Wilderness Trail of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 1) (4 page)

“Mama, may we have a picnic today?” Polly pleaded.

“What a splendid idea,” Jane responded. “But we have our chores, and…”

“Just a short picnic. We won’t be gone long,” Martha begged.

Her eyes widened at the idea. It sounded far more appealing than weeding and laundry. But something made her hesitate and she turned back toward the house. “No, when your father gets back,
we’ll have a big picnic Sunday after church. You heard your Father, we should stay close to home.”

The girls grudgingly followed. They strolled past Jane’s rose bushes, just beginning to bud. She eagerly awaited their glorious full blooms brightening her front yard.

Inside, she checked on Mary, the youngest, now almost one. Still peacefully asleep in her cradle, the babe looked angelic. Jane gently pulled a little blanket over her, then tiptoed away, being careful not to awaken her.

The day passed slowly as she went about her labors, pausing now and then to pray for Stephen. The trip there would take him all day and it would be early evening before he reached Durham. Of all her chores, she hated washday the most. Nevertheless, as her mother had strongly advised, she made herself keep up with dirty laundry. At Jane’s wedding, her mother gave her a “Receipt for Wash Day.” She saved it in her Bible, treasuring it for her mother’s original spelling and for her words of wisdom. She had memorized the list:

        
1.
Bold a fire in yard to heet pot of rainwater. Set tubs so smok won’t blow in eyes if wind is pert. Shave one hole cake lie sope in bollin water
.

        
2.
Make three piles, wite, cullord and rags
.

        
3.
For startch, stur flour in cold water till smooth, then thin with bollin water
.

        
4.
Rub dirty spots on board, scrub hard. Take white things out of kettle with broom stik, then rench, blew, and startch
.

        
5.
Spred tea towels on bushes and hang bed linens on fence and cloothes on trees
.

        
6.
Poor rench water on flower bed and scrub porch with sopey
water.

        
7.
Put on cleen dress—smooth hair with side combs—brew cup of tee—set and rest and rock a spell and count blessings
.

She especially enjoyed the last piece of advice and faithfully practiced this part of the instructions. She definitely had many blessings to count. Having a husband like Stephen was always at the top of her list. He made her happy and brought joy to her life in so many ways, not the least of which was the immense pleasure she found in their bed. Just thinking about it made her face feel flushed. Halfheartedly, she made herself focus on wringing the water out of one of Stephen’s linen shirts, but as she shook it out, even his shirt reminded her of his well-muscled chest and made her long for the comfort of his arms.

When she finished laundering, she brewed tea while she changed from her work clothes into one of her favorite everyday dresses, a blue and yellow striped gown trimmed with white lace at the neck and cuffs. She made a half-hearted attempt to style her curls, made wild by the hot steam from the laundry water, but soon gave up and headed to her teapot. She poured the brew into a delicate china cup and saucer enjoyed by the women in her family for generations. She sensed a connection with her past every time she used the precious set. Each week, after doing laundry, the ritual was her reward to herself for accomplishing such a tedious task.

“Martha, watch your sisters while I rest on the porch,” she instructed, as she grabbed her shawl. At last, a few peaceful minutes to herself in her rocker. She would enjoy her tea and the cool evening air. She relished these rare serene moments, an elixir to a mother’s harried soul.

Jane opened the front door and froze. Sheer black terror swept through her.

The most hideous and loathsome man she had ever seen stood on her porch, staring menacingly at her. He reached for her arm.

Her treasured teacup slipped from her hands and shattered as she jumped backwards and screamed. She turned to run toward her daughters, but the man lunged for her instantly. She felt searing pain on her scalp as his hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and jerked her backwards.

She struggled to free herself but each movement only made him pull her closer, tearing more hair from her head. He stank so badly she began to gag. Nausea rose up in her throat.

All three girls huddled together in the corner screaming, but baby Mary still slept peacefully in her cradle.

“Stop fighting or I’ll start killing your litter,” he hissed into her ear.

At once, she stopped struggling. She forced her mind to return from the initial shock and terror, otherwise fear would quickly paralyze her.

He shoved her onto the wooden floor planks, then like a huge snake slowly slithered further into her home. She scooted backwards, quickly stood, and faced him. She recognized him immediately. She knew who he was, what he was. For years, Jane had heard the vivid descriptions of him and the tales of his butchery.

Most colonists thought him half-human, half-demon. He made his living stealing white and Indian captives and trading them. Although Bomazeen hadn’t been seen locally in some time, he had slaughtered many people in the area in the past, always scalping them first before running them through with a bayonet. Sometimes he would slit their throat too. He usually scalped the youngest children and the elderly, taking only those who could withstand the
long brutal journey through the wilderness afoot and survive with little food. Rumor was he would crisscross dense forests, avoiding roads and trails, a tactic designed to elude the men who gave chase and attempted to apprehend him.

As he stood before her, he appeared even more terrifying than she had imagined. The part down the middle of his long stringy black hair pointed to inky eyes. A sharp chin, supported features that appeared incapable of emotion. Like the viper that wore it, it seemed like a face that never laughed and never cried. Only his voice reflected his spirit—a voice greased with venom. Numerous earrings pierced his left ear, severely stretching the lobe, but his right ear was unadorned except for a gruesome scar. His bloodstained clothes, a mix of Indian and white man’s attire, looked like once put on they had never left his body.

Some of the bloodstains appeared fresh, and a scalp, with long white hair, hung from his belt. She shuddered at the ghastly sight, fighting nausea once again.

With her heart hammering in her chest, she took a deep breath, trying to control her quivering nerves and mounting fear.

Bomazeen slowly scanned the house with the chilling eyes of a hungry beast. He spotted a loaf of bread and ham on the table and wasted no time devouring it like a hungry dog.

The girls crouched together in the corner whimpering pitifully.

Bomazeen ignored them, at least for the moment. For that, she was grateful.

Her mind raced nearly as fast as her wildly beating pulse. Could she get this monster to leave?

Show him no fear.

She fought for self-control, determined to keep her voice from trembling. “My husband and his brothers will return soon from hunting,” she lied.

Very slowly, and emphasizing each word, he said, “If you lie again, I’ll cut your tongue out. I saw him leave this morning, alone, in that old noisy wagon. He took Durham road.” His words simmered with barely restrained anger.

Her heart nearly stopped as she realized that Bomazeen knew Stephen was long gone. The devil must have been outside all day, watching her, waiting for the cover of darkness before he kidnapped them. But Bomazeen never took young children. He would kill them, viciously and without mercy.

Oh God, oh God. Stephen, please come back
.

Her knees weakened, her throat tightened, and she could barely breathe. But her mind had to stay strong. Stephen was gone.

She had to protect her daughters.

Determined to save them, she willed herself to stand tall and focus on the girls instead of the devil standing before her. She stared directly into Martha’s eyes trying to give her oldest daughter strength.

Martha glared back at her with as much anger as fear in her eyes and her little hands shook, but she still clung protectively to her two younger sisters. Jane knew Martha would fight Bomazeen herself to protect them. The courage shown by her seven-year-old awed her. In that moment, she realized what she had to do.

She put herself between the girls and Bomazeen. “Do you need water?”

Bomazeen grunted, continuing to greedily gorge on the bread
and ham.

She moved slowly to the water pail. Spotting her cooking knife on the counter, she picked it up, hoping he hadn’t noticed. She would try that first. She dipped some water and took it to him. Her hand shook so badly much of the water flung out.

Bomazeen snatched the dipper from her, but then grabbed her other wrist. “You think you can whip me with little old cooking knife? Stupid woman. I’ve been cut many times, but I’m still hunting you whites. You can’t kill me. Indian magic protects me.” He threw the knife into the fire before slapping her face hard, nearly knocking her over. The imprint of his hand burned her skin, but disgust from the fiend’s touch really made her smolder.

Then he reached for her, squeezing her arm painfully, and prepared to slap her again. Suddenly, he stopped short. He groaned what seemed like disappointment, and twisted his pursed lips.

She recoiled at the daggers of evil his narrowed eyes hurled at her. Then she glanced toward her daughters and her heart strengthened again. Angry that she’d let him see her get the knife, she ignored her stinging cheek. Her Scottish temper rose to the surface, repressing her fear. “Sir, we are protected by the Lord Almighty, who is stronger than your heathen superstitions. He will speedily avenge any blood you spill upon this family.”

“I not afraid of your God. I kill whites and Indians many times. He never hurt me.”

“He will—in hell.”

Bomazeen snorted loudly. “A story for weak children.”

Rather than rile him further, she reined in her temper. “What do you want?”

“Your oldest girl will make good slave.” He pointed at Martha. “And Chief needs a woman. I spied you once near town when I was passing through to southern tribes. I knew then that I could get good price for you. Chief will like red hair. He already smoked his pipe to make you his wife and he celebrated joining to your spirit.”

“I’ll die first,” Jane swore.

Bomazeen jabbed a dirty finger in her face. “Then you’ll die.”

At that, Polly’s echoing sobs froze her heart like a thousand cold winters.

Stephen, if I never see you again, remember I loved you
.

CHAPTER 5

S
tephen pulled into Durham as the sun slipped behind the western side of the White Mountains. Spring still hadn’t overcome the evening chill, and it felt cool enough tonight that they might even wake up to a light frost. Well-dressed shoppers, slaves, servants, horses, dogs and assorted peddlers crowded the busy city’s streets. He stabled his team at the livery barn and then headed across the cobblestone square to Harry’s Tavern and Inn, where he planned to eat a nice meal and spend the night.

As he walked, his thoughts turned from food to Jane. As usual, he missed her already.

The popular inn was, as always, crowded and loud, and its distinctive smell, a blend of aromatic food, musky men, and oak burning in the enormous fireplace, assaulted his nostrils as he went in. In addition to drinking and eating, the mostly male clientele used the tavern to unwind, smoke their pipes, read the latest newspaper, play billiards, share gossip, argue endlessly about politics, and lately to learn news of travelers who had gone west. He noticed one of Harry’s most popular drinks sitting on many of the tables. Called a ‘Flip’ it was a potent concoction of beer and New
England rum, sweetened with molasses. The tavern owner plunged a red-hot iron into the brew, giving it the flavor of burnt sugar.

Several men he had known since his youth shouted or waved their welcomes as he entered. Looking for a place to sit, he spotted Bear. His best friend and adopted brother’s stature and bright coppery hair made the man hard to miss.

“Stephen, it’s a fine surprise to be seein’ ye. I just ambled in meself,” Bear said in his booming Scottish lilt. He stood to shake hands, towering over Stephen.

He shook Bear’s strong hand, nearly twice the size of his own, then sat. “What are you doing in Durham? You hate big cities, and I thought you were hunting. If I’d known you planned to come here, we might have traveled together.”

“I had to see the doc about a tooth that suddenly made me want to weep like a wee bairn. He pulled it and told me to go drink a few sassafras ales to dull the pain. A fine doctor that one. He knows what good medicine tastes like.” Bear gulped his ale with relish. “I should have gone by to tell ye before I left, but I was hurtin’ so, I dinna want to see or talk to anyone, even you.”

“Glad you’re here. It’ll give us a chance to talk.” Stephen valued his friend’s opinions. Bear’s keen intellect had a way of getting to the meat of a matter. And despite his coarse appearance, he possessed the qualities of a scholar, having acquired an excellent education as a child beside a peat fire in a lonely Highland glen.

“Aye, and a chance to swig a few ales, if ye have a mind tae.”

“After that wagon ride through those windy ass hills, I’m ready for a good meal and some of Harry’s ale. It made me appreciate that old story about Grandfather Thomas.”

“Your grandfather was a Samuel.”

“My father’s grandfather. The one that was a Scots Coventeer and had to leave Scotland in 1685 because he refused to swear allegiance to the English king. Tradition has it that even at age eighty, Grandpa Thomas frequently drove his ox team to the nearest market town, and none of the other farmers could get there any quicker than he. Or unload their wagons any faster than he did.”

“Aye that sounds like one of yer braw kinsmen,” Bear laughed. “Are Jane and the wee ones well now?”