Wilderness Trail of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 1) (20 page)

The next few weeks passed uneventfully, except that Stephen noticed that the children changed from week to week as children are wont to do. Baby Mary started to walk, Amy grew another tooth, Polly started reading, Martha grew at least an inch, and Little John decided he was old enough to ride his own mount. He begged Stephen to let him have the remaining spare horse. They had sold Little John’s pony before leaving Barrington because it was too old to make the trip. The extra horse was especially gentle and reined well and Stephen knew it would be easier on John’s mount if it did not have the extra load of the boy every day.

“I think Little John would be a fine horseman,” he told John. “It’s in his blood. Besides, the horse needs to be ridden if he’s going to stay gentle.”

“Then you ride him,” John retorted, “Little John is just a boy;
he doesn’t need a man’s steed.”

“He’ll need to become a man quick enough on the frontier. The sooner he gets started the better,” Stephen snapped back.

“I’m his father and I’ll decide when he needs to become a man,” John retorted.

“John, Stephen’s right,” Sam intervened. “Little John will be much safer if he’s a good rider. A fine mount can save a man, or a boy, from disaster. Soon he’ll need to learn to handle a weapon too. It’s time you let the boy start to grow up.”

John glanced at Stephen and then Sam. “All right, so long as Stephen teaches him to become a better rider.”

“And I’ll teach him to use a knife,” Sam promised.

“There’s a secret to loping a horse the right way,” Stephen told Little John later.

“What secret?” Little John asked.

“It’s all in the reins,” he explained. “Most people keep the reins in the same spot held over their mount’s neck or saddle.”

“That’s the way I do it,” the boy said.

“That’s wrong. You see, the horse is moving his head as he runs. It moves forward and back, just as your body does. So the reins need to move with his head. Otherwise you’re jerking him every time he takes a step and it’s hard for him to run smooth.”

Little John said, “I want to be a good horseman, just like you Uncle Stephen.”

“To be a good rider, you need to understand how your gelding moves and, more importantly, how he thinks.”

“How do I do that?”

“It’s mostly time in the saddle. The more time you spend with him, watching him, learning how he thinks, the more you’ll understand him.”

Little John, now six, took to the horse instantly and the two became inseparable. With every lesson he gave him, his nephew’s skill as a rider and the boy’s gratitude towards him grew.

Stephen suspected Little John would have sided with him in the recent debate with Sam on the proper inspiration for naming a horse. Little John named the gelding Dan—after his hero Daniel Boone.

CHAPTER 22

T
o describe today would be a repetition of yesterday. We have come over 300 miles. We are continually plagued by rain and grey skies. Every storm makes even making a meal a challenge. Yesterday’s weather was especially oppressive. I thought I would go mad from the incessant pounding of raindrops on the wagon cover. I have given up trying to keep us all clean, instead focusing on my struggle to keep the children warm. We have stuck a wheel so many times I have lost count. I am trying hard to live up to Sam’s challenge, to think of these trials as opportunities to grow stronger. But, nature seems determined to test my resolve
.

Despite these hardships, we are also blessed. I have not told Stephen yet, but I am with child. I know our daughters are precious to him beyond measure, but I pray this time we will have the son I know he desires. I know being with child will make this trip more difficult for me, but children come in God’s time, not ours
.

Jane closed the journal, put aside the ink and quill, then leaned back against a Sycamore tree. A cool breeze wafted over her face,
blowing wisps of her hair against her ears and neck. Baby Mary slept next to her knee. A patchwork quilt covered the damp ground beneath them. She enjoyed just watching the little beauty sleep. She thought about Stephen and how handsome he looked when he was asleep—when his cares and ambition did not burden his fine face. Her cheeks and neck heated as an overwhelming urge to kiss him suddenly seized her. And she wanted to feel his strong arms around her. To love him. But their lack of privacy made being amorous rare and beyond difficult. Soon, she promised herself.

She inhaled deeply, taking in the soothing earthy fragrance of this tranquil place, and let her breath out slowly. These few moments to rest and record her thoughts were precious and she savored the serenity.

But the moment’s quiet peace did not last long.

Martha ran up. “Mama, Uncle Sam said to fetch you. Amy’s face is red and her eyes look strange.”

She quickly gathered Mary and the quilt in her arm, grabbed the journal and ink, and hurried with Martha to Sam.

Sam rested against his saddle, holding Amy, her head leaning against his broad shoulder. Amy’s tiny fingers played listlessly with the fringe of his buckskin shirt.

“She wandered over here a little bit ago and climbed on my lap. Knew she was sick as soon as she sat down,” Sam said, concerned.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Jane asked, feeling Amy’s forehead. Her daughter felt blistery hot and red patches covered her cheeks and neck. Jane tried not to show Amy the fear that gripped her heart. The child was quite ill.

She climbed into her wagon to lay Mary down and went back for Amy. She put Amy next to Mary on the pallet the girls used, then
stuck her head out the back. “Get your father,” she told Martha, who stood with Polly nearby.

“What’s wrong?” Stephen asked, peering inside the wagon, the moment he reached it.

“Girls, take the bucket and get some water so I can make a broth for Amy,” Jane told Martha and Polly, before answering.

As soon as they were alone, her eyes burned with tears wanting to fall. “Dear God, Stephen, Amy’s burning up and shaking with chills. I don’t know if its exposure to all these rain storms or yellow fever. I just know she is terribly ill.”

“Yellow fever? It killed thousands in Philadelphia a few years ago. It can’t be that. She just has a chill is all,” Stephen said firmly, dismissing the notion.

“Remember the symptoms of Yellow Fever, fever and chills? Exactly what she has. It killed indiscriminately. Some got it while others in the same family didn’t.” Biting her lip, she turned her eyes back on her daughter. Her mood veered sharply from worry to anger. “I’ll make her some herb and oak bark tea. I don’t know what else to do.”

Stephen climbed inside, and felt Amy’s face. “I’ll sit with Mary and Amy while you find and mix the herbs.”

This time she detected worry in his voice and it alarmed her.

Jane quickly put some of the water on to boil and took the rest to the wagon to wipe Amy down. She removed her girl’s dress and mopped her body with the cool cloth, then handed the rag to Stephen.

“Keep wiping her down, especially her forehead,” she told Stephen. “I’ll go brew the tea.”

While Jane made the herb tea, Stephen stayed with Amy. His girls had never been seriously ill before and the shadow of worry hung over him. Before long, a dread—dark and terrifying—crept into him. He tried to ban it, but couldn’t. He began to pray.

The sound of trotting horses lifted him back from the retreat of prayer. He wiped Amy’s forehead before climbing out of the wagon.

“Hope John’s luckier than we were,” William said, as he and Bear dismounted.

“Amy’s ill,” Stephen said at once.

“How bad?” William asked.

“I don’t know. She has a bad fever. John’s down at the creek. Tell him he’ll need to cook the fish he catches for dinner so Jane can tend to Amy.”

Bear’s bushy eyebrows grew closer and his face looked troubled before he said, “I’ll tell him, and I’ll water these thirsty horses too.”

“Can I do anything?” William asked.

“Pray,” he answered.

Jane brought the tea to the girls and then yelled, “Stephen, come here.”

He didn’t like the desperate sound of her voice. He and William both jumped to the back of the wagon and looked in.

“Mary’s getting warm too. Feel her,” Jane cried, moving the baby closer so he could reach her. “God, why?”

He ran his palm over Mary’s little head, indeed quite warm. “Jane, just do your best. That’s all you can do,” he said, trying his best to calm her, despite his own rising panic. He glanced back at
Martha and Polly who stood nearby. “Help Uncle John get dinner ready,” he told them.

“I’ll make coffee and bring you both some,” William offered.

Stephen climbed back into the wagon. “Here, let me hold Mary while you wipe down Amy. When did Amy go to sleep?”

“A few minutes ago. The fever made her drowsy. The tea didn’t help,” Jane said, panic entering her voice. “What if she doesn’t wake up?”

“Give it time. She just drank it. Can the baby take any?”

“Yes. Here’s her baby cup. She just started drinking from it this week.”

Stephen was sorry he hadn’t noticed that. He gently held the little pewter cup to the toddler’s lips. What a beautiful girl. Had he taken the time to notice even that before now? Mary’s red curls hung damp and limp as the fever climbed. Her eyes studied his face—eyes that somehow knew he was trying to help her. She took a small sip. Jane had flavored it with honey and Mary seemed to like it. After taking another swallow, she managed a weak smile up at him. Then, cradled in his arms, she too fell asleep. He laid Mary down and covered her with a warm blanket to keep the chills at bay, before returning to the others.

He didn’t want to eat, but tried to bring Jane some food. She refused it and he returned to the campfire. John fed fresh fish to the rest of the group. After dinner, Little John, Martha, and Polly snuggled by the fire as John read to them. Within minutes, all three children slept soundly and Stephen covered them with blankets and tucked them in.

Sam, William, Bear, and John decided to alternate sentry duty to keep a careful watch over their camp. Now that they were in
unfamiliar country, unsure of what they might encounter, at least one of them would be awake at all times.

He rejoined Jane and the night stretched endlessly. The dark sky matched their growing despair as they grimly watched both daughters slowly slipping away. Mary’s breathing grew slow and shallow and fever burned red through her face.