Romancing the Wilderness: American Wilderness Series Boxed Bundle Books 1 - 3

by Dorothy Wiley

  Until it did, he could not stop those shadows or the ache of a young heart broken long ago. He hoped coming to Kentucky would allow him to leave those haunting memories behind, but as much as he hated to admit it, they were still there—just as vivid and troubling as ever. He shrugged in resignation. There was no escaping his painful memories. He would bury them, as usual. Unfortunately, each time he did so, he seemed to bury a little bit of himself.

  But he was here now and still hopeful that he could find a new beginning in Kentucky. He shook his head and tried to focus his thoughts on the scenic river instead. He needed to think about the future—not the past.

  A new life on the frontier. The very thought excited him. A chance to be on the leading edge of the wilderness. He found it hard to believe a man would want to be anywhere else.

  Before they left New Hampshire, he had ached for a challenge, something to test his courage—as though too much of it was building up inside of him. He enjoyed the challenge of getting here, and the journey certainly tried all of them. He and Stephen nearly lost their lives and the harsh reality of the frontier tragically took the lives of two of their family. One trial after another tested their courage and their strength.

  The loss of family devastated him, and remembering, he swallowed the lump in his throat. But he had nearly relished the other difficult trials they had continuously faced. Unlike their overly cautious brother Edward, the only brother to remain behind in New Hampshire, Sam didn’t hesitate to face life head on. A man shouldn’t just want to live life, he should want life to truly live.

  Would he need someone like Catherine to make that happen?

  His heart said yes. Could he get his mind to agree?

  “How old do ye figure that tree is?” Bear asked, walking up to Sam later that morning. “I bet even its branches are older than me self.”

  “Old as Methuselah I reckon. Nice of it to make me this chair,” Sam said, tapping the huge root to empty the ash from his pipe. He often admired the ‘furniture’ of nature, finding simple honest beauty in it more precious than the gilded and highly polished furniture of the wealthy. He also found more comfort on a carpet of pine needles and leaves than a finely woven woolen rug.

  “I just saw Jane playing with the children like she was a kid again. She seems to be in much better spirits these days,” Bear said.

  “She is. Our journey was hard on Jane,” he said. “I sure hope coming here was right for their family. I know it was right for me and for you. We were both restless back home. And we all believed leaving for Kentucky was the only way to keep Jane truly safe.” He remembered how Bomazeen, a slave trader for the Algonquian tribes, nearly stole Jane and Martha. They all knew the devil would come back for her again and Stephen thought going to Kentucky was the best option for keeping her out of Bomazeen’s nasty clutches. He had agreed with Stephen, but now, after all they endured getting here, he was having second thoughts. “But was coming here the right thing to do?”

  Raising his thick coppery brows, Bear appeared surprised by the question.

  Bear’s answer surprised Sam even more.

  “Maybe ‘tis for God’s sake. Maybe He has a purpose in their comin’ here—in our comin’—only He knows. He puts these desires in our hearts. We can only try to answer them.”

  Sam exhaled slowly as he considered Bear’s answer. As his breath faded away, so did his doubts. “You’re a wise man Bear.”

  “Well, I do na know about that, but I do know I was na lettin’ you and Stephen go trottin’ off to some Kentucky paradise without me.”

  Sam chuckled. “Wouldn’t think of it. Besides, I needed your help to keep Stephen and Jane under control. There’s enough spirit in those two for fifty men and women.”

  “Aye, that’s the truth. Remember their weddin’? The two of them danced us all into the ground. Then, just before they finally took off, ye and William tied that dead chicken to the back of their buggy and then let that skinny huntin’ dog loose. He chased them for a half-mile barkin’ and yappin’ before Stephen shot at it to scare it off,” Bear chuckled.

  “But instead, he shot the poor dog’s tail clean off. That dog was dumb as a tick and always hungry. That’s how we knew it would chase the chicken,” Sam recalled, laughing. “And it had a yap so shrill it would drive a monk to swear.”

  “Every time I saw that dog with a wee stub for a tail, I would laugh.”

  “It was a month before Jane would speak to me again. When she finally forgave me, we laughed for an hour. She didn’t care as much about the dog’s tail, as she did that we killed the dang chicken. She was mighty fond of her chickens. She sure was glad when Kelly brought her flock along with her.”

  “Now and again I enjoy their wee eggs,” Bear said. “But it takes a dozen or more to fill me up.”

  “I agree. We need some real food. Get on with hunting now. I’m guarding the camp. And for heaven’s sake, try to shoot something big. I’m near starving.”

  “Aye, I’ll be doin’ just that, man. I’m sick of eatin’ skinny rabbits and boney fish,” Bear said, grabbing his rifle and powder horn, “and those damn wee eggs.”

  Sam watched Bear march away. He knew exactly what Bear had meant about talking to Catherine like a man does to a woman. He was wondering the same thing himself. He just didn’t know what to do about it. And if he did figure that out, could he say anything?

  He had not thought seriously about a woman for nearly twenty years. Just recently, all he could do was think about her. He woke up thinking about her and his last thoughts before going to sleep were of her. He was starting to dream about her too. Every time he reflected on her during the day, he felt guilty and foolish. And if his dreams at night got any more interesting, he’d start feeling guilty about those too.

  You’re acting like a besotted adolescent, he told himself as he stood to begin his morning walk around their camp. He wondered if Jane or Catherine could tell how he felt. Catherine had a way of looking at him so directly he could barely think. In fact, this morning he carefully avoided being around her at all.

  As he patrolled, Sam scolded himself for his foolishness. He had no business even considering her. She’s probably more interested in Bear or William anyway. They’re both younger and longer on looks than he was. He was just an old soldier, nearly forty. She probably found his face frightening to even look at.

  Sam resolved to put her out of his mind. But his resolution, like most resolutions, was short-lived and lasted only until he reapproached their camp again—until he saw her.

  Chapter 9

  Catherine stood by the cook fire about to get herself a cup of coffee. Her long hair hung unbound. Rich shiny black waves tumbled carelessly over her shoulders and back. He had never seen her wear her hair that way. As she bent down to the pot hanging from a rod above the fire, her voluptuous cleavage revealed itself. Sam felt his eyes widen and a twitch in his loins at the beguiling sight.

  She was a vision. He wanted to freeze this moment in time so he could just watch her. Mesmerized, he realized he had stopped breathing. He took a deep breath before he strode into camp, trying his best to appear nonchalant.

  “Join me in a cup of coffee Captain?” she asked, giving him a luminous smile as soon as she saw him walk up. “Jane is down there at the creek with John and the children fishing for our mid-day meal. I would think they would have tired of fishing, and eating fish, by this time, but they still seem to be enjoying themselves. Stephen and William are nearby watching them. I just finished washing my hair. It’s so thick it takes it forever to dry.” She felt it for dampness. “Almost ready to braid.”

  Sam wished he could touch the dark shiny tresses as well. What would her hair smell like? “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he scolded, “especially with both Stephen and William down there.”

  “They are all just a stone’s throw away and I’ve got my dagger and my rifle handy,” she said. “Besides, I knew you were somewhere nearby standing watch. She ran her long fingers thro
ugh her damp hair.

  The motion caught Sam’s eye and momentarily distracted him. He wondered how her hair would feel wrapped in his fingers. Silken. Soft. Smooth. He could almost feel it. The thought nearly unraveled his self-control. He swallowed hard to stop the alluring images filling his head.

  “You seem a little on edge this morning, Captain,” Catherine commented.

  He stiffened at the question. “We must stay ever alert here. Danger has a way of surprising us, as you found out on the trail.”

  “I still can’t believe William and Stephen went after those two murderers. But for my husband’s sake, God rest his soul, and for Kelly’s rescue, I’m glad they did.”

  Sam understood the reason William and Stephen had to go after the killers. He lived himself by the same code. Only for him, it wasn’t so much a respect for the written law as the unwritten. Honorable men stand up for what is right and have the courage to do whatever is necessary to oppose wrong. Whatever and wherever. Good men don’t shirk that responsibility no matter where they were. It was the law of their father and it would be the law of their sons.

  Sam wondered if he would ever have a son. The unexpected thought surprised him.

  He laid his rifle aside and she put a hot steaming cup in his hand, but she was warming more than his hands. Her nearness caused his senses to leap to life and a pleasurable heat pulsed through his body.

  As she drew her own hand back, he got the faintest whiff of her fragrance. She smelled like lavender and maybe a trace of roses.

  What was he doing? He’d never noticed a woman’s perfume before. Good grief. What was happening to him? Sam tried to force his mind back to things that mattered. “Where did you get that dagger?”

  “That’s a long story.” She sat down on a nearby trunk.

  “I have the time. Can’t do much but cool our heels here until we get those land grants.”

  She eyed the dagger pensively, and then looked up into a nearby Cypress tree. A Mockingbird filled the silence with a charming piece of music. She waited for the bird to finish the last note before she began. “My maternal grandmother was from a long line of nobility in England. She was quite a woman. My grandfather, also of noble birth, gave the blade to her as a wedding gift. It has her birthstone, the sapphire, on the hilt and his family crest at the top. She was so beautiful he knew other men would have difficulty resisting her. So, he gave her the dagger making her promise that she was to use it on any man who touched her with the intention of violating her honor. If she did not, he promised he would use it on her. I know that sounds harsh, but he was a harsh man. Noble and courageous, but war hardened him.”

  Sam could relate to the man. “Tell me more about him.”

  “It wasn’t long before she was forced to keep her promise. She stabbed an Earl when he accosted her while my grandfather was on a hunting trip. The Earl lived but blamed her for the whole incident, saying she deliberately attacked and stabbed him in a fit of feminine rage because he would not accept her flirtations.

  “Because of this insult, grandfather challenged the Earl to a duel. As soon as the Earl was well enough to participate, they arranged the duel. Grandfather was a master swordsman and swiftly killed the Earl with his rapier. As you know, gentlemen consider duels an acceptable method of resolving disputes. But for grandfather, it was a matter of honor, not just a dispute.

  “After that, things were never the same for them among the local nobility. There were always whispers behind my grandmother’s back about what evil minds thought really happened. It made grandfather so angry. One day he told them all to go to the devil, moved his family to the colonies, and set up his law practice and a bank in Boston. So, in a way, this weapon is responsible for moving my family to the colonies.

  “My grandmother gave the dagger to my mother as her wedding present, and keeping with the tradition, my mother, as a wedding gift, gave the dagger to me. And now, as you know, it saved not only my honor but probably my life, out there in the middle of nowhere,” she said, pointing toward the east where she and her husband were attacked.

  Sam considered what it must have been like for her to have to kill one of the three men that murdered her husband and attempted to attack her. He was glad William and Stephen found and killed the other two, but he almost wished he could have carried out that justice himself. Not only were the men murderers, they were rapists. And he would have joined their pursuit of the outlaws if his healing broken ankle hadn’t kept him from it. It had healed well but was stiff on occasion.

  “Did your mother have you make the same promise?” he asked, with a half grin tugging at his mouth.

  “No. She knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t hesitate to use it if I needed to. But she did insist on teaching me, as her mother taught her, how to use it. My brother and I would practice throwing our daggers for hours at a time.”

  Another one of those smiles spread across her lovely face. They were dangerous for a man who wanted nothing more to do with women. He could not help but be dazzled by them. They transformed her already comely countenance into something so radiant and stunning it stole his breath.

  He sipped the coffee to make himself stop staring. “May I see it?”

  Now her eyes smiled with a sensuous spark. “Only if you’ll agree to let me see your knife,” she bargained.

  It was the first time any woman had ever asked to see his most cherished possession. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him that she would want to examine it. “Of course,” he said, carefully handing his blade to her and then taking her dagger. Her nearness assaulted his senses, making every quickening heartbeat drum inside his chest.

  As he willed his heart to calm, he studied the extraordinary blade. The workmanship was exquisite. The hilt, cut from a semi-precious stone, displayed chiseled in scrolls and inlaid silver fittings. Two diminutive horse’s heads pointing in opposite directions formed the handguard. Each horse had eyes made from tiny sapphires and bridles gilded with gold. The artistic armorer decorated the silver scabbard by chiseling each side with a magnificent cross. “It’s remarkable. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” He turned it over and the crest’s sapphire winked up at him. “This stone is nearly as…blue as your eyes.” He almost said as beautiful as your eyes but stopped himself just in time. That was close.

  “Thank you, Captain. Your knife looks nearly as fierce as you do,” she said, appraising the weapon. “This is a fine-looking handle. Did you make it yourself?”

  “Yes, but that’s an even longer story. Maybe I’ll tell it to you sometime,” he said, looking away. This was not the time to pursue that story again. He already regretted sharing it with Bear. He should have kept it buried forever.

  “Do you prefer the knife to your pistol?” she asked instead.

  “Yes, in most situations. It is always accurate, doesn’t require dry powder or loading. It’s quiet when there’s a need for stealth, and it’s unaffected by water if I need to swim a river or I’m caught in a storm.” The knife also served him in many other ways. He used it to skin and dress game, eat with, mend saddles and harnesses, cauterize wounds—often his own, and on one occasion to dig a grave for a fallen comrade.

  “I’m sure you’ll face all those situations and more in Kentucky. You’re like a knight clad in buckskin Captain. Something tells me you will face them without fear.”

  “Not so. Even noble knights felt fear. But a brave man must choose whether fear will make him strong or weak. Armor or buckskin, a man is only as strong as the courage of his heart.”

  Suddenly, those words held new meaning for him. Would his heart ever again be strong enough for love? Love takes courage. He’d learned that long ago. He clenched his fists, angry with himself. He was letting fear make him weak. He was afraid of the future because of the pain of the past. He was a coward when it came to love. A damn coward. Pure and simple.

  He turned his attention back to studying the dagger, not wanting her to see his face.

  Of all the faili
ngs a man could have, he disliked cowards the most. He called such men parasites who freeloaded off the courage of others. He scorned cowards more than an enemy. At least an enemy fought for his beliefs or his own motives. Like clouds without rain, cowards were men with vaporous souls. During the war, men who showed even a tendency toward cowardice did not last long under his command. They got mess duty or became someone else’s problem. He did not allow cowards to put the lives of brave men at peril. Warfare has rules.

  But so does life. He didn’t like feeling like a coward. Could he muster enough courage to love someone again?

  Sam offered the dagger back to her and took his knife. He studied the blade’s edge for a moment, still lost in thought. The war finally ended. His trust in the lessons of war and his big knife did not. Firearms were optional. The knife was not. It was the one thing in his life that never disappointed him. More than once, wrapped in the hands of a soldier’s courage, the blade had saved his soul, even as it claimed the souls of others. For pistols held only one shot, and a hatchet, once buried deep in an enemy, took precious seconds to withdraw. But the knife was quick and, when needed, savage.

  Like other tested soldiers, he discovered that when two men battle, when one must live and one must die, the victor is often the most savage. People like to think that victory goes to the most virtuous—but virtue often stands on both sides of a war. And even an enemy who holds no virtue at all can still kill you.

  But Sam didn’t want to think about war now. Just the opposite. He sheathed his knife and glanced up.

  She was staring at him. This time, he held her gaze—keeping his eyes locked on hers. They gleamed with an entrancing inner light and seemed to nourish some remote part of his soul. He drank it in, like a fine aged wine or smooth whiskey, savoring it, letting it reach his senses and linger. Again, he longed to smell and touch her freshly washed hair. He wanted to bury his hands in her tresses as he kissed those crimson lips.