New Frontier of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 2) (24 page)

“Damn, that was too close,” Bear swore. He bent to retrieve his knife and hatchet.

As he marched toward John, the remaining Indian fled into the darkness of the forest.

Even more than the Indian laying on top of him, John felt the blade, covered with his own warm blood, pressing against the side of his head.

He was too stunned to move. He could only lay there, amazed that he was still alive.

Bear ran up, heaved the dead native off him, and tossed the body aside as if it were made of straw. Bear pulled the blade next to John’s head and used it to cut the rawhide from his wrists and feet.

He tried to open his eyes and look up at Bear, but blood dripped into his eyelids. With shaking hands, he did his best to wipe the blood from his face.

“I told ye these natives are beasts,” Bear bellowed. While reloading his weapons, the angry giant swore a long string of curses, undoubtedly releasing some of his anger. “Are ye more inclined to believe me now?”

John could see Bear’s wild eyes searching the woods around them for any further signs of their attackers. He prayed there would be no more.

He could barely move. His arms and legs felt like lead weights. He had never come so close to death. His head spinning with
shock and pain, John rolled over on his right side and emptied his stomach. Every upchuck made his head hurt even worse, but he heaved until there was nothing left but a bitter taste in his mouth. He stayed down, unable to sit up, blood dripping from the slice on his forehead.

Still breathing heavily, Bear came over, helped him to sit up, and then wiped the blood running into John’s eyes with his own shirt sleeve. “Hold still if ye can bear it—I’ve got to move about two inches of your hair back where it belongs.”

He took a deep breath to steady himself, peered up at Bear, and nodded. As Bear started to reposition his scalp above his forehead, he struggled not to scream and gritted his teeth against the pain.

“Thank you,” he said, feeling lightheaded, but better, when Bear finished. “Where’d that shot come from?”

Bear pointed as Lucky calmly strode up, finishing reloading his rifle.

“Glad to see ye,” Bear told Lucky. “John did need a wee bit of your luck after all.”

“In truth, luck had nothin’ to do with it,” Lucky said. “The good Lord provided enough moonlight to take reasonable aim and made that pert wind die down a bit. It was also this good ol’ rifle—she’s a real fine weapon, likes a challenge. Can make a shot like that even in this breeze.”

“A blessing for me,” John said, his voice shaking, “another few ticks and I’d be balding at an early age. I am in your debt Sir. And yours Bear. If you hadn’t been here…” His words trailed off, too weak to continue speaking.

“I think we scared ‘em off for a while,” Lucky said calmly,
“especially big Bear here. Did you hear that roar John?”

“Surely the whole forest heard it,” John said.

“They probably thought he was a wendigo, that’s the native word for a half-man, half-beast demon creature,” Lucky said.

“Maybe they’re right,” John murmured, looking around at the carnage. He had never seen the results of a man fighting as savagely as Bear just had. Mutilated Indian bodies surrounded them. They looked like fallen human trees, cut down by some sort of axe-wielding madman. “My God, Bear.”

“We’d best be heading on to O’Reilly’s place before that one survivor of Bear’s onslaught brings more of his comrades,” Lucky suggested. “But if that brave convinces them Bear was a wendigo, we’ll not see them again.”

Bear helped John sit up again.

“Before this happened, I thought of them as children of the wilderness,” John said sadly. He inhaled deeply and tried to stand, testing his legs. Although still shaky, he stooped to pick up his blanket. Blood dripped as he bent over and his head wound screamed as he stood back up. He closed his eyes to the dizzying pain. He gingerly touched his hairline, wincing. He felt sweat break out on his upper lip and forehead.

Bear reached into his saddlebag. “I’ve learned from experience it pays to carry bandages whenever ye’re away from home. Here. Sit back down for a wee spell. Press this cloth to yer wound now and try to keep pressure on it while we ride. I know it will cause you even more pain, but it will stop the bleedin’. Do na worry, head wounds always bleed profusely but heal very quickly.”

John gritted his teeth against the throbbing wound and accepted the cloth, glad that Bear had the foresight to carry them.

“I’ll reload your rifle and saddle your horse,” Bear said. “When we get to the next creek, we’ll stop and ye can wash away all that blood.”

Jonathan O’Reilly and his brother Justin, wielding on ax and a sledge hammer as they worked on a split rail fence, looked up when John, Bear, and Lucky rode up early the next morning.

John’s head wound still throbbed and burned like fire, but aside from making him break out in a clammy sweat, he was feeling reasonable.

Their shirts already soaked with perspiration from their labors and the humid air, the O’Reillys welcomed them, their musical Irish inflections adding warmth and merriment to their cheerful greetings.

The three dismounted and shook the brothers’ hands. Bear towered over the two handsome brothers, both only about five-feet tall. Bear enthusiastically introduced himself to Jonathan and warmly slapped the little man on his shoulder as he greeted him. Unfortunately, Bear’s strength surprised them both and Jonathan went sprawling to the ground landing on his side.

“Dear heavens!” John exclaimed, dismayed.

“Oh my, my apologies, Sir,” Bear said, picking Jonathan up with one arm. “Sometimes I forget my own strength.” Clearly embarrassed, Bear’s ruddy complexion colored fiercely.

Jonathan straightened and brushed off his clothing, a wide grin spreading across his face. “I haven’t received a slap like that since I was a wee lad gettin’ disciplined by me mum.”

“Again, I beg yer forgiveness. I just meant to be friendly,” Bear said.

“Em, I’d hate to see you when you were unfriendly,” Justin said, raising his blonde brows.

“I’ve seen him unfriendly, and trust me, you don’t want to see it,” Lucky said.

“It’s not the first time Bear has accidentally knocked someone to the ground with just a friendly cuff, and I doubt it will be the last. But my head is burning like the dickens. If you don’t mind, Sirs, we need to get on with the reason we’re here,” John said.

Lucky quickly explained why they had come.

“I’m na surprised that bastard has caused more problems,” Jonathan said after listening to Lucky. “He’s a damn traitor. That is God’s truth. I would swear that to anyone. But I do na want Foley’s brother and those other dirty buffalo hunters comin’ after Justin seeking revenge if I say anythin’.”

“My brother William said he would arrange for you to see the Judge privately,” John said. “If he can’t, we’ll not put you or your brother in jeopardy. We’ll find another way.”

“Does Foley know you’ve come out here to our place then?” Justin asked, clearly worried.

“Nay,” Bear said. “Lucky and I both left town separately and caught up to John on the trail leading up to your place. Only one Indian knows we’re here.”

“Judging from John’s head, it looks like you ran into some of those forest demons,” Jonathan said.

“Aye, but all but one are dead,” Bear said. “He ran off.”

“No doubt to describe the wendigo that killed all the others,” Lucky said. Then he explained what a wendigo was and why they might think Bear was one.

“Our thanks. They might have headed here. Most of the natives are peaceful, and once they even exchanged some food with us, but occasionally small petty bands give us trouble. We’ve shot a few off their horses and so they usually leave us alone. John, do you need to lie down lad?” Justin asked.

“The bleeding stopped and I’m able to tolerate the pain, but I would like to sit for a short while. I could sure use some hot coffee too. We’ve been riding most of the night.”

“Coffee it is then. I’d offer you whiskey for the pain, but we’re out. Let’s get some food in your bellies and then we’ll head to your camp,” Jonathan said, turning toward their small log home. “My brother and I need to pick up supplies in Boonesborough anyway. An Irishman out of whiskey for too long can be unpleasant to be around.”

“I’ll be arguing with you about that,” Justin said, catching up to his brother.

“I know you won’t be arguing about the whiskey, is it about going in to see the Judge then?” Jonathan asked.

“Use your head brother. It is far too dangerous. We’ll wind up getting’ one of us killed if you do this thing,” Justin objected.

“Then killed we’ll have to be. It is past time I told what I know about that evil man. A man who hides the truth also hides his honor.”

CHAPTER 22

T
he circuit Judge pounded his gavel as he called his courtroom to order at exactly eight o’clock in the morning. The sound echoed against the room’s wooden walls and floor. The fifteen-star flag of the Union hung in the corner, giving the plain room a semblance of officiousness. The Judge shuffled some papers, dipped his quill in an ink pot, and began to write, evidently creating a record of the proceedings.

Those involved and those just curious stuffed the room beyond its capacity. Bud Foley, Frank Foley’s brother, and the other buffalo hunters elbowed their way to the front, forcing others to move aside. The hunters took up a good part of the available spectator space. At once, the room began to reek of their disagreeable stench—a putrid mixture of dried blood seasoned with copious amounts of dirt and sweat.

Foley’s surly countenance also soured the atmosphere as he slumped in his chair next to the young constable.

The constable, his hair slicked back with grease, appeared to Sam to be far more anxious than Foley did. The young man sat in his chair as if it was a church pew on Sunday morning.

If he were honest, he was anxious himself—eager for this charade to be over with.

Catherine sat directly behind the small table where Sam, along with Stephen and William, were seated. He turned to look at her, but her eyes were focused on the Judge. She looked lovely in a new blue gown, her raven hair shimmering as the morning sun poured on her through the only window. But worry dimmed the normal brightness of her face and he noticed that her hand rested on her dagger attached to the gown’s belt. He realized she was still irritated with him and wouldn’t look at him. For that, he was almost grateful. He needed to be able to focus on what the Judge was saying.

Reluctantly, he forced himself to turn back around, but he couldn’t force his mind to stop thinking about her. That morning, she insisted on going to the courtroom and no amount of arguing was going to stop her. It annoyed him a great deal because he did not want her anywhere near these buffalo hunters. However, as the trial began, he was actually pleased she was there. But why? He remembered their kiss—the most memorable of his life, and he had stolen quite a few as a spry young man. But never had a kiss stirred his soul as that one had. He could make himself feel drunk with pleasure just thinking about it.

But a kiss was just a kiss. It wasn’t love. He didn’t love her. He couldn’t love her. He told her it was just a kiss. He’d been honest with her. He crossed his arms in front of him. It would remain a pleasant memory he would store up for lonely nights. Nothing more.

After he had finally given up arguing with her about attending the trial, Catherine had generously given a surprised Jane enough money to treat herself, Kelly and the children to something new.
She said it was a thank you for all the hospitality and protection their family had provided her. They all needed new clothing, and Sam and Stephen didn’t want them to remain alone at camp. A shopping excursion to the general store and some of the town’s assorted shops seemed a perfect solution. Jane was exceedingly worried about the trial, but her daughters needed looking after and a trip to town was just the distraction they all needed. Catherine had made Jane promise to spend every penny of the money that very day.

Sam decided to try to turn his mind to the buffalo hunters. His jaw clenched as he memorized their faces, still bruised and swollen from the fight. As he studied each one, his fists tightened, pulling his skin taut over his own cracked and swollen knuckles. His eyes locked on the one they called Big Ben. The man had a foot-long skinning knife in a scabbard under his left shoulder. The hunter’s wild and cocky amber eyes glowered back at him. With a sense of foreboding, he knew instinctively that he would again tangle with the man no matter the outcome of the trial. Sudden anger clawed at him for no apparent reason, like a primitive warning.