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

by Dorothy Wiley

  “Some pretty ones are over there Father,” Martha said, pointing to a cluster of wild yellow daisies.

  “Yes, your mother would fancy those. Pick some, but watch for snakes.”

  She gently picked them, one by one, and carefully formed a large bouquet.

  “It was sweet of you to think of doing this for your Mother,” he said as they strolled back to camp. As guilt rose up in his chest, he lowered his head and eyes, sorry that he hadn’t tried to do more for Jane himself.

  He hadn’t even been able to talk to her. Even looking at her was hard—the fiery sparkle of her green eyes extinguished. Whenever their eyes met, she looked back at him with the unfocused stare of those helpless against death’s terrible power.

  “She’s still sad,” Martha said.

  “We all are.”

  “When will we stop being sad?”

  “Some of us will feel better soon. Some will take longer.”

  “I think you will be longer,” she said.

  He knelt and hugged her, a tear slipping out of his eyes. Martha was right.

  Stephen returned to the campsite irritated with himself because he hadn’t tried to help Jane. “Stop sharpening that knife,” he snapped at Sam. “It’s sharp enough to slice through solid rock.”

  But just how to help her still eluded him. He remembered hearing the wagon squeaking that day. His fists tightened around the wheel’s rim. “Let’s get this noisy wheel fixed,” he told John. Bear and William had gone off to hunt the evening’s meal. “It makes a grinding noise that’s probably annoying Jane. Right now I need to do all I can to ease her mind.”

  “Just needs some grease,” John suggested.

  As he reached into the supply box to get it, an arrow whizzed past John hitting the supply box lid, missing him by a finger’s width. John crouched by the wheel and grabbed his rifle.

  Another arrow sang through the air pinning Stephen’s arm to the side of the wagon. He howled in pain and clenched his teeth. He tried to yank his arm away from the arrow. His flesh began to tear. His skin and the sturdy wool cloth of his jacket were pinned securely.

  “Jane, get the children under cover. Indians!” Stephen yelled. Jane was on the other side of the wagon somewhere and he had to get to her soon, but the arrow had him trapped and exposed.

  He turned in the direction the arrows had come from and spotted an Indian pulling back his bow.

  “Cherokee,” Sam yelled as he aimed his rifle.

  The arrow slammed into the wheel, narrowly missing Stephen’s leg.

  Sam fired and the brave went down. “John, give me cover while I free Stephen.” Sam jumped up and used his knife, slicing through the center of the arrow as if it was made of paper. Then Sam grabbed the arrow and yanked it out of the wood.

  He gasped as his arm came free and fell to the ground, the arrowhead’s shaft still embedded in his skin. The arrow had pierced the underside of his left arm below his bicep. Sweat pooled on his face as he fought against the burning sting splaying around the arm’s muscles like the teeth of a trap.

  A brave stood up from his cover in the trees.

  John fired, but missed.

  Jane admired the bouquet Martha had given her just minutes ago. She inhaled the lovely sweet scent, savoring the fragrance. The flowers had softened the pain in her heart, as Martha had hoped. The bright yellow petals made her smile despite herself.

  Then she heard Sam’s warning and glanced up.

  She first noticed the Indian’s eyes—gleaming with the eager anticipation of a warrior about to make a kill. She could smell the wild scent of him—a scent raw and savage—more terrifying to her than the tomahawk coming for her head because…he smelled like Bomazeen. The scent paralyzed her.

  Time froze.

  She thought of seeing Mary and Amy again. She could almost see them both between herself and the Indian. She wanted to reach out, to run her finger along their soft cheeks. She wanted to hug them to her chest. Her breast ached for her baby.

  She saw William fire his pistol into the brave’s back, then he was rushing toward her, while Bear kept his rifle pointed at the dense timber.

  The force of a bullet threw the brave forward. His head landed facedown at her feet. Blood oozed from the bullet’s hole.

  For some reason, the flowers were falling from her hand, scattering over the dead Indian’s back.

  She could do nothing more than stare at the petals, some of them now being covered by the brave’s blood, turning the cheery yellow petals the color of death.

  Jane suddenly realized what was happening. William grabbed her as terror struck.

  Stephen sighed a breath of relief as William carried Jane to the back of the wagon and nearly hurled her inside. He and Bear must have raced back to camp when they heard shots fired.

  “How many more are there,” William yelled. “I just killed one behind you. Bear and I have our backside covered.”

  “We’ve shot two on this side,” Sam yelled back as he and John finished reloading. Then Sam grabbed the arrow in Stephen’s arm, broke off the arrowhead, and yanked the remaining shaft through the other side of the arm.

  Stephen clenched his teeth tightly at the pain. Another arrow whizzed by. This was no time to think about his wound. Ignoring the pain, he grabbed his rifle.

  “There’s at least one more,” Sam hissed, turning his rifle towards the woods.

  Stephen could not balance his rifle to aim because of his wound. He pulled his pistols instead but knew they would only be effective at close range.

  “Stephen, the children are washing up at the creek,” Jane yelled, desperation thick in her voice. “My God, I just sent Martha to join them.” She jumped out of the wagon, about to dash toward the children.

  Stephen lunged and grabbed her, jerking her back.

  “No, let me go!” Jane shrieked, struggling to free herself from his tight grip.

  “Stay with William,” he yelled. “I’m going.” Ignoring the intense throbbing in his arm, he ran in the direction of the children, his pistols still drawn. He fired one within seconds as a Cherokee, hidden behind a large cluster of boulders, jumped toward him.

  Behind him, Stephen heard more shots, but he still ran toward the creek with all the strength he could find in his legs. He had to reach Martha, and the other children, before the Cherokee did. Only an hour before, while they walked, he had promised himself he would keep her safe. He would keep his promise, or die trying.

  As he came over the rise, the children ran, with Martha in the lead, toward him. Crying and desperately clutching her old doll, Polly fell. Martha ran back for her and helped her along.

  As soon as he reached the children, Stephen grabbed all three around him and tucked them behind him. He tried to reload his pistol, but blood dripped down his arm, covering the weapon’s grip, making it slippery. As he struggled with the weapon, John and Bear ran up, pistols drawn. The two men took a protective stance around the children and Stephen, their weapons pointed toward the trees.

  “Sam and William stayed with Jane,” John said. “Are there any more of them?”

  “I’ve only seen the one I shot. Tried to come up behind us,” he answered, breathing hard. “Any more at the camp?” Stephen scanned the woods and creek for further signs of the attackers.

  “Haven’t heard any more shots,” John said. He put his arm around Little John’s shoulder and hauled his son behind his long legs.

  “Maybe ‘twas a huntin’ party that stumbled on us,” Bear said.

  “Is Mama all right?” Martha whimpered.

  “Aye, William saved her,” Bear said.

  Thank God, Stephen thought. He wanted to get back to her as soon as he could. He grabbed Martha’s hand and picked up Polly with his uninjured arm. “Let’s get moving, now!”

  “If it was a hunting party, we’re na far from more of them,” Bear warned.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Stephen barked.

  It was late into the night before they fin
ally stopped. They picked a location for their camp that gave them some protection from the rear and good visibility from the front. As soon as they were settled, Stephen sat on Jane’s trunk, and by the light of a small oil lamp, she cleaned the caked blood from his wound and applied hot whiskey, ointment, and bandages. But neither spoke to the other as she worked. As the silence lengthened between them, he grew more uncomfortable. It felt far worse than his wound.

  He had to say something, to ease the mounting tension between them. But what? Clearly, Jane blamed him for their daughters’ deaths. He couldn’t change that. Nothing he could do or say could change that. But he had to try. “Jane, I love you. What’s happened will never change that.”

  Her mouth opened as she started to speak, and his heart ached to hear what she had to say. Then, without saying a word, a glazed look of despair spread over her face.

  His spark of hope quickly evaporated.

  Perhaps it would be best to leave her alone and let her sort through her feelings. She would talk to him when she was ready. At least he hoped she would. Could he lose her too? Would she leave him? Return to New Hampshire? He would die inside if that happened.

  The first few days after his girls passed, still in shock, he couldn’t even talk—now he didn’t want to talk, he admitted. He was afraid he would say the wrong thing and make everything worse. Besides, he had no idea what to say. He could not comfort himself, much less her. He remained wretched, despondent, and full of misgivings. He certainly did not want her to know how much he doubted himself. He didn’t want anyone to know.

  He slammed his pallet onto the ground, remembering his wound too late. At least the pain would distract him from his misery. Damn it, Edward had been right.

  Chapter 25

  The next evening, Stephen decided to try to talk to Jane again.

  Her silence, while she had cleaned his wound, unnerved him. This had gone on long enough. She had kept busy all afternoon. He guessed she was trying to do her part because they all depended on her so much, but he could tell her heart wasn’t in it. It’s hard to care about anything when your heart is breaking. He guessed that it was only Martha, Polly, and Little John’s need for her care that kept her going at all.

  Now, she sat off by herself, well away from the others, writing by the light of a small oil lamp. But as he approached, she stopped writing. Her hands swiped at her tears with her apron.

  His courage sank in his chest, like a rock thrown in a pond, ripples of fear left in its wake. Maybe he should just leave her alone.

  What could he say anyway? No words could make this better.

  He had never been a man of empty words. He would rather say nothing at all.

  But he had to at least attempt to find the words to comfort her, to comfort them both. He stopped in front of Jane and she glanced up with eyes red and swollen.

  He leaned his rifle against a tree and slowly squatted down beside her. He almost didn’t recognize the woman before him. Tension lined her face and fear, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes. Her chin quivered. It pained him to look at her. But if he was going to help her, he needed to take some of that hurt.

  He braced himself and prayed for courage.

  “What are you writing about?” he asked gently.

  Jane just glared at him. She swallowed hard, as if she were trying to hold back her emotions. She looked like she would gag on them. Gag on all the words she had held back since their babies had left them. He saw all the dark turbulent feelings she had tried so hard to suppress, a poisonous brew, boiling just under the surface.

  He wished she would just let those feelings out. The more she tried to suppress them, the darker they would become.

  He had to reach her or he might lose her forever. “Tell me,” he pleaded. “Please.”

  She glared at him. Her eyes filled with so much disdain he wanted to fall to his knees with sorrow.

  Then a flood of bitter words pushed their way out between desperate sobs. “I just finished putting their death dates beside their names in our family Bible. Do you know what that took? How my hands shook from the sadness it caused me? Now, I’m writing about how my heart is bleeding from the pain. How I had to leave what was so precious to me back there in the dirt somewhere. I don’t even know where it was exactly. Or if I can ever find it again.”

  The anger in her eyes burnt him like fire. “Jane.” He pleaded her name, hoping it would bring back the woman he knew.

  She stood and turned away from him and then turned back as more anger came. “You took us to this misery. Why did you put our girls in this danger? Are we going to lose Polly and Martha too before we realize this was a horrible mistake? We almost lost them back there to those hostile Cherokees. God forbid, what if they’d taken them at the creek? Our children cannot even wash the dirt from their faces safely. We’ll need to stand guard over them every minute from now on. We came too close to losing all our girls. And Little John. And the girls nearly lost their father. A few more inches and that arrow would have been through your heart. I would have lost you!”

  He reached for her, but she pulled away.

  “And all you can do is race further into this hell you’ve brought us to.”

  Her words sliced through his chest like a blade. He could have handled the agony of losing his girls eventually, but he could not handle this. Not this. “Jane, don’t do this,” he begged.

  “I want out of this endless hell. Take me back,” she cried.

  “There’s no turning back.”

  “Are you so proud, so stubborn, you won’t admit this journey was horribly wrong?” she yelled.

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “For days you don’t talk to me, you don’t even look at me, and then you dare to tell me you don’t want to hear what I feel? I want my babies back,” she cried out with such fierceness he took a step away from her.

  “Heaven has them now,” he said simply.

  “Damn you, I know that, but I still want them. I want them so badly I wish I could join them. If it weren’t for Polly and Martha I would,” she said between desperate sobs.

  He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He tried reaching out to her again, but she wrenched away and turned her back to him.

  Her palpable scorn filled the air between them like an oppressive fog.

  “Stop this. You’re not yourself. I accept the blame for their deaths, but that won’t bring them back.” He was the head of this family. He was ultimately responsible for the decision. He had to accept the blame. He exposed his family to peril.

  Maybe he had downplayed the risks because he wanted so desperately to leave. Had he used her safety as an excuse to leave? Had he used Bomazeen’s threat as a ticket out of there? But he believed this was what God wanted. Had his faith failed him too?

  “You’re land greedy. What you did was take us on a dangerous trip for the sake of some piece of dirt,” she said, her voice growing cold. “You value the prospect of land more than your family. Is your ambition stronger than your love for us?”

  He wanted to say something. But, mute with wretchedness, words did not come to his mouth, only a bitter bile.

  He turned away from her, his soul breaking apart under the terrible weight of her pain and his guilt.

  There was no way to fix this. He stared at the dirt beneath him, nearly swaying with anguish. Was she right? Had he allowed his hunger for land and wealth to become more important to him than his family?

  Never! His family meant everything. A sense of strength filled him and his despair lessened. He turned back and faced her.

  Without flinching, he boldly met her eyes. There was still a chance he could make her understand. He would not give up.

  “No. My ambition is not stronger than my love.” He shook his head decisively. “There is nothing on earth as strong as my love for you and the girls. Nor is there anything in this world I value more than you.” He reached for her arms a third time, but this time she did not pull away. He loo
ked directly into her eyes. “That’s why I can’t turn back. I’ll not fail Martha and Polly, or you, by turning back. A better future is waiting for all of us. I believe that with all my heart, soul, and mind. Someday, you will too.”

  He studied her face. The tears were gone, but she would say nothing at all.

  Stephen wrapped his arms around her and gave her a desperate hug. She tried to yank away, but he halted her escape and placed a kiss on the top of her head. Then he picked up his rifle and strode into the mounting wind.

  Chapter 26

  On this clear bright day, the kind that brings hope to the heart, Stephen could see the solitary wagon for a mile or more as it drew closer and closer to them on the Wilderness Trail. They didn’t see any mounted riders, just the wagon pulled by a team of horses.

  “Wonder who they are and why they’re heading east,” John asked.

  “It’s none of our business,” Stephen said. He had little need or tolerance for strangers, unlike his brothers who were always anxious for news or companionship with their fellow man. “Be sure your weapons are loaded in case there’s trouble.” John often forgot to load his weapon.

  “I’ll ride ahead and talk to them,” Sam said.

  “Why?” Stephen asked.

  “Because I can throw a knife quicker than you can shoot,” Sam said with only half a smile. “Besides, if they’re friendly folk you might scare them with that scowl on your face.”

  “There’s no scowl on my face. That’s just the way my maker made it,” Stephen retorted.

  “God must have been in a bad mood that day,” William quipped.

  All the men laughed, except Stephen. He hadn’t been able to manage even a smile since the girls had died. And precious few words had passed between him and Jane for more than two weeks. He had tried talking to her and that had been disastrous. He wasn’t going to put himself, or her, through that again. He hoped she would soon heal enough to at least talk to him. He missed her, desperately. He wanted his wife—the other half of himself—back.