek,” Jane yelled, desperation thick in her voice. “My God, I just sent Martha to join them.” She jumped out of the wagon, about to dash toward the children.

  Stephen lunged and grabbed her, jerking her back.

  “No, let me go!” Jane shrieked, struggling to free herself from his tight grip.

  “Stay with William,” he yelled. “I’m going.” Ignoring the intense throbbing in his arm, he ran in the direction of the children, his pistols still drawn. He fired one within seconds as a Cherokee, hidden behind a large cluster of boulders, jumped toward him.

  Behind him, Stephen heard more shots, but he still ran toward the creek with all the strength he could find in his
legs. He had to reach Martha, and the other children, before the Cherokee did. Only an hour before, while they walked, he had promised himself he would keep her safe. He would keep his promise, or die trying.

  As he came over the rise, the children ran, with Martha in the lead, toward him. Crying and desperately clutching her old doll, Polly fell. Martha ran back for her and helped her along.

  As soon as he reached the children, Stephen grabbed all three around him and tucked them behind him. He tried to reload his pistol, but blood dripped down his arm, covering the weapon’s grip, making it slippery. As he struggled with the weapon, John and Bear ran up, pistols drawn. The two men took a protective stance around the children and Stephen, their weapons pointed toward the trees.

  “Sam and William stayed with Jane,” John said. “Are there any more of them?”

  “I’ve only seen the one I shot. Tried to come up behind us,” he answered, breathing hard. “Any more at the camp?” Stephen scanned the woods and creek for further signs of the attackers.

  “Haven’t heard any more shots,” John said. He put his arm around Little John’s shoulder and hauled his son behind his long legs.

  “Maybe ‘twas a huntin’ party that stumbled on us,” Bear said.

  “Is Mama all right?” Martha whimpered.

  “Aye, William saved her,” Bear said.

  Thank God, Stephen thought. He wanted to get back to her as soon as he could. He grabbed Martha’s hand and picked up Polly with his uninjured arm. “Let’s get moving, now!”

  “If it was a hunting party, we’re na far from more of them,” Bear warned.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Stephen barked.

  It was late into the night before they finally stopped. They picked a location for their camp that gave them some protection from the rear and good visibility from the front. As soon as they were settled, Stephen sat on Jane’s trunk and by the light of a small oil lamp, she cleaned the caked blood from his wound and applied hot whiskey, ointment and bandages. But neither spoke to the other as she worked. As the silence lengthened between them, he grew more uncomfortable. It felt far worse than his wound.