Frontier Gift of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 5)

by Dorothy Wiley

“Aye, I was hopin’ I understood ye correctly. ‘Twas the most logical thing for us to do, given the circumstances,” Bear said. “Yer men are there and awaitin’ yer instructions.”

  “But ye told Bear to tell them ye’d see them in the morn,” Artis said, sounding confused.

  “Aye, but he did it with his left hand fisted behind his back. That’s our signal to do the opposite,” Bear explained. “We dreamed up a secret hand code when we were all wee lads. It has come in handy more than once. And I knew he wanted me to bring the men in through the rear when he pointed his knife that direction instead of toward the barn.”

  “Clever,” Artis said. “When this is all over, ye must teach us that code.”

  “Sam, what’s near here? Any caves? Abandoned cabins? Anyplace they could hide Little John?” Bear asked.

  Sam’s mind raced. “Yes! I’d forgotten. There’s an old beaver trapper’s cabin about two miles from here, off the road heading north. They could have stumbled upon it while hunting food. Perhaps they spent the night there before they came here this morning. When I turned them down, they must have waited in the woods for Little John to come out and play, then followed him out of sight to where we tracked him. I bet if we’d been able to continue, the tracks would have led straight to the cabin.”

  “Aye,” Bear agreed.

  “Now if the weather will just cooperate.” He peered out Bear’s window. Thankfully, only a light dusting of snow now fell and the wind appeared to have calmed. “Looks far better out there. Catherine, I want you to go to bed just as you always do, and try to rest. Call out ‘good night’ to Artis before you shut your door. Artis, you do the same, loud enough for Dixon to hear.”

  Both women nodded their understanding.

  “Catherine, please trust me. I will find him. I promise,” he said.

  Tears glistened on his wife’s pale face. “Oh Sam, bring our son back.”

  Sam placed one hand on her shoulder and the other palm over her bulging belly. “I’ll take care of Little John. You take care of this little one.”

  She smiled up at him. A tear slipped from her dark lashes, but she seemed consoled by their plan and a little more hopeful. “Stay safe, Sam.”

  “Artis, ye should get some rest too. Ye look like yer about to drop,” Bear said.

  She appeared reluctant to admit her weariness, but said, “Aye, I am tired.”

  Bear turned to Sam. “We had little sleep. We only stopped for a wee rest gettin’ here.”

  “Both of you keep the doors to your rooms locked,” Sam said.

  “What are you two going to do?” Catherine asked, sniffling a little.

  “Bear and I will go tie Dixon up, remove his weapons, and then step into the kitchen and make coffee,” he explained. “While the coffee’s brewing, I’ll have Garvin stable and feed Dixon’s horse. His mount looks near frozen.” Whatever animosity he felt toward Dixon, he would not let the animal suffer for it.

  “Then what?” Catherine and Artis both asked at the same time.

  “We can’t both leave,” Sam quietly told Bear. “I want you and Garvin to stay here. Dixon may have more men out there that we don’t know about that lie in wait. They could be planning to attack the house on Dixon’s signal.”

  “Aye,” Bear agreed.

  “After I take a few sips of coffee, I’ll make Dixon think I’m going to bed for a while and putting you on first watch. You stay in the front room with Garvin and guard the bastard well. I’ll sneak out the back door with my men. We’ll go to the cabin. If Little John is there, we’ll rescue him and bring Dixon’s partner back too, if the man is still alive. If I have to kill him, I will.”

  “’Tis a sound plan,” Bear said.

  Sam turned to Catherine. “When we get back, I’ll sneak Little John in through the back door and then let you know he’s safe.”

  “What if the lad is na there?” Artis asked. “What if they have him hidden somewhere else like a cave?”

  “Then we have na lost anythin’ but time,” Bear answered.

  “This is going to work. I can feel it,” Catherine said, wiping the tears from her eyes.

  “It has to,” Sam said. “My son needs me. I will not fail him.”

  Chapter 13

  Sam and Harry, James, and Mathew, led their horses single file as they trudged through the fresh snow, trying to be as quiet as possible. He took them well away from the house before he turned back toward the road. As soon as he thought it was safe, they remounted and headed north on the road that led away from their land.

  Snow, ice, hidden rocks, and frozen ground would make the trek to the cabin challenging. About a half foot of snow lay on the ground, deeper in some places. But the horses began growing their winter coats as soon as the days grew shorter, long before the full force of winter set in, so they were already well protected. And their farm work had made the mounts well-muscled and strong enough to plunge their hooves through snow to gain traction.

  Sam’s horses had carried him through much worse in New Hampshire. But, in difficult conditions like this, it was best to let a horse set his own pace. Thankfully, Alex kept moving steadily forward without slowing and the other horses kept up. It wouldn’t be long and they would near the cabin.

  Over the years, he came to trust a horse’s sharp instinct for sensing danger too. When a horse hesitated to move forward, it usually meant something was wrong. A man who didn’t listen to his horse put them both in peril.

  He also learned to trust his own keen instincts. Intuition is a sacred gift to the warrior. And everyone else facing danger. Now, when Little John’s life depended on him making the right decisions, it would be even more important. When he listened to his soul, his good instincts often told him what to do long before his mind could figure it out.

  He turned his head back toward the three men that followed. “Stay quiet. Noise travels a long way at night and we don’t want to alert the man. By the way, his name is Thomas Crowell.” Like Bear, he made a point to remember the names of his enemies.

  “Yes Sir,” the three men all replied in soft voices.

  As he rode, Sam tried not to worry. He wanted to keep his mind clear and calm. When they neared the cabin, he would need to come up with a plan that would not jeopardize Little John. He gazed ahead, grateful that the snowstorm carried the dark clouds away and the cool-white rays of the moon could now light their way. It was almost as though God Himself held a lantern above their heads.

  Lord, continue to guide me as I seek to find my son.

  At the same moment he finished his entreaty to God, he spotted a part of a body lying face down in the snow a short distance away. A snow bank kept him from seeing the entire form. “Little John?” His mind screamed with panic.

  No! It can’t be.

  He raced Alex over to the prone figure his heart in his throat. He let out a long breath when he realized the body was that of a full grown man. Bill White. The man’s companions literally tossed him to the wolves and coyotes instead of burying him. Dixon and Crowell were men of the worst sort.

  Sam turned to his three men who had followed him to the spot. “One of you can come back tomorrow and bury what’s left of him.”

  The four returned to the winding path leading to the cabin. The night ride held hidden natural beauty. In spots, ice patches appeared infused with moonlight and the snow glistened as though nature sprinkled the trail and the bushes along it with tiny stars. But Sam’s mind stayed focused on Little John. He was certain his son would find strength from within during this ordeal. Strength was in his Wyllie blood. And the trials of life already forced the child to mature beyond his eight years.

  Yet Little John was only a boy and must be frightened, even terrified. The thought hardened the muscles on Sam’s face. He straightened his back. Thomas Crowell would not know what hit him. It would likely be Sam’s fist. Or his knife, if the man resisted. His fingers, numb with cold, gripped the reins in his hand even tighter.

  He finally saw a tiny
glow of light just before he smelled the faint scent of a fire burning in the cabin’s hearth. With each step of the horses, the light grew larger and the scent grew stronger until at last he held up a hand, halting the others. “We’ll tie the horses and walk from here,” he whispered. “Take your rifles in case we need them, although your pistols will be of more use inside the cabin. I assume all of you put fresh powder in your weapons before we left?”

  The three nodded and dismounted, rifles in hand. They fell in line and followed behind Sam, as he carefully maneuvered them around any fallen logs or brush that might make noise. The snow made their progress slow, but they soon found themselves about fifty yards away from the old cabin’s front door.

  He crouched down low behind a bush and studied the rustic structure. There were no windows. A cabin this tiny would have only one way in and one way out. A trapper built this cabin to provide a shelter only a little better than a tent. Considerable smoke drifted up from the rock chimney. If this is where Crowell was hiding Little John, at least his son was reasonably warm.

  He needed to confirm that Crowell was indeed inside. He could see the hip of a horse tied to the other side of the cabin. “Follow me,” he told the others. Sam silently maneuvered to a spot where he could get a clear view of the horse. It was indeed the same mount the man rode this morning—a tall bay with black stockings and tail. And tied next to it stood a shorter sorrel, the mount rode by Bill White.

  They had found them.

  He turned to his men and whispered, “It’s Crowell’s horse.”

  “What now, Captain?” James asked.

  “The most important thing is to be sure Little John doesn’t get hurt. It’s a small cabin so it will be difficult for all of us to not get in each other’s way or line of sight. So, Harry and Mathew, I want you two to focus solely on Little John. Grab him and take him outside, no matter what is happening. James, you’ll go in first and fast. Use your brawn to tackle Crowell. I’ll be right behind you and have my pistol pointed at him ready to shoot if Crowell even tries to draw a weapon. Be exceedingly quiet as you approach. Our best weapon is surprise. Understood?”

  They all nodded and, James whispered, “I can’t wait to take the bloody bastard down.”

  “We’ll take good care of your son,” Harry said. “We love him too.”

  Sam gave Harry and Mathew a reassuring pat on their shoulders. “I’m grateful for your help, gentlemen.” Then he nodded his thanks to James.

  Moving slowly and carefully, they came up well to the right side of the cabin. Sam wanted to stay out of sight in case Crowell opened the door to relieve himself. When they were even with the front of the shelter, he leaned his long rifle against the cabin. The weapon would just get in the way inside. He drew one of his pistols and shuffled closer, keeping his back snug against the rough logs on the cabin’s right front side. The other three propped their rifles up as well and then advanced forward, as he had.

  Sam listened for a moment. Not hearing anything, he motioned for James to move ahead of him. He followed, immediately behind James, and the other two stayed close to Sam’s back. They quietly inched forward until the cabin door was beside them.

  James eyed Sam with determination on his face.

  Sam nodded to go ahead. A heartbeat later, they were inside and Crowell’s wide eyes peered up, shock on his whiskered face.

  Crowell sat at an undersized table. Before the man could even stand up, James flew at the kidnapper like a vicious dog beset on overcoming a cornered animal. Crowell’s chair and back slammed against the dirt floor.

  Sam charged forward and pointed his pistol at Crowell’s head.

  In another heartbeat, James sat astride Crowell and his knees pinned the kidnapper to ground. Then James raised his fist about to slam it across the man’s jaw.

  “Don’t hit him,” Sam yelled, stopping the fist mid-swing.

  With Crowell overpowered, Sam took the time to glance up and see the other two men carrying Little John through the door. He let out a long breath when he realized his son appeared to be all right.

  He turned back and stared down at his son’s abductor. “Get up!” he ordered.

  James appeared reluctant to stop his assault on Crowell, and Sam couldn’t blame him.

  James finally stood and Crowell scrambled up, looking somewhat dazed. “Don’t kill me,” he pleaded. “I was just doing what Dixon ordered me to do.”

  “Are you both soldiers?” Sam asked, knowing the answer.

  Crowell shook his head no.

  “Then you had no reason to follow his orders. Get moving.” Sam motioned toward the door with one of his pistols.

  When they all stood outside in the moonlight, Harry and Mathew reclaimed their rifles and pointed the weapons at Crowell. James stood by fists still clenched at his sides. The kidnapper just stood there, his body slumped, staring at his feet.

  Sam sheathed his pistols and hurried over to where Little John sat on the ground.

  “Little John!” He knelt in front of his son and quickly untied the bindings on the boy’s hands and feet. Hot fury filled him when he noticed large patches of red skin rubbed raw by the rope on his son’s small wrists. The sight made his jaw clench and his breath burn hot in his throat.

  As soon as his hands and feet were freed, Little John’s arms flew around Sam’s neck and his son clung to him tighter than ever before. “Pa, I knew you would come for me.”

  Little John finally released his neck, but left his hands resting on Sam’s shoulders. He could see his son struggling not to cry.

  Sam gave him another hug and then stood. Taking one of the child’s hands, the two faced Crowell. “I don’t know what the penalty is in this state for kidnapping and extortion, but you and your scheming partner will soon find out.” He let go of Little John’s hand and stomped closer to Crowell.

  He could no longer restrain the ferocity of his wrath. He snarled through gritted teeth, “Until then, this will just have to do.” With all the force his right arm could deliver, he clobbered the kidnapper’s face.

  Crowell’s head snapped back and he cried out in pain, his nose bleeding and undoubtedly broken. But the vicious blow wasn’t enough to appease Sam’s pent up fury. He gave into his rage and struck the bastard again, this time under the jaw, with his left fist.

  That blow sent Crowell sprawling on his back. “Don’t let him kill me,” he whined pathetically, his eyes searching frantically for help from Sam’s men.

  Still fuming, Sam glared down at Crowell, then over at Little John. “Did they hurt you?”

  Little John swallowed hard. “They warned me that they would cut the bottoms of my feet if I tried to run away, but they didn’t ‘cuz I didn’t try.”

  The bastards! How dare they threaten his son with such barbarity? He didn’t know if it was true or just a frontier rumor, but Sam had heard reports of Indians doing that to a white child they’d captured to make the bottoms of his feet so sore he couldn’t run away. Dixon must have heard the same story.

  He glowered at Crowell. With fists clenched, he took a step toward the cowering man.

  “I didn’t say that. It was Dixon,” Crowell protested. “He threatened the boy and planned everything.”

  “When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty,” Sam sneered.

  He turned his attention back to Little John. “Anything else?”

  Little John squared his little shoulders. “Mostly they just tried to scare me. But I don’t scare easy!”

  “Tie him!” Sam ordered. “Before I beat the filthy swine to death.” The thought was sorely tempting.

  Mathew stepped inside to find something that would serve to bind the man’s wrists together.

  Eyes glaring, Little John scowled at Crowell himself. “He took my knife and my rifle. I want them back!”

  Despite his anger, Sam was amused. “Let’s go find your weapons. And your coat.”

  “May I have my coat too,” Crowell begged. He was still sitting in the snow, s
hivering and moaning.

  Sam eyed the man with contempt. He was tempted to let frostbite be part of his punishment. “I’ll find it. Only because you need to live long enough for due justice to be served.”

  When he and Little John entered the tiny cabin, Mathew held up a long coil of rough rawhide. “This should serve.”

  “Grab his coat there too,” Sam instructed. “After his hands and feet are tied, throw him over his saddle face down, and then tie him to his horse. And one of you will need to lead the dead man’s horse. We can pick up his body on the way home.”

  “I’ll tie both swine on well,” Mathew said as he left, leaving Sam and his son alone in the cabin.

  Kneeling, he took hold of both of Little John’s hands again. “You’ve been through a tough experience Little John. You’ve been brave, but it’s okay to cry if you need to.”

  “No, I was scared, real scared, because I didn’t know why they took me. I knew you would come for me, but I didn’t know if you could find me here.”

  “I will always be there when you need me. And if I’m not right in front of you, I’ll be right here, inside your heart.” Sam tapped his son’s chest. “Remember that.”

  “I will Pa.”

  “Are you still worried or scared?”

  “No, not now. I’m just happy.”

  “I am too, son.” He wrapped his arms around his boy and hugged him tightly.

  Then they found Little John’s knife, rifle, powder and ball pouch, and his coat. Sam got him bundled and buttoned against the cold. Then he snuffed out the fire with the sand bucket, gathered up Crowell’s weapons, and they went outside.

  “Our horses are a fair ways off. Climb on my back and I’ll carry you. The snow’s too deep for you.”

  He crouched down and Little John climbed up onto his back.

  God had blessed him with a strong body, broad shoulders, and well-muscled back, so carrying his son for a distance would pose no problem. In fact, it felt good to feel Little John resting safely against him, heart to heart.

  “I love you, Pa.”

  Sam had to swallow his emotions a few times before he could speak. “I love you too, son.”