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

by Dorothy Wiley

  “You can’t name your mount after someone you dislike. The horse is a noble animal and you should name him after someone you respect. That’s why I named mine George, after Washington.”

  “You got it wrong brother. A typical horse is an ornery, untrustworthy, unpredictable animal that’s only useful if exceptionally well-trained.”

  “Good steeds are God’s greatest gift to man, next to a woman of course. And I suspect most horses give a man less grief than most women,” Stephen retorted.

  “What did you just say?” Jane asked, just walking up as he finished his sentence.

  “I was explaining to Sam why a man should name his mount after someone he admires,” he said quickly.

  “What I heard was that most horses can give a man less grief than a woman,” she declared, crossing her arms.

  “That’s exactly what he said,” Sam said. “I heard those very words myself.”

  Stephen could tell that Sam was feeling the effects of the whiskey he still drank for pain and had seized an opportunity to cause him problems.

  “I said ‘most’ women, that doesn’t mean you, Jane,” Stephen said, feeling defensive.

  “What women do you mean then?”

  He swallowed. Jane wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “I don’t mean any women. I was talking about George. No, I meant horses in general.”

  “No, you said George was God’s greatest gift,” Sam injected, clearly enjoying himself.

  Alex snorted contentedly and Sam laughed while he brushed the gelding’s coat, shining now like new gold coins.

  “You’re deliberately trying to cause trouble with my wife. I can see you’re feeling better. We leave tomorrow,” Stephen said and marched off.

  After walking only a short distance with the cane, Sam limped back to camp instead of hunting with Bear, unable to put his full weight on the ankle, even after three weeks. “Damn that’s aggravating,” Sam said, through clenched teeth. Glowering, Sam threw his cane down and took a seat near Jane.

  Jane could see that it made Sam mad to admit a physical weakness. It was something a man like him just didn’t do. He had always been an exceptionally strong man, able to travel great distances by foot without fatigue. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Jane said. “It has only been a short while since your injury. If you push yourself too hard now your libel to have a bad ankle your whole life and I worked too hard to make that ankle mend correctly.”

  “You did a splendid job with splinting. It just needs a while longer,” Sam said, looking calmer now. “You look pale. Are you feeling well?”

  Jane inhaled and let the breath out slowly. Even breathing seemed to make her tired. “I’m just weary. This journey is considerably harder than I expected. It nearly killed both of us. One day we’re cold and wet from these horrendous storms and the next we are sweating through our clothes and the air is so heavy you can hardly breathe. And I miss being clean. I’m constantly covered in either mud or dust to say nothing of these annoying insect bites.” She paused long enough to scratch her itching ankles. “And we still have so far to go. I don’t mean to complain. I’m just bloody tired.” She stroked the neck of Sam’s new horse, tied nearby. The buckskin’s silky hair felt good against her palm. Precious few things on this journey felt soft to her hand.

  “Jane, don’t fight this trip. You can never win. Draw strength from being tested,” Sam said. “That’s the difference between those who make it and those who don’t.”

  “How? How do I do that?”

  She waited while Sam thought for a moment before answering.

  “Like Alex here, he feels soft and looks beautiful on the outside, but when you touch him, you also feel strong hard muscle beneath. When he’s pushed, he responds from that power. Think of these challenges as exercises to build your inner strength, not obstacles to sap it.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that.” She didn’t feel beautiful on the outside or strong on the inside. She saw only mud and dirt and felt only mounting weariness.

  “Nature never fails to challenge us. If we fight it, we exhaust our strength. But if we respect it, both for its power to create and to destroy, it can help us grow stronger.”

  “You want me to respect the wilderness? Use it to make me stronger?”

  “I challenge you to do so. If you don’t, you’ll grow to hate the wilderness But if you do, you will find the beauty in it, learn to love it as I do.”

  Sam was right. He was proof of his own words. She lifted her chin and said, “All right, I accept your challenge.”

  She took a deep breath and marched off to find Stephen. Then they would both bathe in the nearby beautiful pond. The idea suddenly sent her spirits soaring. Picturing the hard muscles of her husband’s bare body made her feel stronger already.

  The next few weeks passed uneventfully, except that Stephen noticed that the children changed from week to week as children are wont to do. Baby Mary started to walk, Amy grew another tooth, Polly started reading, Martha grew at least an inch, and Little John decided he was old enough to ride his own mount. He begged Stephen to let him have the remaining spare horse. They had sold Little John’s pony before leaving Barrington because it was too old to make the trip. The extra horse was especially gentle and reined well and Stephen knew it would be easier on John’s mount if it did not have the extra load of the boy every day.

  “I think Little John would be a fine horseman,” he told John. “It’s in his blood. Besides, the horse needs to be ridden if he’s going to stay gentle.”

  “Then you ride him,” John retorted, “Little John is just a boy; he doesn’t need a man’s steed.”

  “He’ll need to become a man quick enough on the frontier. The sooner he gets started the better,” Stephen snapped back.

  “I’m his father and I’ll decide when he needs to become a man,” John retorted.

  “John, Stephen’s right,” Sam intervened. “Little John will be much safer if he’s a good rider. A fine mount can save a man, or a boy, from disaster. Soon he’ll need to learn to handle a weapon too. It’s time you let the boy start to grow up.”

  John glanced at Stephen and then Sam. “All right, so long as Stephen teaches him to become a better rider.”

  “And I’ll teach him to use a knife,” Sam promised.

  “There’s a secret to loping a horse the right way,” Stephen told Little John later.

  “What secret?” Little John asked.

  “It’s all in the reins,” he explained. “Most people keep the reins in the same spot held over their mount’s neck or saddle.”

  “That’s the way I do it,” the boy said.

  “That’s wrong. You see, the horse is moving his head as he runs. It moves forward and back, just as your body does. So the reins need to move with his head. Otherwise, you’re jerking him every time he takes a step and it’s hard for him to run smooth.”

  Little John said, “I want to be a good horseman, just like you Uncle Stephen.”

  “To be a good rider, you need to understand how your gelding moves and, more importantly, how he thinks.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “It’s mostly time in the saddle. The more time you spend with him, watching him, learning how he thinks, the more you’ll understand him.”

  Little John, now six, took to the horse instantly and the two became inseparable. With every lesson he gave him, his nephew’s skill as a rider and the boy’s gratitude towards him grew.

  Stephen suspected Little John would have sided with him in the recent debate with Sam on the proper inspiration for naming a horse. Little John named the gelding Dan—after his hero Daniel Boone.

  Chapter 22

  To describe today would be a repetition of yesterday. We have come over 300 miles. We are continually plagued by rain and grey skies. Every storm makes even making a meal a challenge. Yesterday’s weather was especially oppressive. I thought I would go mad from the incessant pounding of raindrops on the wagon cover. I have given up
trying to keep us all clean, instead focusing on my struggle to keep the children warm. We have stuck a wheel so many times I have lost count. I am trying hard to live up to Sam’s challenge, to think of these trials as opportunities to grow stronger. But, nature seems determined to test my resolve.

  Despite these hardships, we are also blessed. I have not told Stephen yet, but I am with child. I know our daughters are precious to him beyond measure, but I pray this time we will have the son I know he desires. I know being with child will make this trip more difficult for me, but children come in God’s time, not ours.

  Jane closed the journal, put aside the ink and quill, then leaned back against a Sycamore tree. A cool breeze wafted over her face, blowing wisps of her hair against her ears and neck. Baby Mary slept next to her knee. A patchwork quilt covered the damp ground beneath them. She enjoyed just watching the little beauty sleep. She thought about Stephen and how handsome he looked when he was asleep—when his cares and ambition did not burden his fine face. Her cheeks and neck heated as an overwhelming urge to kiss him suddenly seized her. And she wanted to feel his strong arms around her. To love him. But their lack of privacy made being amorous rare and beyond difficult. Soon, she promised herself.

  She inhaled deeply, taking in the soothing earthy fragrance of this tranquil place, and let her breath out slowly. These few moments to rest and record her thoughts were precious and she savored the serenity.

  But the moment’s quiet peace did not last long.

  Martha ran up. “Mama, Uncle Sam said to fetch you. Amy’s face is red and her eyes look strange.”

  She quickly gathered Mary and the quilt in her arm, grabbed the journal and ink, and hurried with Martha to Sam.

  Sam rested against his saddle, holding Amy, her head leaning against his broad shoulder. Amy’s tiny fingers played listlessly with the fringe of his buckskin shirt.

  “She wandered over here a little bit ago and climbed on my lap. Knew she was sick as soon as she sat down,” Sam said, concerned.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?” Jane asked, feeling Amy’s forehead. Her daughter felt blistery hot and red patches covered her cheeks and neck. Jane tried not to show Amy the fear that gripped her heart. The child was quite ill.

  She climbed into her wagon to lay Mary down and went back for Amy. She put Amy next to Mary on the pallet the girls used, then stuck her head out the back. “Get your father,” she told Martha, who stood with Polly nearby.

  “What’s wrong?” Stephen asked, peering inside the wagon, the moment he reached it.

  “Girls, take the bucket and get some water so I can make a broth for Amy,” Jane told Martha and Polly, before answering.

  As soon as they were alone, her eyes burned with tears wanting to fall. “Dear God, Stephen, Amy’s burning up and shaking with chills. I don’t know if its exposure to all these rainstorms or yellow fever. I just know she is terribly ill.”

  “Yellow fever? It killed thousands in Philadelphia a few years ago. It can’t be that. She just has a chill is all,” Stephen said firmly, dismissing the notion.

  “Remember the symptoms of Yellow Fever, fever and chills? Exactly what she has. It killed indiscriminately. Some got it while others in the same family didn’t.” Biting her lip, she turned her eyes back on her daughter. Her mood veered sharply from worry to anger. “I’ll make her some herb and oak bark tea. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Stephen climbed inside and felt Amy’s face. “I’ll sit with Mary and Amy while you find and mix the herbs.”

  This time she detected worry in his voice and it alarmed her.

  Jane quickly put some of the water on to boil and took the rest to the wagon to wipe Amy down. She removed her girl’s dress and mopped her body with the cool cloth, then handed the rag to Stephen.

  “Keep wiping her down, especially her forehead,” she told Stephen. “I’ll go brew the tea.”

  While Jane made the herb tea, Stephen stayed with Amy. His girls had never been seriously ill before and the shadow of worry hung over him. Before long, a dread—dark and terrifying—crept into him. He tried to ban it, but couldn’t. He began to pray.

  The sound of trotting horses lifted him back from the retreat of prayer. He wiped Amy’s forehead before climbing out of the wagon.

  “Hope John’s luckier than we were,” William said, as he and Bear dismounted.

  “Amy’s ill,” Stephen said at once.

  “How bad?” William asked.

  “I don’t know. She has a bad fever. John’s down at the creek. Tell him he’ll need to cook the fish he catches for dinner so Jane can tend to Amy.”

  Bear’s bushy eyebrows grew closer and his face looked troubled before he said, “I’ll tell him, and I’ll water these thirsty horses too.”

  “Can I do anything?” William asked.

  “Pray,” he answered.

  Jane brought the tea to the girls and then yelled, “Stephen, come here.”

  He didn’t like the desperate sound of her voice. He and William both jumped to the back of the wagon and looked in.

  “Mary’s getting warm too. Feel her,” Jane cried, moving the baby closer so he could reach her. “God, why?”

  He ran his palm over Mary’s little head, indeed quite warm. “Jane, just do your best. That’s all you can do,” he said, trying his best to calm her, despite his own rising panic. He glanced back at Martha and Polly who stood nearby. “Help Uncle John get dinner ready,” he told them.

  “I’ll make coffee and bring you both some,” William offered.

  Stephen climbed back into the wagon. “Here, let me hold Mary while you wipe down Amy. When did Amy go to sleep?”

  “A few minutes ago. The fever made her drowsy. The tea didn’t help,” Jane said, panic entering her voice. “What if she doesn’t wake up?”

  “Give it time. She just drank it. Can the baby take any?”

  “Yes. Here’s her baby cup. She just started drinking from it this week.”

  Stephen was sorry he hadn’t noticed that. He gently held the little pewter cup to the toddler’s lips. What a beautiful girl. Had he taken the time to notice even that before now? Mary’s red curls hung damp and limp as the fever climbed. Her eyes studied his face—eyes that somehow knew he was trying to help her. She took a small sip. Jane had flavored it with honey and Mary seemed to like it. After taking another swallow, she managed a weak smile up at him. Then, cradled in his arms, she too fell asleep. He laid Mary down and covered her with a warm blanket to keep the chills at bay, before returning to the others.

  He didn’t want to eat but tried to bring Jane some food. She refused it and he returned to the campfire. John fed fresh fish to the rest of the group. After dinner, Little John, Martha, and Polly snuggled by the fire as John read to them. Within minutes, all three children slept soundly and Stephen covered them with blankets and tucked them in.

  Sam, William, Bear, and John decided to alternate sentry duty to keep a careful watch over their camp. Now that they were in unfamiliar country, unsure of what they might encounter, at least one of them would be awake at all times.

  He rejoined Jane and the night stretched endlessly. The dark sky matched their growing despair as they grimly watched both daughters slowly slipping away. Mary’s breathing grew slow and shallow and fever burned red through her face.

  Amy began coughing and as the night progressed, the cough worsened. “Mama, Mama,” she whimpered repeatedly, each time tearing at his heart.

  Jane stared grim-faced at him. “I can’t believe they’re both so sick at the same time.” She started to cry, unable to hold back her tears of worry any longer.

  Helplessness made him miserable. With each passing hour, his sense of vulnerability grew, like a black hole growing bigger and darker, pulling their daughters away.

  He sensed Jane struggling to remain calm, but as she caressed Mary’s sweet face with the gentle hand of a loving mother, her face suddenly contorted with fear. “She’s barely breathing,” Jane cried out, despe
rately cradling Mary against her breast.

  He looked on, numb with dread, powerless to help. He dropped to his knees, bowed his head. His spirit reached for God. “Lord don’t. Please do not take her. Not this little one. She has lived but one short year. If someone must die on this trip, let it be me, not these innocents. Let it be me who pays for my dreams.”

  Tears slipping down his cheeks, he turned his eyes to Jane. What he saw on her face filled him with terror. He grabbed Jane, wrapping his arms around both her and Mary, desperately hugging them both to his chest.

  The tears of both parents fell on their dead daughter.

  Grief exploded through his mind and body, nearly blowing him apart. But for Amy’s sake, he would not let this nightmare consume him, not yet. He forced himself to throttle his emotions. They had to find a way to save Amy. He helped Jane, who cried continuously, wipe Amy’s forehead with a cool cloth more times than he could count. He prayed without ceasing. He held the tiny hand of the three-year-old in his own, as Jane talked to her, trying to keep her alert, trying to soothe all their fears.

  “Mama, I see…,” Amy said, barely above a whisper.

  “See what my darling?” Jane asked, looking into their daughter’s dimming eyes.

  “Look,” Amy said, raising just a finger to point. “It’s baby Mary.”

  Her sister’s name would be the last thing Amy would ever say. She died just before dawn.

  Overwhelmed with soul-breaking sorrow, Stephen stumbled from the back of the wagon, nearly collapsing to the ground. He could not bring himself to tell the others. He didn’t have to. Sam, John, William, and Bear, already awake and waiting nearby, knew as they listened to Jane’s terrible wailing cries. They grabbed him to keep him from falling. Bear put an arm around his shoulders and nearly carried him to the cook fire. William poured him a cup of coffee. He shook his head, refusing it.

  He stared into the fire and gave his mind up to the shock and horror.