New Frontier of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 2)

by Dorothy Wiley

The hunter gasped for air as he dropped to his knees, groaning and holding his stomach.

  Sam circled around behind the breathless man. He wanted to kick Foley all the way to hell. He settled for kicking him in the back, between his shoulder blades, sending the hunter face down and tasting dirt. “That’s for horse stealing.”

  Sam stood over him and reached down to turn the devil over.

  Foley yanked out a skinning knife hidden in his boot.

  He pulled away, but not fast enough or far enough.

  The man rolled over and thrust the knife at Sam’s leg.

  He gasped as the cold steel penetrated his thigh. The shock of it was worse than the pain. It only fed his fury. Hungry for revenge at last, he stopped just long enough to pull the knife out of his leg and hurl it. He saw drops of his own blood follow the knife’s path through the air.

  He limped toward George, feeling warm blood run down his leg and begin to fill his moccasin boot. He bent to pick up the whip, but his head spun and his stomach lurched with nausea. Just for a second, he squeezed his eyes closed. It was a mistake.

  Too late to stop the man, Foley jumped him from behind. He blocked Foley’s hand with his forearm, but he felt a hard object connect with his skull. At least he had managed to soften the blow. As intense pain shot through his head, he saw a rock drop next to him. He shook his head as he fought to keep darkness from overtaking him. He could not let this bastard win this battle.

  As Sam turned toward him, blinking through the blinding stars before his eyes, Foley reached toward him, grabbing one of his two pistols. The hunter took a few steps back.

  Ominously, Sam heard the weapon cock. It seemed like the loudest noise he had ever heard, as the distinctive sound reverberated in his pounding head.

  Suddenly, George charged towards Foley, nearly running the man over and forcing the buffalo hunter to fall backwards to the ground.

  The sneaky traitor has only one shot, he realized through the painful cloud in his head. Would the hunter shoot the horse or him? Knowing what the stallion meant to Stephen, he almost wished it would be him. He reached for his other pistol and made himself stand up, but he swayed on his feet.

  Protectively, George reared up, aiming his front hooves at the man now the horse’s enemy too. Like enormous black hammers, the stallion’s powerful legs plummeted down.

  Foley hastily rolled away, but George turned, lowered his head, and quickly headed toward the hunter.

  Sam could finally focus his eyes in the time George had given him. He aimed his pistol at the hunter. “Drop that weapon,” he ordered.

  Still scurrying across the ground on his knees, Foley looked terrified as George came at him.

  “George, whoa boy,” Sam tried. “Whoa.” The stallion refused to slow. Sam aimed his pistol to fire at Foley, but the horse stood in the way of his shot.

  The hunter turned toward George and fired the pistol.

  The ball slammed into George’s broad muscled chest. The big stallion squealed in pain and panic.

  Sam ran to the horse and saw red blood quickly spread across the black hair under the animal’s neck. Helplessly he watched George’s front knees drop to the ground and his own legs nearly buckled beneath him. He stared in disbelief as the stallion collapsed completely to one side.

  Then he turned his eyes, bulging and burning with fresh rage, to glower down at the man who caused so much pain. So much evil.

  Ignoring his own injury, he took several steps, grabbed the whip off the ground, and then barreled forward toward Foley, the venom of his wrath escalating with each step. He reached down and yanked the man’s vest off to sling it aside.

  The abominable man scrambled up and tried to run away but only got a few feet.

  The whip uncoiled like a snake strike across Foley’s back, causing the man to stumble and fall to his knees, just as George had. Then the lash struck the hunter’s legs, ripping flesh away, as he tried to make the worm’s punishment match his own terrible anger. He was tempted to whip the man to death.

  He wouldn’t kill him. But he would make sure Foley felt considerable pain before he stopped.

  The buffalo hunter crawled on his stomach, but had difficulty moving. Blood dripped from both sides of the man’s back, leaving trails of red dirt for Sam to step between as he slowly followed.

  Sam’s own blood flowed freely from his leg, joining Foley’s on the ground. He jerked his pistol out of this monster’s hand and stuck it back in his belt. Growling at the man, he could not believe he had let the whoreson use his own weapon against Stephen’s beloved horse. He yanked the whip back again. With difficulty, he kept his hand from releasing it.

  Foley crawled again, barely able to drag himself a few feet before collapsing.

  Sam swayed, unsteady on his leg. It was time to finish this while he still could. This vile man had much more to answer for than shooting George. He tossed the whip aside and grabbed his loaded pistol from his belt.

  “This is for being a damn bloody traitor. For causing so many good men to die because of you. You bastard son of Satan.”

  He yanked the pistol’s hammer back. “Now you die.”

  “You won’t shoot a one-handed unarmed man. You’re too much of a Christian,” Foley sneered with an equal mix of scorn and ridicule. The man drew his head back in a gesture of defiance, looking down his bulbous nose at Sam.

  Sam glowered at the man, his heart stone cold, his blood seething hot. He gripped the weapon tightly, so hard he thought his knuckles might crack. It would take every bit of his will not to shoot. But he was a Christian. Would it be wrong to kill this evil man? Would it be murder or justice?

  His knife burned against his waist, nearly screaming at him, begging to be unsheathed. It wanted to penetrate Foley’s cold black heart. It was why his knife existed—forged for revenge—for justice that had gone unquenched for so many years. And it was time for retribution, payback, vengeance, an eye for an eye—all meant for…another man.

  With a snarl-like smile, Foley chuckled arrogantly when Sam slowly eased the hammer back down and stuck the pistol back in his belt.

  It was not a question of mercy. Like throwing pearls before swine, he would not waste mercy on a dark soul like this.

  It also wasn’t a question of whether he could use the knife. He could. He would do it for Catherine. He would eagerly do it for all those victims this evil man had wronged. He could finish this.

  He dragged his blade slowly out of its sheath. The sound of the knife’s release always sent a satisfying tremor through his heart. The steel glimmered at him invitingly, tempting him to use it.

  His face hardened as he pointed the weapon’s tip at Foley. “You deserved to die long ago for causing so many of our men to die!”

  “It was war,” Foley yelled.

  “You’re right it was. And it still is,” Sam swore.

  “The war’s over,” Foley screeched.

  “There’s one more traitor that needs to die. You. And dying will only be the start of your punishment,” he taunted. “The flesh will burn off your bones for all eternity.”

  At the sight of the long blade, or maybe the prospect of hell, stark fear flashed across the man’s loathsome countenance for the first time. Foley’s face turned ashen and glistening bands of sweat appeared across his upper lip and forehead.

  All of a sudden, Foley’s face blurred. Sam blinked trying to clear his eyes. In his mind, William moved between the hunter and him. He shook his head, trying to clear the blurred image. It must be the loss of blood.

  No, it was more than that.

  William, a man of the law, would want justice. And justice was more than just settling a score. Justice demanded that a man face his crimes before God and man before he paid the penalty. That was the difference between revenge and justice.

  And Catherine would want him to choose justice over revenge. And to choose love over hate.

  He had only one option.

  He understood what he had to do, not wha
t he wanted to do, what he had to do. He snarled savagely and swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. His jaw clenched, as he concentrated on the feel of the deer horn handle in his hand rather than the alluring gleam of the blade. Suddenly, his mind, heated with the fever of anger, filled with an image of Catherine’s beautiful eyes, shining with inner beauty and life.

  Summoning up the image of Catherine’s gleaming eyes, he forced the knife back into its sheath.

  “Stand up, you slimy bastard, you’re going back to hang, and then you’ll be going on to Hell.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Sam heard George wheezing, as the big horse struggled to breathe. He wondered if the beautiful stallion was waiting to die until he knew Sam was safe.

  “I told you to stand up,” he commanded Foley again, as he limped over to George. “Or do you want to taste that whip again?”

  Scowling, Foley followed Sam’s order and unsteadily stood up.

  The stallion suddenly squealed in pain. At once, Sam dropped down on one knee, placing his hand on George’s muzzle to soothe the injured horse.

  In the same instant, he felt something split the air above his head.

  The ball smacked into Foley’s stomach, blowing the buffalo hunter’s big soft gut in two. The ghastly sound turned Sam’s stomach. The man’s body punched the ground as it fell heavily backwards.

  Sam instantaneously hunkered low, behind George’s saddle, tasting dirt on his lips. He had come close to tasting death instead. He was in the open with no cover and nothing but his pistols, only one still loaded.

  In the distance, he heard horses thundering toward him. He peered over the saddle. The three remaining buffalo hunters were heading his direction at full speed. At least they had not stopped to shoot again and were still a fair ways off.

  Despite his throbbing head, Sam’s mind raced. He could use George for a shield, but he would not do that. Stephen loved George too much to have him riddled with lead balls. He couldn’t do that to his brother or to George. “You saved my life old boy,” he whispered hoarsely. But the horse was about to lose his. He saw the life go out of the magnificent stallion his brother had loved for so long.

  Sorrow seared Sam’s heart, and his throat grew raw with unuttered protests and screams of anger. But he needed to reload. He needed a plan. He pulled the rifle off the saddle. With his heart pounding, he quickly reloaded it and the pistol that Frank had used to shoot George. He looked for cover, and started for it, but forced to drag his injured leg, the knife wound permitted only a ragged hop and the trees were a good fifty yards away. He gritted his teeth at the throbbing pain. He needed to hurry. He would soon have three powerful guns aimed at him. He could kill one with his rifle as soon as he had a good shot. The other two he could kill with his pistols, if he didn’t miss. And, he would have to shoot both of them before one shot him. The odds were not good.

  He was just moments away from a battle for his life. He might never get to hold Catherine again. Everything they might have experienced together might end right here. Too soon. But Foley is dead, even if it wasn’t by Sam’s own hand. The Satan’s bastard could not hurt Catherine or anyone else ever again.

  If he had to die, at least he had experienced love once more. He thanked God for that.

  Suddenly, Sam sensed that his life was not supposed to end this way. He wouldn’t let it. He had someone he must live for. His heart swelled. His love for Catherine so strong, he had to defy death.

  He had denied death before, numerous times.

  He would not die today either. He had to get back to her, to go on loving her for the rest of his days. He spotted a large shrub and hurried toward it, forcing the sharp pain in his leg to retreat deep inside of him. Instead, he filled his mind with images of Catherine, and his heart filled with hope. He limped toward the bush, dragging his throbbing leg behind him.

  “Big Ben, you dumb ass, you shot Frank!” Sam heard one of the buffalo hunters yell to the other, as they yanked their horses to a stop around Foley’s corpse.

  He saw the three hunters look down at the pathetic remains of what used to be their leader. Big Ben spit at Foley’s feet and said, “Looks like there wasn’t much left of him anyway.”

  Sam shook his head in disgust, sure the callous hunters felt neither grief nor regret. Killing and death had been so much a part of their lives for so long they almost certainly could not even feel the loss of one of their own.

  “Pick up that whip. I’ll use it to kill that big fellow. I’ll teach him to whip one of us,” Big Ben shouted.

  One of the three dismounted, picked up the whip, and handed it up to Big Ben.

  The hunters took off heading in Sam’s direction, their horses’ hooves kicking big clumps of dirt onto their leader’s body as they lunged to a full gallop.

  Sam hoped it would be the only burial Foley would get.

  Hidden by the large bush that just covered his big body, Sam took aim with his rifle and fired, hitting the one closest to him in the center of the man’s chest. As the hunter fell from his horse and crashed to the ground, Sam noticed the man’s shorn scalp. When he’d cut that hair off, he had warned the fellow not to bother them again. The man should have listened.

  The other two hunters wrenched their mounts to a stop and struggled to control their now skittish horses twisting in circles.

  Sam hastily resumed hopping toward better cover, reloading the rifle as he went. He glanced back at the two and didn’t notice the rotting log hidden by grass. He tripped, and fell on his wounded leg. Pain blasted through his thigh as the slash ripped further open and the gash on the back of his head shot searing heat through his skull. He clutched his leg trying to hold the wound together and gritted his teeth at the severe ache in his head. Blood began to seep from his leg again.

  That was it. He could go no further.

  He saw the two hunters heading toward him again. He plucked both pistols from his belt. He would have to make a stand right here in the open. Well, by God, he would give them a fight.

  Sam fired, but unsteady on his wounded leg and feeling lightheaded from the loss of blood, only grazed the side of one man’s arm. He fired the second pistol. He stared disbelieving through the powder’s smoke. He had missed twice, and he never missed.

  Until now. Why now, Lord?

  As the two men continued to bear down on him, he glanced at the pistols in his hands. His hands and the weapons shook. His wounds were taking their toll on his body.

  He stuck the weapons in his belt and pulled his knife. The grip felt good in his hands. Power seemed to flow into him from the blade, giving him courage and renewed strength.

  The two remaining buffalo hunters dragged their horses to a stop in front of him, both wearing mocking grins and smelling of death. Big Ben held the whip.

  He could see their malevolent intentions in their evil darkened eyes.

  They would torture him.

  Sam defiantly stepped forward. He brandished the big knife, and teeth bared, he glared viciously from one to the other. He would give these two only one chance. “You both need to surrender yourselves to the law,” he warned. “If you don’t, you’ll surely die today.”

  Both men guffawed, and then Big Ben declared, “You’re the one who is going to die today. I’m going to enjoy whipping you to death. Drop that knife, or Lucas here will shoot you in the other leg.”

  Sam wanted to throw the knife at Big Ben, but realized as soon as he did the other man, evidently named Lucas, would shoot him. “No, I’m rather fond of this knife. I think I’ll keep it.”

  Big Ben put the whip over his saddle horn and lifted his long heavy gun into the crook of his arm for support. However, his horse and the other man’s horse would not settle, making it impossible for either one to aim accurately.

  The other man drew his pistol and fired at Sam anyway.

  The ball flew past Sam’s head, narrowly missing his ear.

  He gave the shooter a withering stare and brandished his knife at both of the
m. With every blade stroke slicing through the air, it felt like he formed a barrier between himself and the buffalo hunters, as though the blade held the ability to hold back evil. He had always believed his knife held special powers. Now he knew it.

  Both buffalo hunters obviously recognized the huge knife. Sam could almost see them recalling the image of a screaming Foley with the blade protruding from their leader’s arm. Their faces reflected hesitation and then alarm as they both stared, nearly transfixed, at the lethal weapon.

  Then curses rolled out of Big Ben’s mouth as he tried again to aim his rifle, pointing it more at the knife than at Sam.

  Sam stared up into the darkness of the huge weapon’s barrel. He had to stay out of its path or he would die. He quickly shifted left, then right, then shuffled back, staying one step ahead of Big Ben’s aim, waiting for a chance to launch his knife. The blade had to hit Big Ben with perfect timing to prevent the man from pulling the trigger and shooting him.

  Off to the side, astride his horse, Lucas waited for Big Ben to make the kill.

  Suddenly, the massive hunter’s focus shifted away. Something had caught the man’s eye.

  As Big Ben’s horse saw it too, the mount jerked and lurched, making aiming the weapon impossible. The nervous mount raised his head and whinnied.

  Lucas quickly started to reload his pistol.

  Sam followed Big Ben’s gaze and then he saw them too. Their horses raced wide open across the same meadow through which he had just chased Foley.

  Awestruck at the sight of the threesome, Sam’s mouth hung open, and hope filled him.

  Like a huge angry beast a horse, Bear’s long arm stuck straight up, holding his Kentucky rifle like a spear. His hairy-face fierce, Bear yelled a Scottish war cry, a part of his heritage learned from his grandfather. The vicious roar could make the blood of even the stoutest enemy run cold, but it gave Scottish warriors courage.

  And it gave Sam hope. The battle cry fortified his heart as nothing else could have.

  William, who rode beside Bear, looked like a horseback god of justice. His blonde hair had come loose, the wind blowing it behind him like the mane of his horse. His countenance held the cold determination of a noble marble statue as he thundered toward Sam.