My father passed in 2009 at the age of 86, my husband in 2012 at the age of 57, so all my daughter and I have today are memories.

My mother was the one I turned to for hugs and confidences and comfort, but my father was the person for adventure. My Dad took me fishing and backpacking and horseback riding, taught me the names of native plants, and shared his knowledge of the world with me. He was a college professor with a PhD in History, hence my penchant for writing historical fiction.

My husband and daughter shared a special bond. He picked her up from school and took her to the local donut spot each day, let her drive at far too young an age, and helped her create her own website and avatar. All innocent fun but secrets from me, who apparently was the more responsible parent. Yet when they rode a horse together and it stumbled, my husband was the one who tossed my daughter out of the way to safety and took the fall, breaking several toes, and when a bee swarm attacked us on a hike, he enveloped her in his arms, protecting her, even though he was very afraid of bees.

Fathers teach us to explore the world and are also by our side to protect us from its dangers.

Benjamin Waite, my 9th great-grandfather and the protagonist in my historical fiction novel, Hatfield 1677, was first and foremost a husband and father. It was undoubtedly his love for his pregnant wife and three young daughters that impelled him to walk 350 miles to find and rescue them when they were abducted by Native Americans in 1677.

Here are some excerpts from Hatfield 1677 from the point-of-view of Benjamin Waite, loving father.

From Chapter One:

The lieutenant’s daughter-in-law, Rachel Allis, appeared at her door beside us, holding our wee babe, Sally. “They want one last goodbye,” she said.

Our other daughters—Mary, the eldest and sweetest, just learning to read, and Mattie, always determined to be heard—pressed past Rachel and scampered to me.

I bent and hugged them, encircling one in each arm, closing my eyes against sudden tears. I kissed Mary’s smooth brow and Mattie’s plump cheek. I rose, patted their bums, and softly urged them back inside. Rachel held Sally up to me, and I kissed her little nose. She rewarded me with a giggle and flung her chubby arms around my neck. I held her tight before I reluctantly handed her back, and gazed after them as Rachel entered her house and closed the door.

“They should be asleep, Martha, ’tis half past six,” I chided, my gruff tone not hiding the tenderness I felt.

From Chapter Eighteen:

Tracks split off in four directions from the camp, like the fingers of a hand. There were footprints and hoofprints, but the different sizes and depths confused me. I couldn’t tell how they had divided themselves. They likely had separated our men from our women and children, flanked by warriors. They might send some to Albany, some to Canada, and some even to the remaining Narragansett bands near Providence. Had the Natives taken our children from their mothers? I felt sick at the thought of my girls without Martha.

From Chapter Fifty-One:

I missed playing with my girls and telling them stories. Martha and I cossetted them more than most parents, but I found my children charming and enjoyed their company. My wife said if we raised them with a gentle hand, they would grow to have a gentle nature. Thus far, it had proven to be so. I hoped with all my heart their Nipmuc captors treated them gently. The horrors of the attack and capture would leave scars on their hearts and terrors in their dreams. I prayed the Natives treated them peacefully.