New Frontier of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 2) (22 page)

“You mean the one about when you see a falling star it means someone you know is going to die?”

“Aye. That’s the one. It makes me na want to look up at those stars.”

“I don’t know,” John said. “Nothing in scripture says that, although natives are a spiritual people. Maybe they’ve been given their own kind of wisdom.”

“Their beliefs are pagan.”

“Even so, could there be truth in it? What if their religion is just as holy as our faith?” John asked. “The earth is populated with many different peoples, of many different faiths.”

“There’s only one source for the Lord’s word—the good Book. Everythin’ else, written or spoken, painted or carved, man created, although they may have received the inspiration or talent from God, I would na call it ‘holy.’ The actions of those Indians we killed on our trip to Kentucky do na reflect the truths of the Lord’s word. Unprovoked, they attacked us—nearly killed Stephen with that arrow—and not just the men, but Jane too. And they’d have killed or kidnapped the wee children if they’d had half a chance.”

Bear carefully scanned the woods around them before he continued.

“And do ye know what they would have done to us if they’d captured us, man? I’ll tell ye, because I’ve seen what was left after they’ve done it. First, they mutilate ye. Then they emasculate ye. Then they burn ye alive. I’ve beheld those blackened remains of what used to be a man. Spiritual beings could na do such a horrible thing.”

John shuddered. “It is barbaric, but we’re moving into their lands, their hunting grounds. They’re protecting what’s theirs.”

“What makes it theirs? Just because it’s their huntin’ range? How can they be so greedy as to claim this entire vast wilderness as theirs? Besides, they do na have firm claim to most of their land. Tribal rivalries cause the boundaries between tribes to shift all the time. There’s na difference between fightin’ another tribe and fightin’ us for land. D’ye know what they did a few years back to General St. Clair’s army? They killed six hundred of his men and then stuffed every one of their mouths with dirt. Every one. It supposedly symbolized satisfyin’ in death their lust for Indian lands.”

“I believe they will eventually come to know Christianity as we do.”

“Nay. My prediction is that 100, even 200, years from now, they’ll still worship pagan gods. They will never willingly leave their culture or completely become a part of our country. But, that’s their right I suppose.”

A howling wolf broke the silence of the night and the eerie sound sent a chill skidding down John’s spine.

Bear’s hunter eyes methodically searched the surrounding area until he was satisfied there was no threat.

John glanced down at the tomahawk in his belt. He had reluctantly taken it when Sam said there was no such thing as having too many weapons in the wilderness. His older brother had said the west was welcoming to all types of men. You just had to be tough enough and smart enough to survive. He thought he was smart enough. But was he tough enough? He was beginning to have his doubts.

John’s gaze turned back up to the heavens. He caught his breath as he watched a star fall from the sky.

Almost in response, wolves howled again in the distance, playing their long haunting notes.

“I’m worn out. Thought I’d never catch up to ye.”

“Get some sleep. I’ll stay awake,” John said.

“I could use a wee nap, but stay very alert,” Bear warned. He threw his pallet down near Camel. Bear’s snoring, echoing through the forest, soon replaced John’s.

John carefully scanned the darkness around them before getting comfortable again. The woods seemed to shudder as wind gusts made the branches of nearby trees quiver. The full moon sent whispery white beams through every tree bough, making the darkness seem full of menacing ghosts. The dream must still have him on edge.

He hated to admit it, but Bear’s presence was comforting. Normally Bear was a gentle giant, but when danger confronted, the giant could handle most any danger fearlessly and ferociously.

John placed his rifle across his lap. The sounds of insects chirping, owls hooting, and bats flapping crowded the night air. He listened to them for some time, fighting sleep. Then he heard coyotes yap. They were close.

Both horses whinnied nervously.

John listened intently as seconds passed slowly. Now, a chill black silence surrounded them, the forest quiet. Except for Bear’s rhythmic snoring, there were no other sounds.

Clenching his hand until his nails entered his palm, he peered over at Bear—thought about waking him. Decided against it. Bear
needed rest. Probably just some animal making the horses nervous. He decided to relax and quit being so jumpy. He needed to be brave, like Sam.

Then his scant bravery turned to absolute terror.

Their locks feathered and their half-naked bodies and faces streaked with bright paint, two Shawnee came from nowhere.

He managed to fire his rifle, but the shot only hit a nearby tree.

One Indian grabbed him by the hair and arms while the other howled like a coyote.

His heart beat wildly as the howling brave grabbed his legs too. He struggled against a blurred sea of arms and hands, gripping, pulling and twisting him, forcing him to the ground. The raw musky scent of them was overpowering, so strong he could almost taste their smell. He screamed, as much to let out the vulgar taste in his mouth as his extreme fear.

Bear awoke abruptly to the sound of rifle fire. John? Instinctively and instantly, he rolled to his side, while grabbing his knife and hatchet. A tomahawk slammed into the ground where he had been.

Indians surrounded him, but he scrambled to his feet before they got a good grip on him. He put his hunting knife through the belly of the closest brave.

The Indian’s eyes grew huge and glazed. He shoved the dying brave toward the others, causing them to fall back as they watched their companion’s horrible death. The dying Indian held his stomach, trying to hold himself together before collapsing on his side at their moccasined feet.

Bear slammed the knife back into its sheath while pulling his pistol to defend against the other braves. Accustomed to fighting with both arms equally well, he shot one in the face, and then used the hatchet to slash another, nearly cutting through the man’s arm.

He whirled to stare at another brave lunging at him. He sidestepped just in time, spun, and swung the hatchet in an arc, slamming it into the backside the Indian’s skull.

He withdrew the ax and, as he raised it, another Shawnee wielding a knife came at him. The brave’s blade ripped through his hunting shirt and etched a path across the skin of his chest. Blood spurted down his torso in a nearly perfect horizontal line. If he had not been so tall, the wound would have been across his neck. But the surface wound only vexed him. He stood taller, thrust his wounded chest out to his two remaining attackers and, teeth bared, growled at them.

They stepped back, prancing around him in a circle, one holding the knife dripping with Bear’s blood, the other a hatchet. He was so much taller, they could not get anywhere near his head. Then the two braves positioned themselves on either side of him.

Bear took a firm grip on his own weapons as Gaelic curses spewed from his mouth.

John fought with all his might but could not fend off his two attackers. Drowning in a flood of increasing fear and shock, before long he would be unable to breathe. One Indian sat on his legs and made it impossible for him to dislodge the brave kneeling across his stomach.

He repeatedly flailed his limbs and thrashed about, but the
braves quickly tied his hands and feet with rawhide. One of them straddled his stomach and snatched John’s knife out of his belt.

Horrified, he suddenly realized what was coming and with all his strength writhed from side to side, trying to get away. But the brave only rode him like a wild horse. When John’s strength gave out, the Indian smirked, seeming amused. Then the brave moved the knife closer to his face. He tried to bite the hand that held the knife.

Quick anger rose in the brave’s eyes before the Indian slapped him hard.

He gasped, panting for air, his heart jumping in his chest.

The smack unnerved John and sheer black panic swept through him. He choked back a cry.

Frantic, he wildly sought out Bear. Where was he? He peered, wide-eyed, over his shoulder behind him. Bear was engaged in his own vicious battle. They were hopelessly outnumbered.

Overwhelming dread filled John as he realized they were both going to die.

God
, he prayed,
take care of Little John
. Grief and despair stabbed at his heart.

The Indian seemed to enjoy watching his utter terror.

He could stand it no longer. He closed his eyes and prepared to meet his maker. Then he screamed as the blade slowly began to lift his scalp.

CHAPTER 20

C
atherine glanced nervously at Sam as he rode beside her. This morning he had agreed to escort her to town so that she could see a lawyer or the Judge to go over her late husband’s will and papers. Sam said he would get his horse shod while she was taking care of her business in town.

She liked riding beside him, but she found his nearness both exciting and disturbing. He was so ruggedly handsome, especially now that he was clean-shaven. And everything about him radiated strength. She would feel safe anywhere with him beside her.

What made her nervous was that her thoughts kept returning to the night before when he had held her in his arms and kissed her as no man had kissed her before. Not that she had that much experience with kissing, but Sam’s kiss was in a league of its own. It stirred such desire in her that she wanted nothing more than to have him kiss her again. And then again, and again.

But he didn’t and abruptly suggested that they should return to camp. It had taken all of her will to turn and leave, letting him follow behind her in silence the short distance back to camp. With every step, she had experienced a gamut of perplexing emotions.
All her loneliness and confusion rushed through her, chased by an overwhelming yearning for love and an intense desire. With him following so closely behind her, she had to silence the screams of frustration at the back of her throat.

What else could she do to get Sam to take a chance on loving her?

When they had reached their camp, he had simply taken out his pallet and laid down without saying another word. With everyone else either already asleep or getting ready for bed, she had no choice but to climb in her wagon, remove her special gown, and try to do the same.

She had worn one of her finest gowns that evening and taken extra care with her hair. And although he took notice and complimented her appearance, he seemed content with a brief conversation and one kiss. Because his kiss sizzled with passion, his abrupt change in mood puzzled her.

She had hoped for so much more. She wanted to tell him she loved him. But the opportunity was lost.

As she rode, her mind fought through the cobwebs of a night of little sleep. Tormented by chaotic thoughts about Sam and her future she was unable to fall asleep for hours. As she tossed and turned, she forced herself to plan her tasks ahead. She finally decided she needed professional advice about what her husband’s papers revealed and would talk to a lawyer the very next day.

If only she could get expert advice about that astounding kiss. Even more so, about why Sam had not kissed her again. Instead, he had quickly put a shield between them and that baffled her.

Now, as they rode to town, Sam boldly met her gaze. What, for heaven’s sake, did that look in those captivating eyes of his mean?
Did he suspect what she was thinking? She pulled her horse to an abrupt stop, tired of this emotional limbo.

As she did, Sam tugged on Alex’s reins, stopped, and turned his mount toward her. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

The confident set of his broad shoulders, his commanding manner and obvious inherent strength were almost more than she could handle. Her pulse quickened with desire.

“Yes. I mean no. What I intended to say was…what I intended to ask was…,” she tried. “Oh for pity’s sake. Just forget it.” She felt her face flush and her lips purse with anger. Or was it frustration?