White Dawn (12 page)

Talk around Swift Foot turned to the feast that would be held that night to celebrate his return.

He’d passed. Tonight he would officially become chief. It was what he wanted, what he sought. Then why did he feel so sad? He should be celebrating his achievement, but he felt only a cold emptiness inside—as though he’d died, instead of having been given the greatest honor a warrior could achieve.

He glanced up into Wind Dancer’s knowing gaze. The shaman, though not as old as most of the men present, hunkered down beside him. He spoke low.

“It cost you much to leave this woman, son.”

It wasn’t a question. Swift Foot could not lie, nor could he prevent himself from touching his sacred medicine bundle, which held a lock of her hair and a piece of her skirt. Two pieces of rabbit fur—from one of the pelts she’d tanned—encircled both arms. “It was the will of
Wakan Tanka
that I return alone. I will find a way to restore peace. I have taken the first step.” A very painful one.

The wise shaman nodded. “You will be rewarded.” Seeing the lingering, unspoken hope in Swift Foot’s eyes, he added, “Not with the white woman. She is not to be your mate. Yet your time with that woman was meant to be. While she is now of your past, she has changed your future.”

“What do you mean?” He knew Emily had changed his future: she’d taken away his ability ever to love again.

The wise man smiled. “It is not for me to reveal, my son. I can only offer you hope. Your heart will find love with another, and your spirit will find peace as well. I have seen it.”

Swift Foot watched Wind Dancer move away. For once, his heart held doubt. He didn’t think he’d ever know true peace, not the kind he’d had for those wonderful weeks with the white woman named Emily.

Time lost all meaning for Emily. Her days and nights were filled with caring for John. Despite her efforts with teas and poultices, fever racked his body, chills rattled his teeth and delirium haunted his sleep. His wound turned red and puffy, the flesh shiny and taut, forcing her to open the skin several times to drain it. She drew on all her knowledge to fight for his life.

Out in the wilderness with her Indian warrior, she’d watched him use a funny plant that looked like a puff-ball to stop the bleeding on a cut to her foot. Hopeful after squeezing out the pus from John’s wound, she went in search of that plant, then used it to help stop the bleeding.

From her time at the various missions where there were no doctors, she and her mother had become quite learned in herbs. She found the root of wild four-o’clocks, which she boiled. It aided in reducing his fever. Boiled willow bark made a pain reliever. The inner bark of sweet elder, along with chamomile and sweet clover, was mixed with bear fat and placed over the wound too. And when it seemed that nothing worked, Emily had prayed, begged and even ordered God to heal him.

Between caring for John, gathering the herbs she needed for his teas and obtaining greens and berries for food for herself, she also saw to the feeding of his hawk, suffering only one nasty bite from the bird. But when she ran out of raw meat for the hawk’s meals, she had to make a decision.

Testing the bird’s ability to flap its wings, she finally untethered and released it. To her relief, it had flown high into the tree, then soared off, fully healthy and one less thing for her to worry over.

On the fourth night, John’s fever spiked. She’d removed his shirt as soon as the fever had set in, and took up her seat beside him. Wringing out a square of toweling, she ran the damp cloth over his face, down his throat and neck, over broad shoulders, across his chest, and down over the heated flesh of his legs, desperately trying to cool him.

When he thrashed and tried to get up, she used all her weight pressed down on his chest to hold him, and her voice to soothe him. In between such spells, she forced spoonfuls of willow bark tea down his throat and kept his wound clean.

Just before dawn of the fifth day, Emily thought perhaps John’s skin felt slightly cooler. A slight sheen of sweat dotted his skin. Drawing a blanket over him, she closed her eyes. She was so tired. Without conscious thought, she slid down beside him, wanting to be near in case his fever returned.

A low moan woke her. Disoriented, she shot upright, her gaze going to John as he fought the blankets twisted around him. “Shh,” she cooed, “it’s all right, Johnny. It’s all right.” She used that ridiculous name for him—he was definitely no Johnny with his incredible bulk—as the nickname seemed to please him as much as it did her. He calmed.

The first time she’d uttered the name, she’d almost laughed, close to hysterics as she was. He was the least Johnnyish-looking man she’d ever seen. But somehow the name also fit. It was the tender, gentle side of him. She also remembered his telling her that only his mother had used the name. Hopeful that that was good, she whispered it in his ear whenever he grew restless. It helped calm him, as if his mother truly sat at his side. Yet Emily didn’t feel the least bit maternal toward him. Not anymore.

She had tried to put thoughts of his very masculine body from her mind, but it was hard to ignore the firm skin when she ran a cloth over him. Nor could she quite ignore that other part of him. When she’d first undressed him, cutting his breeches carefully down the seams so she could wash and keep him cool, she’d figured that she’d seen
it
before, and
it
wouldn’t be a big deal.

She groaned mentally at her naivete. It
had
been a big deal. A very impressive
big deal,
which had prompted her to keep a towel over him to hide that impossibly large part of him. They weren’t lovers; she was just the only one around to care for him. It shouldn’t affect her. Like being a nurse or doctor, he should have just been a body she tended.

Wrong.
His was a very male body, one she couldn’t help but appreciate.

Without warning, John tried to get up. Moving quickly, she pressed down on him, leaning all her weight against his shoulders to keep him on his back. She raised her voice when her gentle murmurs had no effect. “John, be still. You’ll open the wound.” Twice he’d thrashed to the point of causing fresh bleeding, which she’d managed to stop only with pressure.

The man’s eyes shot open, his gaze wild one minute, and full of wonder and hope the next. “Lady Dawn. You’re here.” His voice sounded weak and raspy.

Emily frowned. For some reason, he kept calling her Lady Dawn. Or Sunshine. She didn’t know why he called her those names, but she found she liked it. His voice was always soft and so tender, as though the terms were endearments.
Now that’s silly,
she scolded herself.
It must be the fever.
That thought scared her, as it meant he was still delusional. But rather than correct him or remind him who she was, she smoothed the wet cloth over his face, lingering on his brow. “Yes, Johnny, I’m here,” she cooed. He was sweating in earnest now. A very good sign. “Rest, John. Rest.” She turned to get a cup of water for him to drink.

“No! Don’t go.” His arms came around her, pulling her over him. “Stay, Sunshine. Stay. I need to feel you.”

Lying chest-to-chest, her knees straddling him, conscious of both his wounded thigh and that other part of him that didn’t seem to be covered anymore, she stared into his glazed eyes. “John—”

“Stay,” he muttered thickly, his hand sliding beneath the curtain of her hair to caress her neck and pull her closer.

Emily didn’t struggle. His mouth brushed hers softly. Then his lips slanted over hers, warm with the end of his fever, yet soft with need. She couldn’t resist the tender exploration of his lips upon hers. It was a kiss unlike any she’d ever experienced, as if the fever in him had spread to her. She moaned, and, without warning, the kiss caught fire, leaving her mouth burning with hunger.

She knew she should stop him, had to stop him, but the intimate contact turned the pit of her stomach into a fluttering mass, and that part of her intimately touching him became a wild swirl. Her lips moved with his, willing and eager for all he offered.

Shocked at her wanton response, she was helpless to stop her madness. He was sick with fever. He didn’t know what he was doing. But by God, she did. She wanted his kiss.

His arms caressed her back and slid down. The hem of her borrowed shirt had risen, leaving her buttocks bare. Her under clothes had long since disappeared—cast off by her warrior. John’s big hands, palms roughened by years of hard labor, cupped and squeezed her gently. She moaned and moved against his hands, wanting him to ease the ache between her legs. When his fingers slid toward her heated core, she held her breath, her body anticipating the release to come, the bright lights, the stars that would seem to burst around her.

She tossed her head back, her open eyes finding a roof over her head instead of an open sky dotted with twinkling lights or the bright glare of the sun. As if doused by icy water, Emily froze. What was she thinking? This wasn’t her warrior. She wasn’t back out on the plains. She was in a shack with John Cartier—a man who’d been near death and couldn’t know what he was doing or with whom. She was about to make love to a stranger, not her warrior. This was not the man she’d given herself to at first because her body seemed the only thing she could offer in return for his kindness, then later because she fell in love with him. This was someone else. Again, she heard her father’s scorn:
Satan’s daughter. Daughter of the devil. No-good whore.

She cried out. How could she feel desire for another so quickly? Her father was right. She was no better than the whore he’d accused her of being. She’d enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh and now she couldn’t fight that pull. Or could she?

“No, John, stop.” She pushed away.

He looked confused at her abrupt end to their kiss. His fingers trailed through her hair and stroked along the line of her jaw. “Sunshine,” he murmured, his eyelids growing heavy. “Stay. Don’t leave.”

Unwilling to upset him while he was still feverish, Emily allowed him to pull her down beside him, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder. His breathing grew slower and deeper, and finally he slept, a much calmer sleep. Against her cheek, his skin felt cool. But her body still felt on fire just as waves of shame chilled her heart.

She buried her head beneath John’s chin. She’d thought herself in love before. Now she wasn’t sure. How could she have loved her Indian warrior, spent long nights wrapped in his arms, reveling in the way her body sang for his, then respond to John like this? Would her body react to every male this way?

Waves of memory swamped her: the first time she’d given her body to her golden Apollo, his patience, his gentleness as he taught her to respond to his caresses, the way he’d shown her how to touch him. Feeling John Cartier’s hard, long length pressed to hers, she yearned to run her hands over his body, feel his big, rough hands cupping her and easing the restless ache between her legs. The need coursing through her was frightening. It was wrong. She couldn’t feel for John what she’d felt for another, not this soon. She pressed her fingers to her lips to keep from crying out. Maybe the price of her sins was never to know love. Maybe her father had been right.

But no matter how hard she tried to forget the kiss she’d shared with John, or convince herself that it meant nothing, it kept her wide awake. She’d felt something new, different. The summer with her warrior had been filled with lots of touching and loving—more ways than she’d have ever thought possible—but he’d seldom kissed her on the mouth.

And the few times he had, it hadn’t been anything like John’s kiss. She hadn’t thought anything of it, figuring that Indians didn’t kiss, or people in general. She knew so little about acts of love; she’d never even been allowed alone with a boy. Now she had to wonder. Why hadn’t her warrior kissed her like this? And why had John’s kiss evoked such a reaction from her? Just before she fell asleep, she prayed that John wouldn’t remember the kiss, or her own wanton response. More than anything she wanted a friend. The friend he’d promised to be. She had been foolish to risk that on the whim of his body.

The glare of the sun woke John. For a few minutes he lay still, trying to get his bearings. Warm breath on his shoulder made him turn his head. Emily lay in his arms, sleeping. She looked pale, the skin beneath her eyes translucent. Slowly, a memory came back to him: the accident with the ax, and the agony of her burning his flesh. Everything else was hazy except for her voice and her touch. He remembered hearing her voice dragging him back from the darkness. He also remembered pain. Lots of it. He frowned. There was something else. He glanced down at Emily. Her lips were softly parted.

A kiss. Had he dreamed that kiss? It had seemed so real. He shifted, then bit back a groan. The movement brought her awake. She stared up at him with eyes as blue as the early-morning sky peeping in through the unshuttered window. “Morning, Sunshine.”

She shifted her head to look out the window. “It’s late!” She struggled to sit.

He let her go. She wore one of his flannel shirts, which hid her curves, but it didn’t matter, the fact that it was his only drew him more, especially with her hair falling over her shoulders in wild disarray. She looked dreamy, as he imagined she’d look after a night of making love.

That thought stirred another part of him, and he glanced down, horrified. He was completely naked, the blanket twisted around his legs. He groaned.

Emily looked over at him with concern. “What’s wrong? Do you hurt?” She glanced at his thigh, then turned crimson. “Oh.”

Sitting despite the pain, he grabbed the blanket, feeling as embarrassed as she was as he covered himself. Tongue-tied, he didn’t know what to say. It was just morning hardness, he tried to tell himself. But he knew it was more than that—not that he’d tell her!

“I, uh, need to get up.” He looked pointedly out the door.

“Wait here.” Luckily, she seemed to know that he needed breeches.

But when she returned, she had one of his cooking pots. She set it beside him. He shot her a look of disbelief. “I’m not… I’ll go out—”

Her stern look stopped him. With hands on her hips, Emily stared down her nose at him. “I’ve seen you naked for four days, John Cartier. Five if you count today. I’ve bathed your body and taken care of
all
your needs while you fought the fever. Emptying a pot of piss is a lot easier than washing you because you couldn’t even use one.”

He fell back with a humiliated moan and covered his face with his hands. He was somewhat shocked by her bluntness, but he supposed it was better than her being shy with him. “Four days? I’ve been out four days?” It seemed like yesterday. No wonder he was buck naked. The thought of her seeing to his bodily needs embarrassed him further. There was only one of his needs he’d wanted her to ease, and it was out of the question.

She gave him another pointed look. “You’re not getting up yet. You’ll tear that gash open if you do. And John?” She waited until he took his hands from his face and looked at her. “I never want to have to cauterize a wound again.” Her voice wobbled. “It was horrible.”

Tired just from the short bit of exertion, John gave in. “All right. You win. But I have to get up soon. We need food. And the hawk—” He broke off, horrified at the thought that the bird had been neglected. It’d be almost dead if what she said was true.
Four days!
He’d had enough raw meat left for only one day. “And Fang? Where is Fang?” While the wolf could do some hunting on his own, being on three legs left him at a disadvantage when it came to running down larger game. John always shared his meat with the animal.

Emily tapped her bare foot on the hard dirt floor. “John Cartier! I should smack you with that pan. Do you think I’m completely worthless and lazy? Thanks to my father, I’ve lived on the edge or beyond with little or no comforts. My mother and I learned to survive on very little, making do with what nature provided.”