She felt his muscles beginning to relax, as her fingers pulled out the fatigue. “You seemed worried while you were reading.”
“Oh, I was just concentrating,” he replied.
“No you weren’t,” she accused. “You kept staring at the book and pondering something else. What is it?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he grasped her wrist and tugged her into his lap.
Instantly her heartbeat quickened.
Stephen eyed her for a moment. She detected a flicker in his intense eyes and a hesitation before he said, “I’m just thinking through something, that’s all. But it’s nothing to fret over.”
“What?” she pressed. He was evading her questions.
“I said it was nothing, so let it be.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm.
Jane moaned as he nibbled on one of her fingertips, astounding her that even her fingers responded so fervently to his touch.
He ran a hand gently down the side of her neck. “Ah Jane, do you know how much I love you,” he said, “and our girls.” His gaze was as tender as the caress.
“I thank the good Lord every day for your love.” For the moment, she put aside her curiosity to focus on what Stephen was doing to her now—kissing her palm again, then working his way up her arm. Waves of excitement rolled through her body. After working in the field all day, did he have the stamina to love her two nights in a row?
“Go be sure the girls are asleep. I’ll light the oil lamp in the bedroom,” he said, with a mischievous half-grin, and she no longer had to wonder.
Jane stood and he looked her over seductively. Already feeling a tingle in her breasts and an insistent ache only Stephen could heal, she longed to feel the warmth of his hard body against hers. She reached out and laced her fingers through one of his hands. His fingers felt warm and strong and she gave them a squeeze. Reluctantly releasing his hand, she hurried upstairs to her daughters’ room, pleased to find them already dreaming. She tucked the blanket around their shoulders, locked their windows, and took the stairs down so fast she nearly tripped on her skirts.
Jane slowed her pace as she entered their bedroom, and paused long enough to lock the door behind her.
Stephen was already in the bed, pulling a linen sheet over his long muscular legs and sculpted chest. He looked at her longingly as he leaned back against the pillow.
Her clothing suddenly felt heavy and warm. She began to remove her gown and could still feel his eyes upon her. He often told her how much he enjoyed seeing her undress. So she took her time removing her layers of petticoats, stays, and the rest of her underthings and putting it all away before retrieving a soft sleeping chemise.
“No need for that. You’ll have it on but a minute,” he teased, then brought his hand up to stifle a yawn.
Jane laughed and began untangling her hair. The task bordered on a battle every night as her brush and comb fought to subdue her curls. More than once, she’d been tempted to take the scissors to her plentiful tresses. But Stephen fancied her long hair and, despite the current fashion, she wore it uncovered most of the time. She put as much of it into a long braid as she could and then washed her face in the basin on her dressing table.
After dabbing rosewater on her hands and neck, she inhaled deeply. Stephen loved the sweet soft fragrance and it always helped her unwind from her own long day of chores. But it was the comfort of his embrace and the warmth of his touch that soothed her as nothing else could.
Looking forward to Stephen’s strong arms enveloping her once again, she turned towards their bed. Her heart plummeted. Despite his earlier eagerness, he was heavily asleep, his exhaustion winning over desire.
She leaned her forehead against the carved bedpost and released her disappointment on a heavy sigh. She studied his ruggedly handsome tanned face, his black hair shining in the dim light of the oil lamp. Her love for him filled her heart and replaced her frustration.
She blew out the oil lamp and climbed into bed. Soft moonlight painted their room grey.
She would let him sleep, but only for a while, then wake him in the middle of the night.
From his barn, Stephen watched dawn’s light explode over the White Mountains illuminating nature’s splendor. The lofty peaks rose out of a color-filled canvas painted with wild strokes by a bold sunrise. Tall pines, destined to become sturdy buildings or the masts of ships, stoically awaited their futures. Hardwoods added to their breadth, each year’s slow progress recorded in the rings of their hearts. The early spring grass shimmered with a heavy dew, like a field of living emeralds, each blade reflecting the new day’s sun. He heard a Purple Finch greet the morning with his boisterous song, as though the beautiful day was created just for the bird. Days like this also stir a man’s soul.
He wanted to spend the day just thinking through his difficult decision. But this morning, he would have to ride to Durham for supplies. They were completely out of several essentials and he needed to buy grass seed before the weeds took over his newly cleared field. Reluctantly, he stopped musing about the future.
After hitching the team to the wagon and putting his musket under the bench, Stephen stuck a pistol and knife in his belt and pulled his powder horn’s strap over his neck. As he put his cloak on the seat, he couldn’t help but grin, remembering how Jane had looked in it. All day he would wear his beaver felt hat with two sides cocked and don the cloak against the evening chill.
Without realizing, he turned to face the west. He yearned to make his own mark on this young country. That desire seemed to grow stronger every day and caused a restlessness that took more and more effort to restrain. When statesmen signed the Declaration that first hot week of July 1776, he was ten years old. Their spirit and courage became a part of not just that historical document, but also the souls of young men like him. Now at 31, he understood he had reached the age when he could no longer wait to be the man he wanted to be. If he didn’t live his dream now he would lose it.
But like his tracks in the morning dew, his resolve quickly disappeared. As his three oldest girls ran toward him, he could almost see his dream evaporating right before his eyes. He could not put his concern for their safety behind him. He knelt to their level and opened his arms wide. As he wrapped his arms around them and pulled them against his chest, he realized he had to do both—find land and keep them safe on the journey to Kentucky. And he had to find a way to convince Jane that he could do both. There was no point talking to her until he had the answers for himself.
“You girls stay close to the house while I’m gone. Don’t go beyond the fence and keep your eyes wide open,” he warned.
“Yes Father, and I’ll watch out for these young ones,” Martha said, sounding older than her seven years.
“Don’t worry Father, Mama can shoot a hunred ‘ards,” Polly said.
Stephen laughed, recalling that he had recently bragged that Jane could shoot accurately from a hundred yards. He wasn’t certain that, at age five, Polly had any idea what an ‘ard’ was, but he enjoyed hearing her boast that her mother could shoot a hundred of them.
Amy, the third sister, who just turned three, clung to her mother’s apron, frowning.
Stephen picked her up. At once, a happy smile replaced her unhappy expression. She grabbed his face with both her chubby hands and smacked a kiss on his nose. Her demonstrative gesture made him chuckle. God, how he loved his daughters.
“Your mother is indeed a crack shot. Just the same, I’d feel better if you stayed close.”
He prayed Jane and the girls would be safe until he returned home with their supplies. He hated leaving, but there was no choice in the matter. As strong as Jane was, it still made him uneasy to leave them alone. He would make this a quick trip.
He gave each of the three girls a hug and a peck on the cheek. He turned to Jane, buried his hands in the thickness of her hair, and gave her a soft lingering kiss. Then he forced himself to climb onto the wagon’s seat. Taking one last long look at his wife, h
e set off.
“Don’t forget my fabric, the girls and I need new dresses,” she yelled after him, “and pick out something nice looking, not just practical.”
Jane would normally pick fabric out herself, but three young girls and a nursing baby made travel difficult. This time, she would just have to trust him.
“I won’t forget. That’s the main reason I’m going to Durham, not Barrington. I’ll get a color that goes well with those green eyes of yours,” he called back. Every color, he realized. He wished he could buy her fine silks, or better yet, store-bought gowns. She deserved more than he provided now with his meager income. But he had plans. He had dreams. Someday, he would be successful.
He turned to look back once more. Jane waved goodbye and smiled cheerfully. But he knew her heart wasn’t smiling. She told him many times that she hated every moment separated from him. She said it made a big hollow place inside her that would not go away until they were together again, as if half of her was suddenly missing.
He understood what she meant. With every turn of the cranky wheels, he left a part of himself behind, replaced with a creeping loneliness. It would clench his heart and not let go until she was in his arms, until he too was complete again.
Maybe that’s what love is, he thought. Finding the other half of you.
Chapter 4
As Stephen’s back grew smaller, the hollow spot in Jane grew bigger. She listened to the squeak of the wagon wheels until she could hear them no more. She turned towards the house, feeling alone even with her daughters. Reluctant to begin her chores, her normal boundless energy was absent today. She wished she could just sit on the porch and sew or even read. With four young girls, reading time was rare, but she loved to read and to write in her journal. It made her feel a connection to a vast world beyond herself. But the garden needed hoeing of the first spring weeds to ready it for planting and the clothes needed washing. Like most women, she always had more to do than she could get done in a day.
“Mama, may we have a picnic today?” Polly pleaded.
“What a splendid idea,” Jane responded. “But we have our chores, and…”
“Just a short picnic. We won’t be gone long,” Martha begged.
Her eyes widened at the idea. It sounded far more appealing than weeding and laundry. But something made her hesitate and she turned back toward the house. “No, when your father gets back, we’ll have a big picnic Sunday after church. You heard your Father, we should stay close to home.”
The girls grudgingly followed. They strolled past Jane’s rose bushes, just beginning to bud. She eagerly awaited their glorious full blooms brightening her front yard.
Inside, she checked on Mary, the youngest, now almost one. Still peacefully asleep in her cradle, the babe looked angelic. Jane gently pulled a little blanket over her, then tiptoed away, being careful not to awaken her.
The day passed slowly as she went about her labors, pausing now and then to pray for Stephen. The trip there would take him all day and it would be early evening before he reached Durham. Of all her chores, she hated washday the most. Nevertheless, as her mother had strongly advised, she made herself keep up with dirty laundry. At Jane’s wedding, her mother gave her a “Receipt for Wash Day.” She saved it in her Bible, treasuring it for her mother’s original spelling and for her words of wisdom. She had memorized the list:
Bold a fire in yard to heet pot of rainwater. Set tubs so smok won’t blow in eyes if wind is pert. Shave one hole cake lie sope in bollin water.
Make three piles, wite, cullord and rags.
For startch, stur flour in cold water till smooth, then thin with bollin water.
Rub dirty spots on board, scrub hard. Take white things out of kettle with broom stik, then rench, blew, and startch.
Spred tea towels on bushes and hang bed linens on fence and cloothes on trees.
Poor rench water on flower bed and scrub porch with sopey water.
Put on cleen dress—smooth hair with side combs—brew cup of tee—set and rest and rock a spell and count blessings.
She especially enjoyed the last piece of advice and faithfully practiced this part of the instructions. She definitely had many blessings to count. Having a husband like Stephen was always at the top of her list. He made her happy and brought joy to her life in so many ways, not the least of which was the immense pleasure she found in their bed. Just thinking about it made her face feel flushed. Halfheartedly, she made herself focus on wringing the water out of one of Stephen’s linen shirts, but as she shook it out, even his shirt reminded her of his well-muscled chest and made her long for the comfort of his arms.
When she finished laundering, she brewed tea while she changed from her work clothes into one of her favorite everyday dresses, a blue and yellow striped gown trimmed with white lace at the neck and cuffs. She made a half-hearted attempt to style her curls, made wild by the hot steam from the laundry water, but soon gave up and headed to her teapot. She poured the brew into a delicate china cup and saucer enjoyed by the women in her family for generations. She sensed a connection with her past every time she used the precious set. Each week, after doing laundry, the ritual was her reward to herself for accomplishing such a tedious task.
“Martha, watch your sisters while I rest on the porch,” she instructed, as she grabbed her shawl. At last, a few peaceful minutes to herself in her rocker. She would enjoy her tea and the cool evening air. She relished these rare serene moments, an elixir to a mother’s harried soul.
Jane opened the front door and froze. Sheer black terror swept through her.
The most hideous and loathsome man she had ever seen stood on her porch, staring menacingly at her. He reached for her arm.
Her treasured teacup slipped from her hands and shattered as she jumped backward and screamed. She turned to run toward her daughters, but the man lunged for her instantly. She felt searing pain on her scalp as his hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and jerked her backwards.
She struggled to free herself but each movement only made him pull her closer, tearing more hair from her head. He stank so badly she began to gag. Nausea rose up in her throat.
All three girls huddled together in the corner screaming, but baby Mary still slept peacefully in her cradle.
“Stop fighting or I’ll start killing your litter,” he hissed into her ear.
At once, she stopped struggling. She forced her mind to return from the initial shock and terror, otherwise fear would quickly paralyze her.
He shoved her onto the wooden floor planks, then like a huge snake slowly slithered further into her home. She scooted backward, quickly stood, and faced him. She recognized him immediately. She knew who he was, what he was. For years, Jane had heard the vivid descriptions of him and the tales of his butchery.
Most colonists thought him half-human, half-demon. He made his living stealing white and Indian captives and trading them. Although Bomazeen hadn’t been seen locally in some time, he had slaughtered many people in the area in the past, always scalping them first before running them through with a bayonet. Sometimes he would slit their throat too. He usually scalped the youngest children and the elderly, taking only those who could withstand the long brutal journey through the wilderness afoot and survive with little food. Rumor was he would crisscross dense forests, avoiding roads and trails, a tactic designed to elude the men who gave chase and attempted to apprehend him.
As he stood before her, he appeared even more terrifying than she had imagined. The part down the middle of his long stringy black hair pointed to inky eyes. A sharp chin supported features that appeared incapable of emotion. Like the viper that wore it, it seemed like a face that never laughed and never cried. Only his voice reflected his spirit—a voice greased with venom. Numerous earrings pierced his left ear, severely stretching the lobe, but his right ear was unadorned except for a gruesome scar. His bloodstained clothes, a mix of Indian and white man’s attire, looked like once put on they had never left his body.
With her heart hammering in her chest, she took a deep breath, trying to control her quivering nerves and mounting fear.
Bomazeen slowly scanned the house with the chilling eyes of a hungry beast. He spotted a loaf of bread and ham on the table and wasted no time devouring it like a hungry dog.
The girls crouched together in the corner whimpering pitifully.
Bomazeen ignored them, at least for the moment. For that, she was grateful.
Her mind raced nearly as fast as her wildly beating pulse. Could she get this monster to leave?
Show him no fear.
She fought for self-control, determined to keep her voice from trembling. “My husband and his brothers will return soon from hunting,” she lied.
Very slowly, and emphasizing each word, he said, “If you lie again, I’ll cut your tongue out. I saw him leave this morning, alone, in that old noisy wagon. He took Durham road.” His words simmered with barely restrained anger.
Her heart nearly stopped as she realized that Bomazeen knew Stephen was long gone. The devil must have been outside all day, watching her, waiting for the cover of darkness before he kidnapped them. But Bomazeen never took young children. He would kill them, viciously and without mercy.
Oh God, oh God. Stephen, please come back.
Her knees weakened, her throat tightened, and she could barely breathe. But her mind had to stay strong. Stephen was gone.
She had to protect her daughters.
Determined to save them, she willed herself to stand tall and focus on the girls instead of the devil standing before her. She stared directly into Martha’s eyes trying to give her oldest daughter strength.
Romancing the Wilderness: American Wilderness Series Boxed Bundle Books 1 - 3 Page 3
