Rescue in the Wilderness

RESCUE IN THE WILDERNESS FRONTIER HEARTS BOOK ONE ANDREA BYRD CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Sneak Peek: Redemption in the Wilderness About the Author Author’s Note Want more? PRAISE FOR ANDREA BYRD “A slow-burning romance between two wounded souls in this atmospheric late 18th-century series opener.” PUBLISHERS WEEKLY CHAPTER 1 November 11, 1779—Abingdon, VA Every fiber of William’s being fought his presence in the room. His wandering feet itched to feel the soft, uneven terrain of a narrow game trail. His body craved fresh, untainted air and endless expanses of land, free of the confines of human society. Instead, his moccasin-covered foot bounced nervously on a hard wooden floor as he willed himself to remain seated among the sweaty, unwashed men as they imbibed spirits. From his place in the corner of the tavern, he watched the room from under the brim of the leather hat that never left his head. Just as on the trail, his hazel eyes were ever scanning for danger. The crowd was unusually raucous—undoubtedly due to the sudden arrival of crisp fall air. The muscle across the top of William’s shoulders rippled, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up, as if his body sensed something was amiss. An instinct he had learned to listen to. He dropped a few coins on the table to cover his meal. But when he moved to stand, it was as if an invisible hand stayed him and kept him where he was. William’s attention slid to the burly, red-headed Scot two tables away, who grew louder with every drop that passed his lips. “Lucinda’s birthday is of a morrow,” he lamented miserably. “The lil’ lass twill be a woman.” The stranger banged a fist on the table then, and stood, his countenance suddenly resolute. “An’ I need one o’ ye men to take her off me hands!” William’s gaze cut to the man’s red face, then to the crowd of unscrupulous men that cheered in response to the declaration. Their eyes gleamed hungrily as they hung on the Scot’s every word. “A thorn in me side she has been. But I will play a table of ye men for her hand. An’ ye can take her home tonight handfasted!” He thrust his pewter mug in the air, and though the amber liquid sloshed over the rim and doused his hand, he did not seem to take notice. Hidden in the shadows, William’s eyes widened a fraction as he considered the implications of the man’s words. If the girl’s father had his way, one of the drunk, belligerent men before him would take the poor girl home to do with as he pleased. And William’s stomach roiled to consider what that might entail. Even now, the brutes acted as dogs, clamoring past one another for a position at the round wooden table where the burly man had produced a deck of cards. Two tall, slender brothers with matching sandy-brown beards scuffled over one of the wooden chairs and lost it to a short, stocky man with raven-black hair and beady eyes. William warred with himself as the card game began. For the past four years, he had avoided human contact. He had fled south from Boston to a small colony in Virginia situated right outside the Appalachian Mountains and become a long hunter. Each year, he spent months at a time tracking game across the vast wilderness in and beyond the mountains. Alone. His only associations were ones made of necessity—those at the forts along what had become known as the Wilderness Road. Trips into town for the delectable fare at the tavern were a rare, special treat. Tonight, he had simply planned to fill his belly with warm, satisfying food before he headed out into the wilderness once more. But instead, he found himself fighting the urge to flee straight to this woman and save her from the ill fate awaiting her. Save her like I could not save Cora. Pain shot through William’s chest at the thought. His teeth ground together as the image of an empty bed, covered only in a new white sheet, flooded his brain. Then he forced his attention to return to two tables down. The red-headed ring leader was taunting the men with tidbits about his daughter. “Fair as the day is long. Just a wee wisp of a thing. Meek as a field mouse.” William’s brow knit together as an image of a young woman began to form in his mind. Down the hill from the main village, near a tall stand of oak trees, there was a small, roughly hewn cabin. William passed it as he came and went from Abingdon. And sometimes, his gaze fell upon a pale, freckled face staring out the window. Her gray-blue eyes always held a longing that could be felt in the very depths of one’s soul. One memory pulled forward past the others. A mere year ago, he had happened upon the woman outside the cabin. The strangest scene had played before him as she had lowered the cup in her hand to the ground and allowed a small, grey field mouse to dash into the tall grass beside the cabin. William had stopped in his tracks as he watched the thin woman with his brow pulled together. In his experience, women normally screamed at the sight of mice and wished them dead. But here this ethereal young woman was, releasing one into the wild. Then, as soon as her gaze had locked onto his, fear had cloaked her entire being. Two halting strides had taken her to the door where she slipped inside. William’s heart constricted as he considered that face. Then his attention floated up to the middle-aged wife of