Wilderness Trail of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 1) (2 page)

Jane pulled his frock coat off and began to toy with the cravat at his neck. “I missed you.” She gave him a smile that hinted at her desires.

“I was only gone a few hours,” he said.

“I still missed you.”

“How much?” he teased. “A little or a lot?” He hoped it was a lot.

Then he had his answer. She untied the lacings on his shirt and ran her long slender fingers slowly across his chest. A tingling sensation swept through his torso as she took his jaw in her hand and nuzzled his earlobe before feathering a trail of soft kisses up his neck, across his cheek, and, at last, his mouth. After he’d kissed her thoroughly, she nipped impishly at his lower lip, causing his stomach to flutter and ripples of heat to course through his veins. Then she parted his lips in a soul-reaching kiss that caressed his entire body.

She pulled back to take a breath and gazed up at him with eyes sparkling impishly.

Indeed, she had missed him. He missed her too. He always did, even when he worked in their nearby field. Sometimes he would to take a break from his labors just to hear her sensuous voice. The
sound of it always renewed his energy and strengthened his heart.

He lowered his lips to the sweetness of her mouth and enwrapped her silky tresses in his hands. His lips recaptured hers and he encased her in his arms, pulling her against his thundering heart. The sizzling kiss caused a tempest of passion to roar through his body, like a sudden storm.

Ready to match his hunger with hers, he peered into her luminous eyes and her gaze locked on his, conveying the same longing that filled him. He wanted to reach into her and fulfill that need in a way that would leave no doubt how much he loved her. How much he wanted to protect her.

“I miss you every moment that you are not in my arms,” he whispered into her curls.

“And I miss you every moment you are not in my bed,” she said huskily, her face flushing with the passion rising in her.

A secret, almost magical, part of their marriage, passion bound their hearts tighter with every joining. To his surprise, their hunger for each other only grew more fervent as each year passed. Tonight was no exception. Just her nearness thrilled his senses and made them leap to life. His desire flared with an intense yearning and the very air around them seemed to grow hot.

But the intensity of his need was more than mere physical attraction, although her allure was undeniable and total. Their relationship was rooted in a love so profound and so complete that he now knew what the scriptures meant by the two shall become one. It was more than one flesh—it was one spirit. Jane even joked that they would eventually just become one person if they both lived into old age.

Tonight, though, they were young and filled with desire for each
other.

She backed out of his arms and playfully hauled him toward their bedroom, beaming warmly. She didn’t have to tug too hard. That beautiful smile made him want to race her to their bed. As he glimpsed the curves of her backside, his fingers ached to shed his remaining clothing…and hers.

Locking their bedroom door behind him, he swept her, weightless, into his arms and carried her to their bed.

Married eight years, she still made him feel like he could conquer the world.

But could he go to Kentucky?

And would Jane agree to go?

CHAPTER 2

White Mountains, New Hampshire, spring 1797

T
he stiff breeze whipped filthy blond hair back from her swollen face. It looked to Chief Wanalancet as if even the wind hurt her. As Bomazeen led the mare the young woman rode, she stared straight ahead, focusing on nothing, oblivious to the crowded Pennacook village.

At the sight of Bomazeen, little children scrambled to hide behind their mothers, all hard at work tanning furs or tending crops. The women of the tribe averted their eyes to avoid looking at the white woman, although the Chief knew they could not help but pity her. They understood what the young woman had endured, what she barely survived, as a captive of an inhuman man without mercy, unburdened by even a bead of conscience.

Known for his unchecked brutality, Bomazeen’s chilling reputation stretched well beyond Wanalancet’s tribe. Whites thought of him as a cruel ghost—appearing from nowhere and making women simply vanish, leaving behind only the haunting cold of fear as word spread of their disappearance.

His tribe whispered Bomazeen’s name, calling him Wandering
Evil, for he left a trail of violence wherever he roamed. Even the young braves stayed clear of the man because of the condition of both the white and native captives he brought to the tribe for trade. This one looked no different from the rest.

He needed to rein in Bomazeen’s cruelty or find another slave trader.

Bomazeen untied the strips of rawhide binding her raw ankles and wrists. “Down bitch,” he hissed. When she didn’t move, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and jerked her off the horse.

Her legs buckled as soon as she put weight on them and Wanalancet watched her crumple to the ground.

Swearing, Bomazeen half dragged, half carried her to the tribe’s traders, and threw her at their moccasin clad feet.

The traders circled the young woman, surveying Bomazeen’s damage.

Dark stains covered the front of the woman’s bodice. A tear in the fabric exposed a knife gash. Besides her wounds, mud and grime blackened what was left of her blue gown and white bonnet, making it difficult for Wanalancet to know what she had been like only days before.

The woman was in such dismal shape the traders offered Bomazeen half the normal beaver pelts paid for a slave.

Behind the blood and mud, the young woman might be comely, even beautiful. Wanalancet wondered if someone loved her. He shook his head in pity for the young woman. When would Bomazeen learn that he paid a price for his cruelty? Someday, he would pay an even higher price.

Grumbling a curse, Bomazeen sold her to the traders. “Try to
escape and I’ll come back and cut off your tits. Then your babes will starve.” He ended his threat with a swift kick to her buttocks, sending her face first into the dirt.

“Enough!” Wanalancet barked at Bomazeen. Then he ordered one of his traders to turn her over to the tribe’s healers.

Tears rolled down her face moistening the dried blood covering numerous scratches and cuts. She hung her head low, her long hair hiding her swollen face. It would take their best medicine and many weeks to mend Bomazeen’s vile handiwork. Wanalancet would be sure the women of the tribe healed this woman before one of his braves touched her. He knelt next to her. “What is your name?” he asked and Bomazeen translated.

“Lucy,” she said, her voice trembling.

As the traders lugged her to her feet, Wanalancet saw the light leave her eyes as hope left her heart. Her dulled apathetic stare was typical of someone who knows rescue is impossible. She probably wanted to die. It was a common problem with new slaves who thought captivity worse than death.

The traders led her away. Lucy was now a slave.

Among the Pennacook tribes, Wandering Evil intimidated everyone except Wanalancet. The despicable man needed his business. And while he hated to admit it, in addition to the slaves to replace their dead lost to smallpox, Bomazeen supplied items his people had grown accustomed to—tobacco, liquor, blankets, copper kettles, weapons, axes, and wampum—colorful trade beads used to decorate their clothing.

In exchange, Bomazeen traded for skins and pelts of all kinds, receiving far more when the hides sold than the value of the goods traded to his people. Wanalancet recalled many others who had
profited at his tribe’s expense. Double-dealing French traders, doling out disease along with whiskey and guns, nearly wiped out the Pennacook. Others sacked their small villages and often made off with their food stores on the eve of harsh winters. As their numbers dwindled, Wanalancet struggled to control his changing world.

“Wandering one, you bring woman of few years this time, but she is badly broken,” Wanalancet said. He tugged his raccoon cloak tighter against the cool mountain wind, covering the long strings of pearls draped against his bare chest. “I want slaves. I don’t want the ailing. Bring no more to me who have suffered as this one has by your hand.”

Bomazeen grunted. “I cut her some,” he answered in Algonquian, the Chief’s native tongue. Evil loitered behind the man’s dark eyes.

Wanalancet remained silent, not revealing his disgust.

A sneer crossed Bomazeen’s weathered face. “She showed too much spirit. But she won’t give you trouble now.”

“Why do you tear slave bodies with your hatred? A man should not poison his heart with ill will. Some new people to our land are my enemy, but hate does not steal my mind until it is time to fight.”

“My mind is as a stone. There is no soft spot in here,” Bomazeen replied, as he slowly drew a long yellowed fingernail across his grimy forehead.

Bomazeen’s heart was be made of stone too. Wanalancet told him, “Whites walk in white man world. My people walk in Pennacook world. You, a métis, wander between.”

“Yes, I am métis—my blood is half-Indian and half-French. But my spirit is not one or the other. To the Indian I am different, but
I exist. But to the whites I am outcast, without being, like a stray dog you throw stones at to get it to run away.” Bomazeen’s eyes darkened even further. “They treat me like an animal so I attack like one.”

The bitter remarks almost made the Chief pity the man. Bomazeen would never know the love of a woman. The heartless man was doomed to a life of cold loneliness.

Wanalancet understood loneliness. He longed to feel the warm flesh of a woman he loved against his body. Last summer, his wife, along with many others, died of smallpox. He honored her at the Feast of the Dead with grave offerings and many gifts. But now it was time to turn his honor towards a living woman—to sing to her the song of the stars.

“On your next wander to white man’s world, find me a fine woman. I will give you many furs in exchange, but no cuts, beating, or taking her,” he warned. “She must be great among women because she will be the mother to our people.”

“I know of such a woman. She lives near Barrington Town. Many people live there now. But, for the woman of a great Chief, I will go there. Her face will make you the envy of other Chiefs. Her hair is the color of the sun as it rises from the edge of the earth. Long ago, I watched her from afar—she is like no other woman. She is tall and strong. She will cost much. Your braves must hunt three times the usual beaver pelts and skins,” Bomazeen negotiated. “And your women must clean and tan the furs.”

Wanalancet’s interest peaked. He could almost envision his new wife. “The exchange will be as you say. Come, let us drink and smoke.” He waited as Bomazeen withdrew tobacco and liquor from the back of the pack mule, then they entered Wanalancet’s warm smoke-filled lodge. Made of bark and hides, numerous woven baskets filled with special flints, mica, shells, and other valuable
items lined the inside. They sat on the fur-covered floor and Wanalancet retrieved his Calumet. Made with a rare red catlinite marble head, the pipe had a long quill made of cane wrapped in buckskin adorned with seed beads, bird feathers of all colors, and locks of women’s hair, both dark and blond.

Whenever he went to mediate for peace, Wanalancet carried the ceremonial pipe with pride. He was of blood of the great Chief Passaconaway and his son Chief Wanalancet, for whom his father named him. As was the custom of his noble ancestors, to show this precious emblem of trade and trust meant he could walk in safety even among his enemies. He also used the pipe, as he would now, to conclude pacts and celebrate life’s important decisions with the Great Spirit.

Wanalancet carefully filled the Calumet, then lit the tobacco. As the first gray wisps curled up, he asked the sacred smoke to reach out to this woman’s spirit and join her to him. This sanctified act would make her life-force his. Soon, her body too would be his and warm his heart and his flesh.

Through the soft gray haze, Wanalancet again saw in his mind’s eye the woman with hair the color he prized most. Hair the same color as his pipe’s marble bowl. He began to love her spirit already, but he would have to wait until Bomazeen made good on his promise.

Silently, Wanalancet pledged to dream of her tonight and every night until she shared his lodge.

As he held the polished red bowl of his pipe, carved with grooves honoring the four directions, north, south, east, and…west, he sent the sacred smoke upwards to the full moon.

CHAPTER 3

J
ane sat with their daughters, trying her best to be patient, as she to taught them to sew. Stephen rested, close by, in his chair reading his favorite book
Adventures
yet again. The fire in the hearth cast just enough light for all of them to see by and his nearness warmed her heart as no fire could.

He’s read that book so many times he should have it memorized by now, she chuckled to herself. She decided to buy him a new book for his birthday.

She studied his handsome face, noting the furrowed brow and worried look that crossed his features from time to time. Something was troubling him and it was time to find out what.

Jane placed her needlework on the table. “Girls, time to sleep now. Say goodnight to your father, then go wash your faces and get ready for bed,” she ordered, as she picked baby Mary up out of her cradle.

“Yes Mother,” Martha replied obediently. Their oldest daughter sprang to her feet. “Come on Polly and Amy, let’s go.” After all three girls planted numerous kisses on Stephen’s cheeks, Martha took Amy’s little hand.

Jane smiled at Martha’s gesture. The seven year old never missed an opportunity to assume her role as big sister.

Without argument, because she permitted none, the children began climbing the stairs. Jane followed the three, carrying the baby, and noted how loud the parade of footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs. Her girls grew bigger by the day, including their feet.