New Frontier of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 2) (9 page)

“But if you understand them, you can reason with them,” John said.

Sam blew out his breath in frustration. It was too early for this conversation and he was losing his patience. “This is the wilderness, not a university,” he told John. “I know that is hard for an educated man like you to accept, but reason is a weak defense. If you’re being attacked, it’s a poor time to try to ‘understand’ them.”

Bear nodded vigorously in agreement. “Aye, a scalp comes off an educated man as quick as it does a dumb bastard.”

“If white men used more reason than powder, they’d be able….” John started to argue.

Sam cut him off, tired of being caught in the crossfire. “What you
both
need to realize is that every tribe is different. You can’t throw them all in the same sack. Some are savage animals, so brutal it’s hard for white men to even imagine what they are capable of. Other tribes are peaceful hunters, fisherman and traders—far more peaceful than many white men I’ve known. Don’t make the mistake of thinking of them all the same way. On one side of a mountain, you might find friendly, even helpful, natives. But on the other side, they can be hostile beyond belief. And by offering bounties for settler’s scalps, the bloody Red Coats induced some of these natives to become our enemies, while other natives continue to fight
with
us against the British. My advice is to keep your eyes and your ears open, respect and be cautious of all men, and leave these debates to preachers and politicians.”

“Maybe that’s just what I should do here in Boonesborough,” John said, squaring his big shoulders. The pain and fire had gone out of his voice.

“A politician?” Bear asked, looking incredulous.

“No, you big obstinate giant. A preacher, not a politician.” John poured himself more coffee and continued excitedly. “I can build the town a church. Maybe I can help those who have suffered a loss, as I have. I can teach them how to read the Bible if they’re not literate. Maybe, I’ll even be able to help some of these natives.”

Sam hoped that were true. However, he doubted that the populace of Boonesborough or the Indians would receive John’s benevolent gestures as he intended. Trying to bring compassion to the wilderness might earn applause from heaven. But here it would more likely bring scorn and ridicule. Maybe worse.

Nevertheless, John just gave himself a reason to continue on here in Kentucky. And reason to go on without Diana. Sam hoped it was reason enough.

As Sam and Bear put away their sleeping pallets and the others started to stir, Sam said, “I feel like a horse locked in a corral too damn long. I’ll be glad when we get those land grants settled and get moving again. This doing nothing is almost more than I can stand. I feel like swearing till the leaves shake off the trees.”

The men had been waiting several days for the land office to open on the first day of the month and the tedious delay was beginning to cause serious wear on Sam’s already frayed nerves. The thought of another day of just wasting time put him on edge.

“Have a smoke and walk with me, while they get breakfast underway, it’ll calm ye down some. Ye’re wound up tighter than the sinew strung on an Indian’s bow.”

He hated to admit it, but Bear was right. Was it just the waiting that had him so worked up? Maybe it was their heated conversation with John. Or was he worried about the recent attack
on the settlers?

“Sam, what do ye think of Catherine?” Bear asked, after they walked some distance away and both relieved themselves.

Hell fire. Maybe that was the reason he was so on edge, because the question caused Sam’s nerves to tighten even more. With a clenched jaw, he reached for his pipe and tobacco as he struggled for an answer. “She’s amiable and cultured. Seems to be a strong woman and well mannered,” he finally said, hoping his true feelings didn’t show.

“Is that all ye have noticed? Her culture and her fine manners?”

Stalling, Sam filled and lit his pipe. “What do you mean? She’s pleasant to look at if that’s what you’re getting at.” He took a pull on the white clay stem, hoping a smoke would calm his nerves. He didn’t smoke the pipe often, but when he did, he enjoyed it.

“Pleasant? Is yer vision growin’ dim man? That is the most beautiful lass I’ve ever seen anywhere and all ye can say is that she’s pleasant to look at? The Queen of England could be sitting right here and I swear ye’d say the same.”

“How do you know what the Queen of England looks like? You’re from Scotland. You’ve never even been to England. She could be as ugly as a warthog for all you know.”

“The Queen of Scotland then. It’s just a figure of speech you contrary mule.”

“The only thing you should be figuring is how to forget her. Her husband just passed a couple of months ago. It isn’t right to be talking of her in that way.” Or thinking of her that way, Sam admitted to himself.

“I mean na disrespect, of course, but she does na seem to be
grievin’ all that much. Jane says that Catherine was na in love with her late husband, and that her father authoritatively arranged the marriage. How long before ye think it would be proper to talk to her?”

“You can talk to her now you big stubborn fool.” Sam kept biting his tongue. Blood would soon be dripping from the corners of his mouth if Bear kept this up.

“Ye know my meaning. Talk to her like a man to a woman.” Bear glanced over at him, winked, and grinned.

Sam glared back. “What do you know about talking to a gentlewoman, especially a lady from a fine Boston family? You’d be better off trying to talk romance with one of the bears you like to hunt.”

Sam pointed towards the tall white birch and pines off to their right. A large buck and a doe froze as they heard them, then, gracefully bounded back into the safety of the forest.

“Why haven’t you ever married, Sam?”

The question did not surprise him. A woman like Catherine had a way of making a man think about marriage. He really couldn’t blame Bear. He took a deep breath. “I came close once. But we met at the wrong place at the worst of times. My first and only love. She’s the only one I ever wanted and I lost her,” he said softly, his mind now in the distant past.

“How? When? I never heard about it.”

“No one has.”

Sam shook his head to bring himself back from the permanently scorched memory. But for some reason, this time the recollection refused to retreat. Perhaps now that he was so far away he could face his past. Maybe if he told Bear, the memory would
recede. He wanted the dark cloud hanging over his head, to move on. Like his shadow, it followed him everywhere. But unlike his shadow, it was his constant companion. Yet, he hesitated. Would speaking of it make it worse of better?

Almost as if Bear somehow knew what he was thinking, he heard Bear saying, “Ye don’t have to tell me, Sam, if it brings ye too much discomfort. Nonetheless, I urge ye to do so. Runnin’ from pain does nothin’ to defeat it. Sometimes, ye must confront the ache in yer heart to heal it—like cleanin’ a festerin’ wound.”

Festering wound. He could relate to that comparison. He’d seen many a wound fester and the results were never good. Perhaps Bear was exactly right. The man did have an uncanny ability to cut to the truth of a matter. Maybe it
was
time to battle the ugly demons dwelling in his head.

He took a deep breath to steel himself. “You were just a youngster, about 11 or 12, the same age as Stephen. Remember when I left to join the Continental Army?”

“Aye. Remember the day well. Yer father was so proud, but yer mother cried all night.”

“We trained near Concord. The army camped just outside of town. Because I could read and possessed a good mind for numbers, they put me in charge of supplies. She worked at her father’s general store. The store was an important part of the community. He sold nearly everything imaginable. We saw each other for the first time there. She was so gentle and pure and perfectly made. I’ll never forget a single detail of her face. She had eyes like a young doe, big, brown, innocent—the kind, that made you want to just keep staring at her. Her smile was so warm it made me break out in a sweat and I couldn’t seem to talk without my tongue getting all tied up in knots. But when we did talk,
happiness filled me and I’d remember every word she said for days. I’d repeat her words over and over again in my mind.

“For a few months they sent me into town for provisions at least once a week. Soon my feelings for her deepened. When we were apart, my heart ached for her. When we were together, my heart danced with joy. I only had a chance to hold her hands, but I will never forget the feel of them and the way touching her made me feel like I was holding the hands of an angel. Maybe I was.

“Soon General Washington sent us on the move again, and I was forced to say goodbye to her—one of the hardest things I’d ever done. But I swore to her we would be together again soon. It was a promise I should never have made. It made the last thing I said to her a lie.

“Shortly after we left Concord, a damn turncoat led the Red Coats to where her father hid our provisions in a large storehouse behind the general store. This turncoat had been an army scout until he joined the enemy. They blew up the storage building and burned down the store to cut off our supply source. I heard later that when the British started to attack she hid inside the store, undoubtedly afraid to leave for fear of being raped or shot. She must have waited too long to try to get out and she got trapped…burned alive.” A shiver of vivid recollection shook him and he had to look away for a moment.

Once he could continue he said, “When I learned she’d died, my whole being flooded with anguish. When I learned how she died, rage replaced anguish. I’ve killed that traitor a thousand times in my mind.” The muscles of his face tightened with remembered anger. “And I’ve heard her screams ten thousand times in my head.” Sam squeezed his eyes shut trying to block out the horrifying image of her death.

Bear stopped walking and turned to Sam. “Och, Sam, I know not what to say. D’ye know the whoreson’s name?”

“Eli Frazier.” The words nearly burned his lips as he snarled the name. He wiped his fingers across his mouth.

“At the time, ammunition was in such short supply, guns were near worthless. I took all the funds I’d managed to save, borrowed a little more from my father, and bought the biggest and best knife I could find. English armorers forged the blade of steel and just before the war started, it had shipped to New York, which is where I acquired it. I made this handle myself out of deer horn to remind me of her eyes.” As he spoke, he slowly ran his fingers across the rich grooved texture of the handle, worn smooth in spots by years of use.

“I fought like the devil and searched for that damn turncoat everywhere we went. Never found him, but I found plenty of lobster-backs, including one of their highest ranking. That’s what got me promoted to Captain. He was a mean ruthless bastard that repeatedly showed our men no mercy. I didn’t show him any either. Every Red Coat I killed, every last unlucky soul, was more to avenge her death than for the country. I was no hero. High ideals and virtues motivate heroes. Rage and vengeance fueled me.” Sam realized he sounded bitter, but he couldn’t help it—he was bitter.

“Revenge is a frequent motivator for war. And in war, the line between revenge and justice has always been a fine one. Sometimes so fine it disappears for some men,” Bear said. “For others, the line is always there.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

They both knew what kind of man he was.

CHAPTER 8

A
n uncommonly colorful sunrise washed richly textured trees in burnt orange light and added a layer of warm tranquility to the morning. The walk with Bear did help to calm his nerves and Sam now ate his breakfast, away from the others, comfortably perched on an ancient oak’s exposed root. He needed to think.

Resting comfortably was not something he did often. Acknowledged as the toughest of the five siblings, he was aware that his face suffered the effects of his many good fights. If there was a battle nearby, he made a point to be a part of it. The heat of those battles forged him into a man who longed for nothing more in life than defeating an enemy.

Until now. Was it possible that he could actually want something more for his life?

Deep in thought, the stunning sunrise went unnoticed by Sam. He drew his knife to cut his meat. The shiny blade caught the sun’s rays and shades of crimson pulsed across its surface with every movement of his hand. Unable to control the willful war demons of his mind, the nearly red reflections evoked painful recollections
of losing young friends and the vengeful spilling of his enemies’ blood. His fellow soldiers often called him Bloody Hand—a name Sam abhorred, even as he recognized the terrible red stain of truth in it. As he and his knife seasoned, the blood they drew stained more Red Coats than he wanted to remember. More than he could forget, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how often he asked God for forgiveness after waking from his nightmares. The Revolutionary War—just like the knife—was long, brutal, and unforgiving.

His stomach soured, Sam tossed what remained of his breakfast, as those disturbing shadows of his past were quickly followed by memories of the reason he bought the knife to begin with. Sharing that memory with Bear earlier reminded him that the reason still existed. The traitor’s whereabouts remained unknown to him. The blade had not yet claimed the man’s life.