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

by Dorothy Wiley

  Behind the blood and mud, the young woman might be comely, even beautiful. Wanalancet wondered if someone loved her. He shook his head in pity for the young woman. When would Bomazeen learn that he paid a price for his cruelty? Someday, he would pay an even higher price.

  Grumbling a curse, Bomazeen sold her to the traders. “Try to escape and I’ll come back and cut off your tits. Then your babes will starve.” He ended his threat with a swift kick to her buttocks, sending her face first into the dirt.

  “Enough!” Wanalancet barked at Bomazeen. Then he ordered one of his traders to turn her over to the tribe’s healers.

  Tears rolled down her face moistening the dried blood covering numerous scratches and cuts. She hung her head low, her long hair hiding her swollen face. It would take their best medicine and many weeks to mend Bomazeen’s vile handiwork. Wanalancet would be sure the women of the tribe healed this woman before one of his braves touched her. He knelt next to her. “What is your name?” he asked and Bomazeen translated.

  “Lucy,” she said, her voice trembling.

  As the traders lugged her to her feet, Wanalancet saw the light leave her eyes as hope left her heart. Her dulled apathetic stare was typical of someone who knows rescue is impossible. She probably wanted to die. It was a common problem with new slaves who thought captivity worse than death.

  The traders led her away. Lucy was now a slave.

  Among the Pennacook tribes, Wandering Evil intimidated everyone except Wanalancet. The despicable man needed his business. And while he hated to admit it, in addition to the slaves to replace their dead lost to smallpox, Bomazeen supplied items his people had grown accustomed to—tobacco, liquor, blankets, copper kettles, weapons, axes, and wampum—colorful trade beads used to decorate their clothing.

  In exchange, Bomazeen traded for skins and pelts of all kinds, receiving far more when the hides sold than the value of the goods traded to his people. Wanalancet recalled many others who had profited at his tribe’s expense. Double-dealing French traders, doling out disease along with whiskey and guns, nearly wiped out the Pennacook. Others sacked their small villages and often made off with their food stores on the eve of harsh winters. As their numbers dwindled, Wanalancet struggled to control his changing world.

  “Wandering one, you bring woman of few years this time, but she is badly broken,” Wanalancet said. He tugged his raccoon cloak tighter against the cool mountain wind, covering the long strings of pearls draped against his bare chest. “I want slaves. I don’t want the ailing. Bring no more to me who have suffered as this one has by your hand.”

  Bomazeen grunted. “I cut her some,” he answered in Algonquian, the Chief’s native tongue. Evil loitered behind the man’s dark eyes.

  Wanalancet remained silent, not revealing his disgust.

  A sneer crossed Bomazeen’s weathered face. “She showed too much spirit. But she won’t give you trouble now.”

  “Why do you tear slave bodies with your hatred? A man should not poison his heart with ill will. Some new people to our land are my enemy, but hate does not steal my mind until it is time to fight.”

  “My mind is as a stone. There is no soft spot in here,” Bomazeen replied, as he slowly drew a long yellowed fingernail across his grimy forehead.

  Bomazeen’s heart was be made of stone too. Wanalancet told him, “Whites walk in white man world. My people walk in Pennacook world. You, a métis, wander between.”

  “Yes, I am métis—my blood is half-Indian and half-French. But my spirit is not one or the other. To the Indian I am different, but I exist. But to the whites I am outcast, without being, like a stray dog you throw stones at to get it to run away.” Bomazeen’s eyes darkened even further. “They treat me like an animal so I attack like one.”

  The bitter remarks almost made the Chief pity the man. Bomazeen would never know the love of a woman. The heartless man was doomed to a life of cold loneliness.

  Wanalancet understood loneliness. He longed to feel the warm flesh of a woman he loved against his body. Last summer, his wife, along with many others, died of smallpox. He honored her at the Feast of the Dead with grave offerings and many gifts. But now it was time to turn his honor towards a living woman—to sing to her the song of the stars.

  “On your next wander to white man’s world, find me a fine woman. I will give you many furs in exchange, but no cuts, beating, or taking her,” he warned. “She must be great among women because she will be the mother to our people.”

  “I know of such a woman. She lives near Barrington Town. Many people live there now. But, for the woman of a great Chief, I will go there. Her face will make you the envy of other Chiefs. Her hair is the color of the sun as it rises from the edge of the earth. Long ago, I watched her from afar—she is like no other woman. She is tall and strong. She will cost much. Your braves must hunt three times the usual beaver pelts and skins,” Bomazeen negotiated. “And your women must clean and tan the furs.”

  Wanalancet’s interest peaked. He could almost envision his new wife. “The exchange will be as you say. Come, let us drink and smoke.” He waited as Bomazeen withdrew tobacco and liquor from the back of the pack mule, then they entered Wanalancet’s warm smoke-filled lodge. Made of bark and hides, numerous woven baskets filled with special flints, mica, shells, and other valuable items lined the inside. They sat on the fur-covered floor and Wanalancet retrieved his Calumet. Made with a rare red catlinite marble head, the pipe had a long quill made of cane wrapped in buckskin adorned with seed beads, bird feathers of all colors, and locks of women’s hair, both dark and blond.

  Whenever he went to mediate for peace, Wanalancet carried the ceremonial pipe with pride. He was of blood of the great Chief Passaconaway and his son Chief Wanalancet, for whom his father named him. As was the custom of his noble ancestors, to show this precious emblem of trade and trust meant he could walk in safety even among his enemies. He also used the pipe, as he would now, to conclude pacts and celebrate life’s important decisions with the Great Spirit.

  Wanalancet carefully filled the Calumet, then lit the tobacco. As the first gray wisps curled up, he asked the sacred smoke to reach out to this woman’s spirit and join her to him. This sanctified act would make her life-force his. Soon, her body too would be his and warm his heart and his flesh.

  Through the soft gray haze, Wanalancet again saw in his mind’s eye the woman with hair the color he prized most. Hair the same color as his pipe’s marble bowl. He began to love her spirit already, but he would have to wait until Bomazeen made good on his promise.

  Silently, Wanalancet pledged to dream of her tonight and every night until she shared his lodge.

  As he held the polished red bowl of his pipe, carved with grooves honoring the four directions, north, south, east, and…west, he sent the sacred smoke upwards to the full moon.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jane sat with their daughters, trying her best to be patient, as she to taught them to sew. Stephen rested, close by, in his chair reading his favorite book Adventures yet again. The fire in the hearth cast just enough light for all of them to see by and his nearness warmed her heart as no fire could.

  He’s read that book so many times he should have it memorized by now, she chuckled to herself. She decided to buy him a new book for his birthday.

  She studied his handsome face, noting the furrowed brow and worried look that crossed his features from time to time. Something was troubling him and it was time to find out what.

  Jane placed her needlework on the table. “Girls, time to sleep now. Say goodnight to your father, then go wash your faces and get ready for bed,” she ordered, as she picked baby Mary up out of her cradle.

  “Yes Mother,” Martha replied obediently. Their oldest daughter sprang to her feet. “Come on Polly and Amy, let’s go.” After all three girls planted numerous kisses on Stephen’s cheeks, Martha took Amy’s little hand.

  Jane smiled at Martha’s gesture. The seven year old never missed an opportunity to assume
her role as big sister.

  Without argument, because she permitted none, the children began climbing the stairs. Jane followed the three, carrying the baby, and noted how loud the parade of footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs. Her girls grew bigger by the day, including their feet.

  They say it’s a paradise, all I have to do is get us there.

  Laying down his dog-eared copy of Daniel Boone’s Adventures, Stephen shook his head. What he just told himself belied the hard truth. Getting there would be the most difficult and dangerous undertaking any of them ever experienced. Like the real paradise, dying might be the cost. But his heart was near bursting from the need for land and an opportunity to make a better living for his family. And his soul craved the excitement and adventure a trip west had to offer.

  Despite these strong arguments for leaving, his all too logical mind kept asking the same questions. He adored Jane and their four young daughters. Could he forgo their current happiness and put the lives of those he loved through the dangers of a thousand-mile journey to appease his ambition? Most of the journey would be through raw wilderness. A lot can happen on a journey like that—much of it not good. Some of it terrible.

  Confused, he wandered restlessly about the room. The walls seemed confining, trapping, as he tried weighing the pros and cons. But the mental drill didn’t help. He was stuck in a quicksand where all decisions and actions seemed impossible.

  His chest tightened as indecisiveness gnawed away at his confidence. He leaned one arm against the mantel and lowered his head.

  The war between doing what was safe for his family, and what he believed to be his destiny, raged on. But he would find a way to win this war. He straightened and pushed his shoulders back. Somehow, he would follow his heart. He picked the book up again and turned to his favorite part,

  “…yet in time the mysterious will of Heaven is unfolded, and we behold our conduct, from whatever motives excited, operating to answer the important designs of Heaven.”

  Jane plucked the book out of Stephen’s work-roughened hands and dropped it on a nearby table. As she did, she noticed his calloused palms. She certainly hadn’t married a lazy man. As usual, he had worked sun up to sun down, trying to get a rocky plot ready for planting. Resting was something he did only on the Sabbath, but even then, he did so begrudgingly.

  Stephen flexed his back muscles and rolled his broad shoulders.

  “Lean forward, let me rub your back. I know it must ache after a full day in the field,” she offered.

  He grinned with anticipation.

  She kneaded his shoulders and he leaned into her touch. Stephen moaned with enjoyment, reminding her of similar sounds of pleasure the evening before. The memory warmed her insides as she recalled trying to muffle her own sounds of marital ecstasy. How he managed to make their coupling better for her every time was inexplicable to her.

  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.