Wilderness Trail of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 1) (15 page)

“Yes Sir,” Little John said, then ran away to complete his task. The girls still played on the other side of the wagon, oblivious to all the goings-on.

“’Twas a close call,” Bear said. “Those demons nearly got our Jane.”

“I feel horrible,” William said. “What kind of a lawman am I? I’m supposed to protect others, especially my family. I could have prevented this.”

Stephen didn’t respond, his focus returned to Jane, he knelt beside her holding her hand.

Bear placed his hand on William’s shoulder and whispered, “We’ll never know that will we now? Be grateful she’s all right because he would na a stopped at one punch if Bomazeen had taken her. Stephen is upset right now, but he’ll get over it when his head clears and Jane is up and about.”

“I hope you’re right, but I wouldn’t blame either Stephen or Jane if they never spoke to me again. I let everyone down. Sam’s right, there’s no excuse.” William hung his head.

Little John returned with the water and Stephen began cleaning the blood off Jane. He gently applied a damp cloth to her forehead and neck. She had scrapes and scratches everywhere. He tried as best he could to clean them, but was constantly afraid he was hurting her. Sam helped by applying Jane’s ointment to the more severe scratches.

“Just let her sleep,” Sam finally said. “Her body will mend itself. Strip off your clothes. We’ll wash them in the creek. I also want to take a look at your arm. Don’t want that wound to fester.”

“Bear and William, load your weapons and watch her well,” Stephen ordered.

Sam grabbed some strips of linen and ointment to make a dressing and they hiked together in silence to the creek. Stephen kept looking over his shoulder at Jane and the camp every few yards.

When they reached the creek, Stephen yanked off his bloodied jacket and shirt and slapped them into the water. “Bloody hell,” he swore as he started scrubbing the garments with a vengeance. With each rub of the fabric, his wound made him wince, but he kept on, almost welcoming the distraction the pain brought. Sam seemed to understand and left him alone.

When he finished, Sam said, “Let me see to that cut on your arm.”

He held out his arm while his brother examined the wound closely.

“It’s a surface wound, didn’t cut the muscle. Wash it well though and I’ll put ointment on it. Take your time, I’ll watch the camp.” With his rifle in the crook of his arm, Sam positioned himself so that
he could keep one eye on him and one on the camp. For that, Stephen was grateful.

He washed vigorously for some time, removing all the sticky dried blood. The chilly water seemed to stop the bleeding as well as cool his heated mind. He listened to the soothing sound of the water rushing over the rocks and boulders—perhaps that’s why William hadn’t heard Bomazeen grabbing Jane. Finally, he thought he would be able to think rationally. Might even find it in his heart to forgive William. But not yet. His brother needed to learn a valuable lesson.

“That’s twice I’ve come close to losing her. Are you sure she’ll be all right?” he asked. Sam had been around many battlefield injuries and possessed a wealth of knowledge about wounds and symptoms.

“Yes, I believe so, but she’ll be sore and bruised for some days.”

“Do you think there will be any more of them?”

“My guess is Bomazeen promised her to the Chief and he meant to keep that promise. By the time the Chief figures out Bomazeen failed again, we will be long gone. I don’t think he’d send braves for her again, no matter how beautiful she is.”

“I’m beginning to think her beauty may be more of a curse than a blessing.” He turned to walk back, carrying his wet shirt and jacket. Sam followed a few steps behind.

William and Bear stood guard and John had dinner under way. The smell of coffee brewing and fish frying filled the air. Although not as good as Jane, John had come to be a skilled cook since becoming a widower with a growing son to feed. He was marinating the fish in hot water with wild onions, fat, salt, and other seasonings, before putting the filets on the cook fire.

“These fish should be tasty,” John said, loading a sizzling pan
with a second batch of filets. “Have you ever seen such fat trout? We’ll feed the children first with these so they can get to sleep.”

Stephen stopped and inhaled a deep breath. “Bear and William, go back to Bomazeen’s body,” he said, “and get that white scalp hanging from his belt. It belonged to Widow Andrews. We’ll bury it.”

They both gave Stephen a brief nod and strode briskly away.

After Bear and William left, he retrieved a fresh shirt and then spoke to his daughters. The girls were worried about their mother, but he reassured them that she was going to be okay. After the children had eaten, he got them bedded down quickly. The day’s excitement had worn them all out.

As usual, Martha led them all in their bedtime prayer, and he watched her with pride.

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” In 1781, the New England Primer printed the prayer and it had quickly become a favorite among the children of the colonies.

“And God, please help Mama,” Polly added.

At the word Mama, baby Mary starting crying. Hungry and missing her mother, it took Stephen some time to get her to quit fussing, but she finally fell asleep.

Weary, he climbed down from the wagon, eager to check on Jane once again. He went to her and knelt by her side. She slept fitfully, probably dreaming of that demon snatching her. His hands fisted and he wished he could hit the bastard again.

He stood and joined the others by the cook fire. Bear and William had returned and Bear was telling one of his stories. Like
most Scots, he enjoyed storytelling and his supply of tales was inexhaustible. It seemed that every evening he had another one.

“I’ve eaten about everything at some point in time. Snake, squirrel, I even had horsemeat a few times,” Bear said. “Once we got caught in the mountains in a terrible howlin’ blizzard. We could na hunt for several days. We had no choice. ‘Twas either eat one of the mounts or starve. We decided he was na that good of a mount anyway. We cut him up and cooked up a fair amount. We were so hungry we decided he was a lot better horse dead than alive. The other time was when one of my Pa’s steeds, old Smoke, broke a leg and had to be put down. My Pa was a true Scot and did na let anythin’ go to waste, na even a favorite horse. Both times, it was tasty, milder tastin’ than deer meat and took more chewin’ than beef, but it filled the belly just fine.”

Stephen only half heard Bear’s story. Oblivious to the others, he knelt by the fire, his eyes focused on the colorful dancing flames. He hoped Bomazeen was seeing flames now too. Stephen had killed the man savagely, more brutally than he thought himself capable of. But he had rescued Jane—that was all that mattered. He prayed she would be all right. She had to be. Life without her would be no life. He couldn’t imagine going on without her. For the first time, he understood the worry and heartache John must have experienced before Diana died.

Lord, please bring Jane back to me
.

After Stephen’s prayer, an abnormal calm filled him. He stood up and looked at Sam. “Sam, you saved Jane today. That was a remarkable shot. I’ll be in your debt forever,” he said, his voice cracking.

“So will I,” Jane said.

In a second, Stephen knelt at Jane’s side grabbing her hands in his.

She smiled up at him. “My hero.”

“The hero is Sam. If it hadn’t been for that shot, we might not have been able to catch up to you.”

“I knew you’d get me back,” she persisted, admiration in her eyes. “I’m so sore and so sleepy.”

“You need rest. Sleep, darling,” he said, his voice near breaking with his emotions. “And have only sweet dreams.”

“Before you do,” William said, bending down to her other side, “I’m truly sorry Jane. I fell asleep. I should have been watching out for you. It was foolish and stupid of me. I beg your forgiveness.”

“We all make mistakes,” Jane said, still gazing into Stephen’s eyes, “that’s why God, and we, must be so merciful.” She closed her eyes and gave in to the sleep grabbing her.

Stephen pondered her words. Was she telling him that he’d made a mistake?

CHAPTER 16

J
ane woke before first light. Stephen slept soundly beside her, but Sam stood guard a short distance away, his rifle cradled in his arm. They must have taken turns standing guard.

She ached all over. But it wasn’t any wonder given what she’d been through. First, the attack at the river’s edge, then the fall from the horse. Everything replayed in her mind from the beginning, as if it were happening over and over again. As she remembered the feel of the blade against her stomach, it seemed real enough that she pulled away from it, pressing her back against the ground.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “He didn’t get me,” she whispered, on a shuddering breath. But her attempt to reassure herself failed. Terror grabbed at her and squeezed her heart. Unable to keep her tears at bay, she wept, the salty droplets burning the scrapes and scratches on her face. Refusing to obey her commands to stop, the tears kept coming, a confusing mixture of fear and relief, pouring out of her. This is intolerable, she decided, mad at herself for the weakness. She pounded her balled fist on the ground. I must be strong for the girls, for Stephen.

The first purple-grey hints of morning’s light began to push at
the darkness. Gradually Jane’s mood lifted as well. A bird began to sing happily and others soon joined him as the sun’s brilliant orange painted the horizon.

God, you let me live for this new day, she prayed. Give me the strength for it. Immediately, she sensed a calmness and her inner strength returning. She sat up, throwing the blanket off.

Stephen popped up as well, holding his gun in his hand. “Are you okay?” he asked, his face filled with concern.

She understood how much her safety meant to him. The ordeal must have been nearly as bad for him as it was for her. Maybe worse. “I’m sore, but well otherwise.”

He pushed himself up. “You shouldn’t be up,” he scolded, pulling on his boots. “Rest another day or so. We’ll wait. You’re covered in scrapes and bruises.”

“No need. I’m as tough as one of those oxen. A few scratches and bumps won’t keep me down.” She tossed her red curls behind her back and flashed her green eyes at him. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to taste the breakfast you men would make. But I would like it if you would get me a couple buckets of water. I certainly don’t want to go down to that creek again.”

“Of course. Let me help you up.” He put an arm around her waist and lifted her up. “Are you sure you feel like getting up and about?”

“I do. I’m not sick, just a little bruised and sore. And I certainly want to change out of these tattered clothes.”

Stephen helped her climb up into the wagon and then hurried away to fetch the water. Trying not to wake the girls, she brushed her tangled hair, changed out of her torn clothing and covered the skirt of the fresh gown with a clean apron, ready for the challenges
this new day would bring.

She still ached, but as she started moving around, the stiffness gradually lessened. Although she moved slower than normal, she went about her morning routine, making breakfast and taking care of baby Mary. The biscuits and Johnnycakes would be ready soon and the smell of pork frying woke those still asleep.

“You’re as obstinate as you are beautiful, and that’s saying a lot,” Stephen said, pouring the coffee he had just made, for both of them. “Five strong men surround you, and you’re probably the toughest of the bunch.”

Almost the same height as her husband, it pleased her that she had inherited her father’s physical strength and athletic stature. She often amazed Stephen by wielding an axe with nearly as much skill as he could. Her father, J. R. MacMillan, had encouraged his daughter to learn everything she could, both inside and outside the home. Much to the chagrin of some of the very proper and docile local women, her father supplemented her regular academic studies with his own lessons—riding, hunting, growing food, and raising and doctoring animals. Someday in this new world, his daughter might need to fend for herself, he had said. He’d seen far too many women, made widows by war or illness, become dependent on others.

“Thanks my darling,” Jane said, accepting the coffee and planting a kiss on Stephen’s cheek. She noticed that he winced when he extended his arm with the cup. “Were you injured?”

“A surface wound on my arm.”

“Take off your shirt and let me see it,” she said, alarmed.

“Sam has already seen to it. It’s nothing.”

She insisted on checking it herself and applied more ointment.
When she finished, she wrapped her arms around him and laid her head against his chest.

His hand gently pressed her closer to him.

His solid strength felt comforting and reassuring.

Lifting her chin with a finger, he regarded her carefully. “You are feeling better,” he teased, then kissed her tenderly.

She could tell he was trying not to hurt her. She longed to feel all of him against her, to reassure herself that she was truly here and they were both all right. But the kiss had to be the end of it, and she swallowed her regret.