by Tina Susedik
Table of Contents
THE TRAIL TO LOVE
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
THE TRAIL TO LOVE
The Soul Mate Tree
TINA SUSEDIK
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
THE TRAIL TO LOVE
Copyright©2017
TINA SUSEDIK
Cover Design by Wren Taylor
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-68291-307-9
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To my granddaughters,
Alli and Emmi.
Thank you for your help in researching,
coming up with character names,
and plotting.
I look forward to when
you’re old enough to read the book.
And to Alli,
who said what she was able to read
sounded like a movie.
Wouldn’t that be great if it was a movie?
I love you both. TiTi.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to our editor extraordinaires, Char Chaffin and Cheryl Yeko for your fantastic idea for The Soul Mate Tree and for inviting me to be part of this great project. Your poem was wonderful. I hope The Soul Mate Tree goes on and on and on . . .
THE LEGEND OF THE SOUL MATE TREE
I am old, I am ancient,
my purpose is clear
To give those who are needy
a treasure so dear.
They who come to my roots,
touch my bark, stroke my leaves
Find the soul of their lives
if they but believe.
When I call and you listen,
your prize will be great
If your heart remains open
and you don’t hesitate.
Do you yearn? Be you lonely?
Is your time yet at hand?
Reach for me and I’ll give to you.
I’m yours to command.
For your trust, for your faith,
keep my secrets untold
And I’ll gift you forever,
to have and to hold.
Chapter 1
Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory
May, 1854
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t cry. Jack Billabard wished he could put his wide-brimmed hat back on and tug the brim lower, covering his eyes from the small gathering of mourners. He studied the ground at his feet, hat clutched in his hand. No way in hell was he going to show weakness by sobbing out his broken heart.
After all, men didn’t cry. Men didn’t show love or pain, not in public anyway. They buried it deep inside, like the coffin being lowered by ropes into the dark earth in the small cemetery outside the walls of Fort Laramie. The coffin bearing his wife and newly born son.
Jack burrowed his nails into his palms and dug his teeth into his bottom lip. Concentrate on the physical pain. Hide the emotion. How was he supposed to drop the first handful of dirt on the wooden box? How was he supposed to walk away without flinging himself on top of his beloved Lily and the son he never had a chance to hold?
“Sir?” The traveling minister tapped him on the arm.
Jack blinked back the tears he’d tried so hard to stop and took a handful of dirt from the pile alongside the gaping hole. The echo of it hitting the top of the coffin would forever be ingrained in his mind.
“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust,” the minister intoned. “The Lord bless you and keep you, and give you peace.”
Jack ground his teeth harder against his bottom lip. For the rest of his life, he’d never know another moment of peace. Never again would he give his heart to a woman, only to have it shattered to pieces. Never again would he get a woman with child, only to see her suffer and die in labor.
Casey tugged on his elbow. “C’mon, Jack,” his good friend said. “You don’t need to stay here. Let’s go get a drink.”
With one last look at the coffin holding the precious lives torn from him, Jack slapped his black hat on his head. “No. A drink is the last thing I need.” If he started, he might never stop.
“Whatcha gonna do?” Casey dogged Jack’s footsteps to the row of trees where they’d tethered their horses.
Jack untied Papaya’s reins. “I’m heading back to my place.” His heart squeezed. My place. Not ours anymore.
“All alone? Don’t ya want company?”
“I’m sorry, Casey. I appreciate it, but I need to be alone.” Jack swung his leg over the saddle. How could a man, even a best friend, understand the pain, the rage building inside him?
A rage he needed to release in the privacy of his two hundred acres.
~ ~ ~
An hour and a half later, Jack stopped the wagon in front of the small sod cabin and set the brake. A sob tore through him. Though rustic, this was the place he and Lily built. Where their life and new family would have begun.
With intentions of only a quick rest, he released Papaya from the back of the wagon, unhooked the oxen from the front and fed and watered them. As he unloaded the supplies from the wagon, tumbleweeds slapped at his legs.
Jack pushed open the oak door and entered the dim interior. Why bother putting things away? He was going to leave soon anyway. He dropped the supplies on the wooden table, kicked the small handmade cradle against the fireplace, used the hand pump at the sink to fill his canteen, and took some dried venison from a shelf, adding in a handful of hardtack biscuits.
His packed saddlebags slung over his shoulder, and with his bedroll under his arm, he headed to the barn to re-saddle Papaya. In a few minutes, rifle draped across his lap, he was headed to his hills.
~ ~ ~
Jack rode the trail, up and up, his mind and heart
on what he’d left behind at the cemetery. Creeks, overflowing from winter run-off, splashed water on his boots and pant legs as the palomino galloped through. He spotted a lone coyote chasing a herd of wild horses, their manes flowing like waterfalls. Long-eared rabbits, their coats changing from winter white to summer brown, scattered like seeds in the wind and disappeared behind rocks.
As the elevation rose, the breeze cooled. He tugged the collar of his black duster to his ears. The snow-capped mountains in the distance made him realize how far he’d traveled.
Papaya slowed, his sides heaving. Jack didn’t want to stop, but harming his horse when they were so far from home wasn’t wise, either. He rode to the flowing water, dismounted, and led Papaya to the river’s edge.
Knowing he wouldn’t run off, he dropped the reins to the ground then pulled off the saddle and blanket, damp from sweat. Disgusted with himself for not paying better attention to his horse’s needs, he wiped him down with a dry blanket from his bedroll. Some fresh grass and clear, clean water, and the horse would be set for a while.
At this elevation, only a few scrub trees were scattered about. Partially-melted snow lay in the shadows of rocks and boulders. With a grunt, he carried the saddle to the sunny side of a boulder. He picked up one of the hundreds of smaller rocks, hefted it in his hand, and threw it hard enough to wrench his shoulder. “Damn!”
Jack chose another, then another, hurling them through the air, each one punctuated with a curse word. “Damn! Damn it to hell. Why did she have to die? Why wasn’t it me?”
His black wide-brimmed hat fell from his head and rolled toward the saddle. He didn’t bother to pick it up. Tears coursed down his cheeks, onto his coat. Rock after rock flew, until he no longer could lift anything more than a pebble.
The anger burning through him died to a smolder.
Sinking to his knees, he slammed his fists into the ground. What would he do now?
~ ~ ~
After making sure Papaya was all right, Jack crawled to his saddle, pulled out a blanket, and wrapped it around his shoulders. The late afternoon sun hurt his stinging eyes.
Not caring that he hadn’t eaten, nor had a fire to keep him warm nor predators at bay, he rested his head against the saddle, pulled the collar over his ears, and slapped on his hat.
Weariness from the past few days took over, and before the sun set behind the mountains, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
~ ~ ~
Cold seeped into his bones. Something warm blew across his face and ears. Jack swatted at his ears and peeled one gritty eye open.
“Papaya!” He pushed at the horse’s nose. “Go away.” Papaya continued prodding at him. “Damn horse.” He rubbed his cold hands together.
In the dim light, he wasn’t sure if it was morning or evening. The previous day’s events came back to him as he sat up and wiped a hand over his stubbly chin. Tears burned behind his eyes.
Papaya tugged at his sleeve until the only thing he could do was stand. “Dammit, horse, leave me alone.” He pushed the animal to the side. The sun rising behind the mountains from the east cast a shadow on a tree Jack swore hadn’t been there last night.
Standing at least twenty feet high, the trunk was twisted and gnarled like the arthritic hands of the very old. Several roots rose from the ground making it look as if it would walk away. Some of its massive branches drooped like arms dragging across the grass.
As the sky lightened, he realized that, unlike the rough bark of the pines at this altitude, the tree’s light brown bark was smooth. Did some of the bark actually seem golden, while in other places it was rough and dark brown? The surrounding trees paled in comparison.
Jack stepped closer. Light green, oval leaves reminded him of an elm tree, only much smaller. When the wind blew, the undersides shimmered with a silvery glow.
Had he been so distraught yesterday he’d missed the massive structure? The tree seemed to beckon, calling him to its embrace. He dipped beneath its branches.
His hand shook as he reached out to touch the trunk. The instant he came in contact, his icy fingers warmed. Then his arm. He tried to pull away, but he couldn’t move.
Warmth spread through his body and settled in his aching heart. Was he dreaming, or was the tree humming? Had its leaves whispered?
“Love will come.”
A calmness settled over him and the darkness of the past few days diminished.
Between the hanging branches a person, surrounded by a foggy haze, appeared. Two people, one tall, the other waist high, with a smaller version of Jack’s hat perched on thick hair. Suspenders held up too-short pants over the little one’s plaid shirt. A woman and a boy? They held hands, swinging them back and forth as if they hadn’t a care in the world. The woman’s bonnet hung down her back, loose curls flowing to her waist.
Was the tree showing him what Lily and his child would have been like if they’d lived? Jack’s heartbeat pounded in his ears, and he swore his soul cracked. As quickly as the despair washed over him, the tree hummed again and his heart warmed as peace settled through him.
Then the woman looked over her shoulder. This wasn’t Lily. The sun struck the vision. Instead of his wife’s dark hair, this woman’s shimmered like gold. Even from this distance, her sparkling blue eyes pierced through him.
Her smile beckoned him, and when she crooked her finger, all he could do was follow. The closer he came, the farther away they moved, until their bodies faded and nothing stood before him except the large boulder he’d slept against.
The tree. What if he touched the tree again? Jack pivoted on his boot heel, ready to run back and feel the twisted branches.
What the hell?
Maybe he’d lost his bearings while chasing the woman and boy. He spun in each direction. Nothing. The tree was gone. Poof. Was he losing his mind and dreaming the whole incident?
Something light brown on the ground caught his eye. Jack picked it up, his fingers warming at its touch. Bark from the disappearing tree? Had it been real after all? If so, then where had the woman and boy gone?
Jack retraced the steps he’d taken to follow them. Only his own impressions in the dirt showed. He was going crazy. That was it. Crazy from grief. Maybe what he needed was to get away from the land and the memories it held.
Papaya pushed against Jack’s spine, nearly knocking him to the ground.
“What do you think, old boy?” He ran his hand over the horse’s soft nose and recalled Samuel Hunt’s offer of a job from before he’d married Lily. “Should I see if Sam still needs someone to help take those crazy emigrants to Oregon?”
As if he understood what Jack was saying, Papaya nodded his large head.
“Well, since I’m already crazy, I might as well listen to you.”
After a quick breakfast of cold jerky and hardtack, he swung into the saddle and guided Papaya down the mountain path.
Back to his empty home and future.
Chapter 2
January, 1858
Independence, Missouri
Sarah Nickelson held her son behind her skirts. “You leave him alone, Peter. You can hit me all you want, but you don’t touch Tommy.” Her body trembled, knowing what would come from standing up to her drunken husband.
Peter lurched closer and tried to reach around her arms. “The boy needs to learn to be a man.”
“The boy has a name and is only six years old. There’s plenty of time for him to learn to be a man.”
And hopefully not one like his father. Self-preservation kept her from saying what she thought out loud. If she could distract Peter from taking Tommy, maybe he’d forget his scheme to have their son sing in a tavern tonight. Sing for money that Peter would use to drink until he passed out, leaving Tommy to find his way home in the dark.
After P
eter had heard Tommy singing one afternoon, his pure, clear voice filling their house, he concocted the lame-brained idea of having their son sing for their supper. The last thing she wanted was for Tommy to spend another night learning the ways of men and women in Independence’s taverns. And with their booming town of three thousand people, there were plenty dens of iniquity to choose from.
In a few months, the city would swell as people wishing to start a new life in the west swarmed in with wagons, oxen, horses, and families. Taverns would explode with men’s last opportunities to get drunk, which meant more crime, fights, and guns going off. Things a young boy didn’t need to see.
Despite her disappointing marriage to Peter, she was content to stay in the two-bedroom log home she’d inherited from her parents when they’d died of the fever. Every once in a while, her husband talked of heading west to Oregon City. Lately, more often than not, she dreamed of him leaving her and Tommy alone, free from his outbursts.
“Dammit, woman, give me the boy. You’re coddling him.”
Behind her, Tommy whimpered against her back. “Shh, Tommy. It’ll be all right.” Her hand brushed against the fireplace poker. Could she hold Peter off with it? He was older, stronger, and angrier. Maybe she could reason with him. She huffed out a breath. As if that had ever worked before.
The black metal was warm from the fire. “Peter, listen to me.” She held the poker in the folds of her skirt. “Tommy has a cold, and singing tonight would make his voice worse. I’ll doctor him the rest of today and tomorrow so he’ll be ready to sing the next night. If he damages his voice, he may never be able to sing again.”
Peter stepped back and ran his fingers over his balding head. “I suppose you’re right.” He shoved a finger in her face. “He damn well better be ready to sing night after tomorrow, or there’ll be hell to pay.”
