Wilderness Trail of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 1) (34 page)

“Give them a while longer,” William hollered. “Sam knows what he’s doing.”

“But I can’t stand by and do nothing,” Jane screeched. “Damn it. I won’t lose Stephen too.”

At once, Jane regretted admitting her concern as Martha and Polly started crying.

Along with the hail, a hefty branch and fragments of trees and bark flew by, propelled by wind gusts that would make it difficult for a stocky man to stand upright. Jane realized it would be near impossible to saddle the horses in these conditions.

“Don’t worry, it’ll blow over soon,” Bear’s big voice boomed. “The worse a storm is, the quicker it’s over.”

But Bear was wrong.

CHAPTER 37

S
tephen studied the huge nearly black clouds lining up on the horizon as they hiked. He could see the violence slowly building within them, like an army of nature preparing to battle men. “We need to beat this storm. It looks like wicked weather.”

“Hope Little John stays out cold till we can get there,” Sam said. “This bouncing is bound to make his arm ache even more.”

“Maybe we should build a litter.”

“Don’t have time. Hear that thunder? That bad weather’s moving closer. I hate to give up this doe, we need the fresh meat so badly, but we’ll have to if we can’t stay ahead of the storm.”

“Game has been truly scarce lately. We need this meat. I know Jane needs it. She’s starved. I think she could eat more than you or Bear. I’ve never seen her this ravenous. She’s still hungry even after she eats.”

“She’s never carried a big Wyllie boy before.”

That made him smile. He had to admit, he hoped Jane was right about it being a boy. After four girls, he had nearly given up hope
of ever having a son. “At the rate she’s growing, he’s bound to be a stout portly fellow.”

The two picked up their pace, alternating carrying Little John, but their return still seemed to be taking forever.

“Always seems longer going back than forward,” Sam observed.

“The storm is catching up to us. It’ll be coming down in buckets soon,” Stephen said.

Little John moaned and opened his eyes slightly. “It hurts,” he cried. His small face grimaced in pain and he began to cry again. “I want my Pa.”

Relief filled Stephen when Little John woke, but it meant the boy would be in serious pain. “I know Little John. We’ll be back at camp soon. Aunt Jane will fix you up good.” The broken arm hung over Stephen’s shoulder. It was the only way to carry his nephew and not put pressure on the injury.

“Little John, is your arm the only thing that pains you?” Stephen asked.

“No, my stomach hurts too,” Little John sobbed.

“Forget this doe. Let’s get him back to camp as quickly as we can,” he told Sam.

“All right. I’ll cut the backstraps and a hindquarter, so we’ll at least have that much.” Sam pulled his big knife and quickly got to work.

He gently laid Little John down on the ground and checked him over again to see if he could spot any other injuries. He suspected that Little John had broken or cracked a rib, but knew his injuries could be even worse. He tried to think of a way to ease Little John’s suffering until they got back to camp. Jane had a bottle of a drug to
dull pain, but he needed something now. He retrieved a short narrow rope from his shoulder bag and cut off a piece. He put it next to the boy’s mouth. “Little John, bite down on this, it will take away some of the aching. It’s what real hunters do to stop the pain when they get hurt.”

Little John took the rope into his mouth and bit down hard with his back molars since his front baby teeth were missing.

He wiped tears away from the corners of the boy’s eyes.

“Rope is a good idea Stephen. That always helps me when I’m hurting,” Sam said for the boy’s benefit. He finished up with the doe, quickly wiped the long knife and his hands clean on leaves and grass and then grabbed a good size piece of linen from his shoulder bag to wrap and bundle the venison.

Stephen picked up Little John and they started off again, with a cool wind seeming to chase them back to camp.

Rain started falling and, as he predicted, it came down as if poured from large buckets. They headed down the rocky hills they had climbed on the way up, the blowing rain smacking their faces like slaps from a cold hand. The steepness and lack of visibility made it difficult to hurry.

Moments later, it seemed like a frozen hell. The wind whipped pebble sized hail into their backs. Stephen covered Little John’s face with his hat, which left his own face exposed to the stinging frozen rain, and pulled the boy against his body.

Little John sobbed loudly now, into Stephen’s chest, but continued to bite down on the rope.

Stephen stepped down on a rock covered with hailstones, his foot slid backward across the slick wet stones. He stumbled, landing on his knees, hitting both kneecaps on stones as he desperately
fought to keep Little John’s head and arm from hitting the ground.

The impact of the fall made Little John scream out in pain.

Stephen glanced up searching for his brother, but Sam hadn’t heard the scream or seen them fall and didn’t look back. He used his body to cover Little John and studied the boy’s face. The rope still hung from the corners of his mouth. His nephew was clearly in agony, but he looked back at Stephen with the iron that was in his blood. “Trust me. We’ll get you back,” he promised Little John.

He carefully scooped the boy up and hurried toward Sam, feeling pain in both knees.

More than an hour had passed since they had cut the meat off the doe. Heavy rain had poured ever since, but thankfully, the hail ceased its assault. Rainwater flowed down his back, soaking his jacket and making the skin on his bare chest feel like a sheet of ice.

As they made their way downward, a nearly solid blanket of liquid flowed around them making every step treacherous. He wondered how long they would be able to continue. But they had to keep going. Water already ran swiftly at the bottom on the hill. He couldn’t tell how deep the stream was.

They stopped and peered up and down the surging water for a better place to cross, but it appeared the same in both directions, with the stream rising by the minute.

“Give him to me,” Sam shouted.

His brother wanted Little John since he was taller, in case the water was deep. He handed Little John over and took the venison.

Stephen glanced upstream. “Hurry,” he yelled, pointing to a rising wall of water coming rapidly towards them.

With their free arms, both men held their rifles overhead as they
plunged into the icy swiftly moving stream. Stephen felt his leather knee high boots fill with water. His hat was a sodden weight on his head and his wool jacket felt like a heavy blanket on his back.

With his big long legs, and clothing made of animal skins, Sam seemed to almost sprint across, but Stephen struggled for each step. He looked upstream with alarm. The flash flood waters approached with frightening speed.

He fought to steady himself, but with each step, the current grew deeper and stronger. Halfway across, he nearly lost his grip on the venison as the rapidly moving current pushed against his hand. He used the butt of his rifle to draw it back, pulling it tightly to his chest and tightening his grip on the meat. Then, the racing wall of water smashed into him like a battering ram.

Instantly, his knees buckled and he lost his footing, falling completely into the frigid churning liquid. He thrashed about trying to recover his balance, swallowing muddy water as he fought to breathe. His feet flailed under him as he searched for the steam’s bottom. The churning water swallowed him completely, turned him upside down and then back up again.

He should try to swim, but he would have to give up his precious rifle and the meat to do so. Refusing to give them up, he wrestled against the surging stream as his lungs fought for air. Stephen thrashed about, his legs failing to locate the river bed. He needed air or his lungs would explode. He concentrated on finding a foothold to push against. Finally, his right boot felt the bottom and he pushed himself up above the waterline, gasping for air and coughing out the liquefied mud. Amazingly, he still held the rifle in one hand and gripped the venison bundle in the other.

Stephen managed to regain his balance and straighten up. As soon as he did, lightning cracked and thunder boomed just above
his head making his legs unsteady again. Yet, determined to reach the far bank, he slogged on through the rushing water. All of a sudden, he wondered if it was the right bank. Turned around and upside down several times by the wild rushing vortex, reality had shifted. Nothing was as it had been just moments before. Was he even going the right direction? He glanced down, the water was flowing to his left, the same direction it had been when they entered the creek. At least he was headed in the right direction.

He waded out of the muddy impromptu river. He had lost his hat in the surge of water and had difficulty seeing, as rain poured off his head into his eyes. He tried to find some landmark that would show him which direction to go. He couldn’t see Sam anywhere. Disoriented, he stood on the edge of the stream, his teeth chattering violently, wondering if the floodwater had carried him downstream when he fell. Everywhere he looked, water either flowed into the river or stood in pools growing deeper by the minute. It seemed like the whole world had dissolved into an ugly grey-brown liquid.

Another lightning bolt struck nearby, exploding a tree, and made him want to race for cover. But the only cover was trees, and they were all standing in water like he was.

He took off, splashing through water several inches deep, knowing he had to find his brother and quickly. After this downpour and flash flooding, he’d have difficulty finding his way back without him. He thought for a moment. The water must have carried him south, away from Sam. But how far? Trudging a few yards ahead, his anxiety grew as he saw no sign of Sam or the boy. As he should, his brother would be concentrating on getting Little John, who was suffering and freezing, back to camp.

With a growing sense of isolation, he realized he was on his own. I can do this, he told himself. He felt the front’s biting wind on his
face and its icy chill as it penetrated his soaked clothes. He suspected that the storm blew in from the north so he turned into the gusts, hoping to get back to the place where Sam had crossed. He had to find shelter; the temperature was dropping by the minute. He wound through the sodden trees, all looking like they were floating in water. Repeatedly, he slipped on rocks and hidden holes and had to pull himself up again and again. Each time, paying with more scratches and scrapes, especially on his hands and face. Shivering violently from the bone-numbing cold, he had a hard time keeping his grip on the venison and his rifle. He clutched both to his chest, but the meat felt like a block of ice on his heart. He put it under his arm instead.

The storm’s clouds made everything look gloomy and oppressive. He tried to find a path leading away from the muddy stream. He trudged forward, his boots sticking in the mud, and for what seemed like hours, searched for some sort of shelter. Just one more step, he kept telling himself. One more step and he’d be closer to Jane, closer to being warm again. When he wanted to just sit down, he imagined the feel her soft body pressed against his. He could almost taste her sweet lips.

He staggered on. Giving up was not an option. Not when he had Jane to live for. He had nearly lost her twice to Bomazeen and once to grief and the anger it had spawned. He swore he’d never let that happen again. And Martha and Polly. He had lost two daughters, but he still had two. He had to make it back to all of them.

Finally, he found a thick stand of timber on higher ground. He spotted a huge evergreen covered with a wild grape vine. The enormous lower branches reached the ground and curled back towards the tree’s trunk creating a canopy. The higher branches, covered with the thick leafy vine, would keep out the majority of the downpour. Exhausted, he collapsed to his knees and crawled on the
slippery forest floor until he was under the tree. Just a little further, he urged himself as he headed for the tree’s massive trunk. The rain still stuttered under the tree’s canopy, but it was more like a shower than a pounding drenching.

Despite how tired his eyes were, which burned from peering through the rain, he drew his knife and made himself watch for creatures that might have moved into the cozy shelter first. Luckily, the shelter was empty, but the leaf-covered ground next to the trunk still bore the imprints and wild smell of previous inhabitants. He hoped whatever it was wouldn’t return soon.

He pressed his back against the trunk of the tree, away from the howling wind, and with trembling hands yanked off his wet boots. He tugged off his wet wool jacket and tried to use it as a blanket, wishing he had brought his big cloak along. But the jacket was so soaked, water ran from its edges. He threw it over a nearby sturdy branch instead to let the water seep out of it before he put it back on. He put his icy feet in his hands and set to work rubbing his numb toes, but his hands were so raw and scratched he could not continue. He put his hands under his armpits hoping to warm them just a little as he fought to control his constant shivering and his chattering teeth.

Stephen closed his burning eyes for a moment. He needed to rest. Could he risk going to sleep? What if a bear or a mountain cat found him asleep? He forced his eyelids open, but they seemed to have a will of their own, a will stronger than his.

Behind his eyelids, he saw Little John and wondered if he would be all right. Was it a broken rib or had the boy been injured inside? If Little John died, heaven forbid, Jane might blame him again. Would another child be sacrificed for his dream?
Please God, no
.

He tried to banish the repugnant thoughts, but they were
quickly replaced with yet another worry. Had he wandered closer to their camp or away from it? It was late in the day. It would be dark soon. With the darkness, even deeper cold would come. He had certainly experienced intense cold in New Hampshire, but not when he was this wet and this exhausted. His body could not withstand these conditions for long.