Romancing the Wilderness: American Wilderness Series Boxed Bundle Books 1 - 3 Page 5

  It was no idle threat. The evidence hung from his belt. She forced herself to quit resisting, at least for the moment. But her anger continued to escalate.

  Then he released her hair, grasped her wrists, and with one hand planted them firmly above her head, before reaching for the ties of his leather breeches.

  She wanted to vomit the revulsion exploding inside her. This cannot be happening, she screamed inside her head. It can’t. I won’t let it. She twisted and turned against his weight.

  Bomazeen reached under her gown. His hand moved quickly. Too quickly.

  Jane released her shock and horror in a shrieking scream.

  Little Mary woke and began to cry loudly. The baby’s crying seemed to reverberate through the terror in the room making the sound nearly deafening.

  She struggled against the pressure of his body trying to force her legs apart. She had never felt anger so intensely. Then her fury escalated even further.

  Obviously distracted by the baby’s intense squealing, Bomazeen growled like an angry animal and stood, keeping a grip on her wrists. He turned toward the cradle, a look of pure loathing contorting his face as he stomped toward the baby, dragging her along beside him.

  Extreme dread instantly filled her. Would this beast kill Mary to silence her? God, help us, she begged silently.

  She resisted with all her might and weight trying to stop him, but the man was strong and he held her wrist with a deathlike grip. But she had to stop him. As Bomazeen neared the baby, she jumped to her feet, snatched Mary into her free arm, and clutched her infant daughter protectively against her exposed breasts. “Leave my baby alone,” she shouted fiercely.

  “Bitch.” Bomazeen released Jane and tore the baby from her arms.

  “No!” she screamed, lunging at him with a wild frenzy as she tried to take her daughter back, tears of rage burning her eyes.

  Bomazeen put his hand around the baby’s throat and held the infant out at arm’s length, away from her.

  She thrashed about wildly, trying to reach her daughter, but Bomazeen kept the baby just out of her reach. Her throat tightened as desperation filled her. She had to save her baby. “Please,” she begged.

  Mary’s little legs dangled like a rag doll’s as the devil just sneered at her, and continued to taunt her with the wailing child.

  She struck out, but he caught her arm midair, then painfully twisted it behind her back. He hoisted Mary in the air like a trophy. When he raised his arm back preparing to toss the infant, all three girls screamed in alarm and Jane felt her heart stop.

  Seeming to take great pleasure in frightening the little girls, Bomazeen’s evil sneer broadened. He tightened his grip around Mary’s throat and squeezed. He dangled her again, tormenting her sisters.

  This time, anger trumped fear and Martha ran towards him, her little arms outstretched, clearly intent on grabbing Mary away from Bomazeen. “No, no, no,” Martha screamed.

  Bomazeen released a sinister cackle and took a step backward, closer to the cradle, maintaining his hold on Jane, and nearly twisting her arm out of its socket. All she could do was watch, helpless, as Martha struggled to reach her tiny sister.

  Bomazeen dangled the baby just above Martha’s head, mocking the child’s desperate efforts by raising Mary further up every time Martha nearly touched her sister. He smirked at her oldest daughter. “Is this what you want? You’re a little wildcat, like your Ma.”

  The madman’s actions made Jane furious, but worse, she feared he would tire of his cruel game and just kill Martha.

  “Leave my sister alone!” Martha screamed. Her oldest child repeated the pitiful plea over and over.

  Jane saw her chance. Martha’s act of bravery provided her with a needed distraction.

  As Bomazeen continued with his cruel taunting, she slowly stretched her free arm towards the cradle. Every inch of movement caused her other shoulder extreme agony but she would not stop no matter how badly it hurt. She desperately felt for the pistol she always hid underneath the cradle’s mattress when Stephen was gone. She found it! Gritting her jaw, she took a slow steadying breath to calm her fury. She was left-handed and held the pistol in her right. She prayed her aim would be true as she cocked the weapon.

  Bomazeen turned towards the sound to face the barrel of her firearm.

  In that frozen instant, his malicious expression changed, as if his face turned to stone.

  She desperately wanted to fire, but Bomazeen held Mary in front of him and held her at an awkward angle, making the pain in her shoulder excruciating.

  Then his expression changed again. The stone came to life with the cold blood of evil. “You bitch. You can’t kill me.” He turned toward her and prepared to heave Mary at the weapon.

  Horrified, the mother in Jane rose above her own fear. As his arm came back, she fired.

  The ball’s impact threw Bomazeen backward.

  Mary flew out of Bomazeen’s hand. Through the smoke of the gunpowder, she saw her baby falling in what seemed like slow motion.

  Martha lunged forward to catch her sister.

  The baby landed in Martha’s arms, breaking her fall. As Martha and Bomazeen both fell to the floorboards, Jane heard a loud thud as the devil’s head hit the wood floor.

  She gathered Martha and a screaming Mary up in her arms, sobbing in dismay at the sight of blood splattered on her baby. Her hands flew across Mary’s face and head, then her arms and legs, desperately wiping at the blood, searching for injuries. Mary wasn’t bleeding. It was Bomazeen’s blood.

  She quickly put Mary back in Martha’s arms and stood. Grabbing Bomazeen by both hands, she lugged him toward the door, but pain flared in her strained shoulder. She could only use one arm to pull him. She struggled for some time, against his dead weight, but finally managed, a few inches at a time, to get him out of her home. She glared down at his bleeding head, as he lay motionless on the porch.

  She blinked hard and shook his revolting image from her head. She stumbled around his body, tripping on her skirt and fell next to Bomazeen’s reeking collection of scalps. A broken shard of her teacup cut her arm. Clutching the bleeding gash against her thundering heart, she hurried inside.

  She bolted the door and locked all the windows and shutters in their home. Her hands trembling, she reloaded her pistol and tucked it inside her apron. Only then did she motion Martha, Amy, and Polly to her side. Whimpering, they ran to her grabbing the folds of her gown with their little hands. “Mama, Mama,” they cried in unison.

  Martha buried her weeping face in Jane’s skirt as she gently lifted Mary from her daughter’s arms. “My brave Martha,” she said soothingly, as she stroked the girl’s head.

  Unable to stand another moment, Jane sank to her knees and the girls piled around her as she hugged each of them fiercely. She kissed their tear-streaked faces blending their tears with her own. She needed to cry with them, needed to let the tears wash the terror from their hearts.

  Then her blood turned cold at the realization of what might have been their fate—the horror that Stephen would have come home to. She started to shake. Her knees weakened, her hands trembled, and her heart raced. She wanted to speak, to reassure her daughters, but her jaw quivered. She struggled to compose herself for the sake of her girls.

  She wiped tears away from her face with the back of her shaking hand. “Thank you, Lord, thank you,” she finally managed to mutter.

  Gradually, her hands steadied and her breathing returned to normal. She placed Mary in Martha’s arms again and stood on wobbly legs.

  “We’re all right now. We’re all right. We’re all right now,” she repeated over and over.

  But had Bomazeen come alone?

  Chapter 7

  The house, bathed in early morning light, soon came into view. All the windows appeared locked and shuttered. Stephen’s gut clenched. Something was wrong. Both men kicked their horses to a full run.

  Moments later, he flew off the side of the gelding, his musket pointed at
his front door.

  Sam unsheathed his knife and slid off his mount in a single smooth motion.

  “Jane. Jane, are you all right?” Stephen yelled, praying that she would open the door and scold him for shouting and waking the children. He pushed against the door, but it didn’t budge, bolted from the inside. “Jane!”

  The door flew open. “Stephen!”

  Jane leapt into his arms, a pistol in her hand. Never had she felt so good in his arms. Never had he needed to hold her more. He hugged her fiercely, his heart still beating wildly.

  “Sam, she’s here. She’s fine,” he called out, relief filling his heart.

  Sam rounded the corner from the side of the house. “Thank the Lord. I was just about to break through the bedroom window.” The long blade he still held sparkled in the bright morning sun, bouncing reflections like a highly polished mirror.

  Stephen guided Jane back inside. He cupped her face in his hands and peered into her eyes. He saw pain there he had never seen before. He noticed the torn bodice pinned to the front of her gown and blood on her skirt. Her lips and chin trembled. His heart tightened in his chest as he took in the sight of her. “Tell me,” he managed to say.

  “He’s dead,” she cried. “He’s dead. He was about to…”

  Jane couldn’t continue. She pointed outside with a shaky hand and then put her fingers over her mouth. She seemed to be trying hard to hold in the emotions threatening to empty out of her. She pushed past him and headed for the porch.

  Stephen and Sam followed.

  “Where is he?” Jane demanded.

  “Who?” Both men asked in unison.

  For the first time, Stephen noticed the smeared blood on the porch. “What happened here?”

  “No…he’s got to be here. I killed him!” she shrieked, her eyes frantically darting around them.

  Stephen gently grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Who did you kill?”

  “Bomazeen.” At the sound of the name, unspoken fear came alive in her eyes.

  Sam leapt from the porch and began to study the ground. “If he’s here, I’ll find the bastard. I’ll check around back.”

  Thankful his brother was there, Stephen could focus on Jane. Sam had the trained eyes of a soldier and if anything was amiss, he’d find it.

  “The girls?” Stephen asked, holding his breath until she answered.

  Jane pointed upstairs. “They’re finally asleep. It was after midnight before the poor darlings stopped crying.” She looked up. “Oh dear Heavenly Father, thank you for your mercy upon us.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment and silently also said a word of whole-hearted thanks.

  “Stephen, he nearly….killed Mary,” she sobbed. “He was going to take me to Chief Wanalancet. He said the Chief wanted me for his wife and married my spirit with his peace pipe. And he was going to make Martha a slave,” she said, her voice breaking, barely able to get out the words.

  “Is Mary all right?” he demanded.

  “She’ll have bruises around her neck, but her crying seemed normal, and she finally slept, so I think she’ll be fine.”

  “Did Bomazeen hurt you?” He held his breath, bracing himself for what was coming.

  Jane touched her cheek. A blue bruise showed through her pale skin. “He tried. He came close. So close.”

  Stephen watched as she squeezed her eyes closed. He kissed her eyelids tenderly, wanting to remove the image from her mind, and then laid her head against his chest. “What happened to your arm?”

  “I opened the door and I saw him, standing there, his evil eyes staring at me. I dropped my teacup. Later, when I pulled him outside, I fell and cut my arm on the shards. Mother of God, he almost killed Mary.” Her voice and lips trembled.

  Sam joined them again. “There’s a trail leading into the woods. Jane, how did you manage to shoot him?”

  “He got angry because the baby was wailing. I picked her up. He grabbed Mary away from me and dangled her by the throat. Martha got mad and charged him. She was so brave. She kept trying to pull Mary away from him.” She paused for a moment to catch her breath. “While she distracted him, I managed to get the pistol I keep under the baby’s mattress, and I shot him. I had to shoot from an awkward angle because he had one of my arms pinned behind my back, but the bullet hit the side of his head.”

  He turned to Sam and said, “It’s a trick her father taught her. No one expects a gun to be underneath a baby. The girls know not to touch it, and the baby’s not strong enough to lift the mattress.”

  “Your Papa taught you well. Good thing. It saved the lives of three of your girls and you and Martha from the unspeakable,” Sam said. “Someone helped Bomazeen into the woods. He was half walking and half drug. Must have been the one hiding their mounts.”

  “He’s still alive?” Jane gasped and pressed her hand against her mouth.

  “Your shot must have grazed his head and knocked him out. Someone helped the bastard into the timbers and onto a horse.”

  “That man’s not human. He’s a damned demon,” she swore.

  Stephen could only hug Jane against his chest, where his heart still pounded. He could not believe that monster had entered the sanctuary of their home. His family was supposed to be safe here. His baby was supposed to be safe. He should have been here. His entire body tensed with the effort to control his anger. But now, he needed to help Jane.

  “It’s over now. Let’s get you back inside,” he suggested.

  Jane raised her head and nodded. She allowed him to usher her into the house, but then stopped, locked her arms tightly around his waist and sobbed into his chest. She had likely kept her emotions under tight control all night. But now, with him here, she was free to let go of some of the hurt.

  Stephen gently stroked the top of her head, giving her time to cry. Best to let the poison out. The ordeal understandably traumatized her. “You’re safe. I’m here now.”

  After several minutes of quivering in his embrace, she sniffled and dried her eyes with her apron. “I was so frightened. Thank the Lord you’re finally home.”

  “Jane, your bravery astonishes me. I’m so proud of you.” He kissed her forehead. “Most women would not have had the courage to fight back.”

  “Here drink this,” Sam said, as he offered her water.

  Jane eyed the water dipper, then shook her head and buried her face on Stephen’s chest again. “Once I made sure Martha and the baby were not badly injured, I somehow dragged him out to the porch and then bolted the doors and windows. I didn’t want to risk going outside. All I could do was stay awake and keep my pistol pointed at the front door.”

  “You did all you need to do. Sit down now and rest. You’re exhausted,” Stephen told her, guiding her to her favorite chair.

  “I’m going after them,” Sam said.

  “You shouldn’t go after them alone. But I can’t leave Jane and the girls. Wait for Bear. He should be here soon,” he suggested.

  Sam headed for the door. “There’s no time. The trail is already getting cold.”

  “I’ll have Bear come after you when he gets here,” Stephen called out as Sam left.

  “How did you get home so soon? Didn’t you go to Durham?” Jane asked.

  Stephen bent down beside Jane and took her hands. “Yes, I was at Harry’s Tavern, where I ran into Bear. Harry told us Bomazeen killed Widow Andrews. As soon as I heard, I borrowed Bear’s horse and left at once.” He told her about the rest of his night.

  “Oh, Mrs. Andrews, the poor soul,” she said hoarsely. “He must have killed her on the way here. Dear God.”

  He didn’t want to tell her the grizzly details of the killing. She’d been through enough and her nerves were still too raw. As he stood up, he realized his heart was still hammering in his chest. He took a deep breath to steady his own shaky nerves.

  After stoking the fire and making certain Jane was okay, he stepped out and scanned the woods around their home, almost hoping he would spot t
he bastard. If he ever got his hands on Bomazeen…

  Jane vigorously attacked the blood on the porch’s wooden planks with a bristle brush and strong lye soap. The morning sun bathed her as she worked, the good light aiding in her cleaning efforts. Wanting to rid her home of the last traces of the ordeal, she scrubbed as she had never scrubbed before. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead.

  She wished she could wash Bomazeen away from her mind as easily. She pushed a long strand of hair out of her way, so she could see more clearly. She stopped abruptly. Hair. The white hair on Bomazeen’s belt belonged to Widow Andrews. She gasped in horror. Choking back sobs as she remembered how lovely that silver-white hair had been. She could see it clearly in her mind as she remembered Mrs. Andrews. “You son of a …,” she hissed aloud and smacked the porch with her wet brush. She wished she had killed Bomazeen. “You deserve to burn in hell. Burn forever. Burn without dying. I hope the first thing to burn is the hair on your head.”

  The unpleasant task completed, she stood and stared down at the scattered pieces of her treasured teacup, finding it hard to focus on them through her tears. She slowly gathered the larger pieces up in her apron, then found a shovel and buried the broken shards beneath her favorite tree.

  Returning to her bucket, she threw the dirty water as far as she could, hot angry tears pouring down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  The girls, exhausted from the trauma, still slept upstairs so she took the time to wash herself, comb her hair, and change into a fresh dress and apron. Still uneasy, and with Stephen at the barn, she put her pistol back under the baby’s mattress and stuck a knife in her apron.

  Next, she cleaned off the mess Bomazeen had made of her table and washed the water bucket and dipper. She got fresh water from the cistern and started a pot of coffee before going out to the hen house, feeding the chickens, and then gathering their eggs. She appreciated how the chickens ate the bugs around the place and turned them into food for her family.