Frontier Gift of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 5) Page 2

  She loved living here in Kentucky with Sam. Their new home was nestled in a virgin paradise. She was determined to learn all she needed to know about running a home, including caring for the babe they were expecting soon. That thought was daunting, and Catherine worried about whether or not she would know what to do. When she told Mrs. Wrigley about her concern, the cook reassured her that caring for infants was actually quite simple—you just needed to keep them warm, fed, and clean.

  How hard could that be? She could do it.

  As Catherine passed Miss Henk, bent down on her knees scrubbing the hall floor, gratitude for both the young woman’s help and Sam’s wisdom in hiring the housekeeper filled her. He was a patient man, but when he reached his limit of burnt meals and scorched clothing, he insisted that they hire both a cook and a housekeeper. After the young woman rode up on a tired old mule one day, looking for work, Miss Henk explained that her mother had just died and her father had passed away the previous winter. She lived in the nearby hamlet, but her home was little more than a one-room shack in the woods. She was hungry and promised to work hard to earn her keep. The homely looking woman was proving to be a hard worker who possessed a tranquil nature.

  “Thank you Miss Henk for keeping the floors looking so splendid,” Catherine told her.

  “You’re most welcome, Mrs. Wyllie,” she said, looking up. “I will not abide a dirty house. My dear departed mother taught me that. We didn’t have much of a home, but it was always clean and neat. If we were meant to live in filth, we could live with the animals in the barnyard.”

  Catherine chuckled. “I do enjoy your humor as well as my clean floors and home, Miss Henk. Do you know where my husband is? And Little John?”

  “No, I just came from scrubbing the floors in Little John’s room. My face has been but a foot from floorboards for the last hour or so. Do you want me to find them for you?”

  “No, thank you, I will find them myself. I just wanted to let Sam know I was feeling better.”

  “Glad I am to hear it, Mrs. Wyllie.”

  With a smile at the housekeeper, Catherine picked up her skirt and carefully tip-toed across the wet floor, making certain she didn’t fall. She headed down the hall toward the large living area at the front of the house. When Sam designed their two-story log home, he combined the traditional drawing room, parlor, and dining room into one enormous space so there would be plenty of room for his family to gather there. Large pine beams across the ceiling supported the six upstairs rooms for guests and future children. Little John was excited about moving his room upstairs when the baby was born so that its crying would not awaken him at night.

  Not finding anyone there, she proceeded to the kitchen at the back of the house. The large room was always a busy work space that held various aromas of cooking foods and the odors of fats, soot, and smoke. Two oil lamps and a shallow-arched window that Mrs. Wrigley could open in the summer lit the low-ceilinged space. On the kitchen’s back wall, made of thick brick, stood a twelve-foot wide hearth. Utensils as well as dry preserved vegetables hung off the huge timber beam that served as the hearth’s lintel.

  To prepare the dried vegetables for eating, Mrs. Wrigley soaked them in water for a while. Sam called beans prepared in this way ‘leather britches’ because of their toughness after drying. Dried fruits, pumpkin, squash, and other foods could last for months at a time. Whatever food they had, they produced themselves. Here there were no big food or meat markets to buy from as there were in Boston.

  To the right of the hearth, was their baking oven, built chest-high into the brick wall with a brick-domed interior. It was a wondrous addition to the kitchen. It took Sam nearly a month to build, but the crusty bread the oven produced made all his efforts well worth it.

  A flight of wooden steps to the left led to the upstairs bedrooms, and just below the stairs Mrs. Wrigley and Miss Henk’s shared quarters. If they were blessed with several children in the coming years, the sound of their feet stomping down those steps on their way to breakfast or dinner might fill that room, Catherine mused.

  Catherine greatly admired her cook. She considered Mrs. Wrigley a bit of a magician who ably conjured the most delightful foodstuffs from both simple and imaginative ingredients. She often used mortars and pestles to grind dozens of different spices. How the woman knew exactly what to use on what foods often baffled her. And since Catherine was a thousand miles from her own mother, Mrs. Wrigley was a most valuable and trusted source of motherly advice.

  “Mrs. Wrigley, have you seen my husband and son?” she asked.

  The plump curvaceous woman turned away from peeling a sizable mound of potatoes. “No, my dear lady, I haven’t seen them, but I heard one go out the front and one go out the back just a few moments ago. However, I don’t know which one went which way.”

  “Thank you. By the way, your bread smells heavenly.”

  “Tear yourself off a piece. A woman in your condition cannot eat enough. You must feed the babe and you.”

  Catherine smiled and nodded. Indeed, her appetite seemed to grow with each passing day. Lately, her stomach growled with hunger far more often than not. She tore off a hunk of the crusty bread. It was still warm in the center and she savored the fresh aroma the steam gave off before she took a bite. “Ummm, wonderful.”

  She opened the rear door, as she chewed and stepped outside, still looking for her husband and son. The rear walkways led to the smokehouse, the dairy, water well, granary, chicken coup, a large food cellar built into the earth, and furthest away—the privy. The entire area appeared deserted. The two must still be at the horse pens or barn.

  A rifle shot suddenly rang out from the front of the house. Catherine’s heart skipped a beat, and she dropped the bread. Lifting her skirt, she dashed through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the front living area. Mrs. Wrigley and Miss Henk followed close behind her and the three peered outside.

  Sam appeared to be fine, thank God. However, a man lay face down in the snow. Who was he? And who were the other two horseback men staring at Sam?

  “Miss Henk, fetch my heavy cloak,” Catherine instructed. “Please hurry.”

  The housekeeper rushed toward Catherine’s coat closet.

  “You do not need to be going out there in the freezing cold,” Mrs. Wrigley cautioned. “Captain Sam can handle whatever is amiss.”

  “Mrs. Wrigley, see to our meal. My husband does not like his food burned.” Catherine let out a deep breath, instantly regretting dismissing the woman so abruptly. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Wrigley. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “See that you are. Captain Sam would have my head if he knew I was letting you go out there,” Mrs. Wrigley said, wringing her apron in her hands.

  Miss Henk helped her into the cloak. Then Catherine grasped her loaded pistol from the table by the door, and slipped it into her cloak’s pocket. Sam insisted that a loaded pistol be kept by the front and back doors at all times for the women to use if needed. When she had asked why he wanted them kept loaded, he told her that a pocketful of rocks was more valuable than an unloaded pistol.

  Clutching the concealed weapon in her right hand, she stepped out onto the porch. The frigid air gripped the skin on her face. “Sam, what’s going on?”

  Sam did not look her way, but kept his eyes trained on the two men still mounted on their horses. His hands both held pistols, but his Kentucky long rifle lay on the ground. He must have shot the man now turning the snow crimson beneath him. Since the rifle held only one shot, he’d wisely tossed the weapon aside.

  “I have everything under control. These men were just leaving. Go inside and stay with Little John,” Sam ordered.

  “I don’t know where Little John is,” she told him.

  “Go inside. Now!” he said. When he used his Captain’s voice, everyone understood Sam expected unquestioning agreement and immediate action.

  Catherine reluctantly turned and did as he bid her.

  “That’s a mighty pretty lady you got
there, Bloody Hand,” the gangly man on a bay horse drawled. “And I’m guessing Little John is your son. Looks like you’ve planted your seed in her belly again.”

  Sam eyed the man with contempt. The stranger’s words and conduct were outlandishly vulgar and ill-mannered, especially considering that he just shot this man’s companion. More than once, his lifelong habit of defending himself first and asking questions later saved the lives of family and himself. When trouble threatens, it usually comes with no warning. “My name is Mr. Wyllie, and my wife and my children are none of your concern. This man is,” Sam said, pointing to the body lying on the ground between him and the strangers. “Why did he draw his weapon?” he demanded.

  “We brought him along for his muscle, not his brains,” the heavy-set man said. “Unfortunately, he possessed little tact and even less civility. The use of force was unnecessary. We are here simply to purchase your land back in New Hampshire.”

  “As I told you, I’m not interested. And unless you want to spend Christmas in a cold grave like your dimwitted friend here, I’d suggest you get moving.” Sam’s flat response to their unwanted solicitation wasn’t what they wanted to hear. He told them he wasn’t interested the first time they asked, but instead of responding as a gentleman, the now dead fool replied by moving his horse closer, jerking out one of his pistols, and raising it at Sam.

  That was a bad decision.

  “Sir, you are correct. Our friend was often senseless and quite boorish. I learned that well enough on our long journey here. Pointing his weapon at you was clearly a grievous mistake. He forced you to defend yourself,” the heavy-set man mounted on a gray horse said.

  This man appeared to be the leader.

  Sam stepped forward and looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry your partner had to die for nothing. Before any more blood is shed, get off your horses, load your man on his mount, and leave.”

  “Bury him. He has no family,” the leader answered flatly.

  “Bury him yourself,” Sam told them. “Load him up and leave.”

  “We’re not ready to leave just yet. It took us a long time to find you—several months in fact. It took some convincing, but your brother Edward in Barrington told us where you went,” the man on the gray mount said. “And a man in Boonesborough told us you’d moved south of Fort Logan. At Fort Logan, we learned your exact location.”

  “If you harmed even a hair on Edward’s head, I promise you I’ll hunt you down from here to kingdom come and remove your hair along with the scalp on your ugly heads,” Sam threatened.

  “No, no,” the leader replied quickly. “We merely offered him a financial incentive and explained that it could mean a nice profit for you.”

  Sam grew even more suspicious. Edward would never provide information about his family in exchange for money. His brother in New Hampshire must have thought the New York firm would simply be sending a letter to Sam, not three heavily armed men.

  “Tell me why you’ve come all this way just to see me about selling my land and be quicker about it than your dead friend.”

  “Sir, my name is Wesley Dixon and this is my partner, Thomas Crowell. We represent a firm in Boston and New York that is acquiring land in New Hampshire to quarry stone. As I said, we are here to ask you to sell Wyllie Mountain and the surrounding acreage to us,” the man on the gray mount said, sounding a bit too eager.

  “As I said, the mountain is not for sale,” Sam stated firmly. “Get your stone somewhere else.” The mountain’s daunting presence now loomed only in his mind. But within its shadow, were the graves of three people he once loved dearly.

  A forced smile filled Dixon’s puffy face and he plunged on carelessly. “We realize you are a well-regarded war hero and earned your reputation through courage and valor. The people around Barrington and Durham spoke highly of you. I must say, your knife is just as big as they described.”

  Sam remained silent.

  “We wish to make you a very generous offer and intend to buy the land from you fair and square. Please forgive our rash partner’s actions and my man’s disrespectful use of your nickname from the war,” Dixon said, with a reproachful sidelong glance at Crowell.

  “Your partner is a bit past forgiveness,” Sam said.

  “Indeed,” Crowell agreed, looking down at the man apathetically.

  Sam took note that neither Crowell nor Dixon had dismounted to check to see if their companion might still be alive or had any last words. That in itself told him all he needed to know about these two. Their hearts were as cold as the snow now cooling their so-called friend’s body.

  “It is unfortunate that you gentlemen have come this far because I have no intention of selling my land,” Sam said, squinting his eyes against the sun’s glare off the snow. “The firm in New York should have sent a letter first to determine if I had any interest in selling. I do not and it is time for you to leave.”

  Dixon’s eyes widened. “Why not? We’ll offer you a fair price. The land is abandoned and in disuse. Your brother has no need of it with his prospering general store. Why let the land just sit there wasting away when you possess such a large holding here in Kentucky? Men at Fort Logan told us you own ten thousand acres here.”

  “And the men we talked to at the tavern in Barrington—that’s where we learned your nickname—said you never did any farming or anything on the land we want to buy anyway. Surely you have no need of a rocky mountain in New Hampshire,” Crowell added. “You could use the money to buy more stock for your farm here.”

  Sam squared his shoulders and widened his stance. “What I own and what I do with it is none of your business. I’ll ask you but once more to leave.” Growing tired of these scoundrels, his lips tightened a fraction more. He wanted these men to leave so he could get back inside and check on Catherine. He hoped all of this did not frighten her too badly and bring on the pain again.

  Sam heard boots crunching in the snow behind him as Garvin and the other hired hands stepped up closer to him. He’d known that they were waiting behind him for some time and he didn’t have to look to know that their weapons were drawn.

  Garvin eased up next to Sam and motioned toward the body lying in the snow. “Who’s the dead man?”

  Sam peered up at Dixon waiting for him to answer Garvin’s question.

  Dixon rolled his eyes. “Bill White. He always was a tactless arrogant ass. And an over confident fool.”

  “Looks like Mr. White was arrogant one too many times,” Garvin said. “I suggest you fellows quickly do as the Captain asked and load your companion on his horse. Mr. Wyllie is not fond of repeating himself.”

  Dixon glared at Sam and the man’s bushy brows drew together in an affronted frown. “Do you mean to say, we have come a thousand miles to discuss this with you and you refuse to even hear our offer?”

  “Mr. Dixon, your itinerary is your business, not mine,” Sam replied sharply. “What I choose to listen to is my business, not yours. I strongly suggest you leave my land at once.”

  Garvin raised his Kentucky rifle and pointed it at Dixon. Sam’s other men would have their sights trained on both men as well.

  “Well, of all the inhospitable people we have encountered in this damn miserable wilderness, I must say, you are the most unwelcoming,” Dixon complained as he and Crowell dismounted and lifted the dead man by his arms.

  “As you have clearly seen, we don’t tolerate disrespectful men in Kentucky,” Sam said, “or those who accompany them.”

  Dixon and Crowell hastily and unceremoniously tossed their companion face down onto his saddle and tied the body to the horse with a rope.

  When Dixon started to speak again, Sam’s lips twisted in a warning and he glared at the man. He often found it more effective to speak with his eyes than with words.

  Sputtering with indignation, Dixon shook his head, clearly infuriated.

  The two men mounted at once. Crowell grabbed the reins of the dead man’s horse, and they took off at a canter.

&n
bsp; “Good riddance,” Garvin said.

  Sam wasn’t so sure they were rid of the two.

  Chapter 2

  Sam entered the house and hurried over to Catherine, waiting in front of the hearth. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m well, I feel much better. You’re all right? Your men?”

  “I’m fine, and so are our men.” Aggravated, he couldn’t hide his vexation and he stomped away from her.

  “Sam, what did that man do to cause you to kill him?” Understandably, she sounded worried.

  After being outside in the frigid air, the room felt too warm. He tugged off his coat, hung it on a deerhorn, and then answered. “They approached the house without announcing themselves. I asked them why they were here and one of them, a man named Dixon answered, saying he was here to buy my land in New Hampshire. I stopped him at once, said I wasn’t interested, and never would be. I asked them to leave. Then one of his men, the one I killed, hauled out his pistol. When he raised it to point it at me, I shot him.”

  Little John stood nearby watching wide-eyed, still tightly grasping his rifle.

  “Oh Sam, thank God you weren’t hurt,” Catherine said, clutching his arm.

  The feel of her touch warmed him more than the hearth’s fire, but the killing left his heart feeling like a chunk of ice stuck in his chest. “In truth, I intended to only hit the man’s gun arm however his horse jerked at the last second. His death was senseless.”

  Disgusted, Sam vigorously swiped his Kentucky rifle with a rag to remove the wet snow from the long barrel and wooden stock. Then he reloaded it and sat the weapon back in its usual place on the wall rack above the entry table. Little John hurried over and placed his rifle on the smaller rack hanging beneath Sam’s rifle.