White Dawn (4 page)

Timothy Ambrose had not been!

Stunned, Emily stared at the man her mother must have loved tremendously in order to risk her husband’s fury by carrying around his likeness all these years. Then, glancing out at the smoking remains of their wagon, Emily tried to accept the inconceivable truth.

So much made sense now: her father’s hatred—not just toward her, but toward them both; his obsession with her behavior; his fury whenever she so much as talked to a young man.

She’d thought him overprotective, or obsessed with his hatred over his own mother’s lack of morals. Yet it hadn’t been just his mother who’d given him reason not to trust women. It had been Emily’s own mother’s lack of morals as well. And the scene between Emily and Father Richard had sent him over the edge.

Though she should have felt sorrow for her father’s pain—sorrow for the man who’d raised her—she couldn’t. For sixteen years, he’d blamed her for something she couldn’t control. She didn’t know if he’d known about her before he’d married her mother, but it was obvious he’d known she wasn’t his child. And for all his preaching about forgiveness, Timothy Ambrose hadn’t been able to forgive Emily’s mother—or accept Emily herself into his life. The irony that it had been his hatred of her that had saved her life wasn’t lost on her.

Bowing her head, Emily took a moment to mourn all that had gone wrong in her parents’ lives and hers. All the hurt and anger and bitterness. She cried until her throat felt raw and her eyes were hot and dry. Then, standing once more, she pinned the locket to the inside of her shift and rummaged through the debris of the wagon. There she found the shovel, with just a bit of burned handle left.

After spreading her shawl over her mother’s body, Emily piled dirt over her, then added rocks and pieces of the wagon to the mound to protect Beatrice Ambrose’s body from scavengers.

She did the same for her father, though she had to force herself; her Christian upbringing wouldn’t allow her to just leave him. Though she hadn’t wanted to feel sorry for him earlier, she did now. Somewhere over the years he’d gone crazy, turning to the Bible to hide his anger. It seemed only fitting to bury that book with him.

When she was finished, she poked through the smoldering ashes for the family’s rifle and knives, but the savages had taken everything of value. What was left was useless here in the wilderness.

Emily stood, smoke and ash swirling around her. Above, the dark birds had formed a black cloud. The wind whipped her skirts back, and her long pale hair streamed out behind her as she stood over the scene of the massacre. Shivering, she finally returned to the concealing safety of the grove—and into the woods.

Fear of the return of those savages kept her on the move, following the river back the way her family had come. Anger and her will to survive gave her the courage to attempt the impossible trip back to the mission. It would take her a long time to return, walking, but she had nothing to help in her bid to survive but her own determination. Yet, if she were lucky, she’d come across Millicente’s husband, Henry, or some other trappers she knew in the area.

Once she returned to the mission, she planned to go to Kentucky. She’d go to the land of her birth, and there she’d find the man who’d ultimately caused her a lifetime of misery.

Bitterness from a life filled with hate demanded she find the answers. She would let this other man know just what his actions had caused. One thing was clear if her mother hadn’t married Timothy Ambrose, none of this would have happened. And her birth father needed to know that.

Night shadows stretched across the land. Set against a sky of gleaming onyx, thousands of stars twinkled, welcoming the glow of the moon as it rose high to sit upon its throne and bathe the earth below in silvery splendor. Down below, creatures of the night flew across the sky, ambled through the shadows and skittered through the underbrush.

Alert to each birdcall, each buzz and chirp of insects, Swift Foot moved lightly, his leather-covered feet making no sound as he followed the glistening river. Around his shoulders, his long black hair danced and flowed, merging into the depths of the night.

A sudden flurry of motion leaping from the bushes startled him, but he didn’t stop. Instead, he quickened his steps. It was a mother deer, looking to provide a diversion, so he hoped it would return quickly to guard her babe from more dangerous predators roaming the area.

As he walked, he studied the night sky. The path he took led him farther from his people. He yearned to turn around, to go home, but he couldn’t—even if he could abandon the tracks he’d been following since that afternoon. He was seeking answers. The cooling breeze was strong at his back, as if urging him onward. Squatting, he spotted shoe prints and knew the one he followed was tiring—the steps were closer, the toes of the shoes dragging through the soft soil. The trail grew faint and faded near the thick wall of trees lining one side of the river.

Deciding to rest and resume his tracking in the early light, Swift Foot sat with his back to a tree. He didn’t want to risk losing the trail in the dark. Leaning his head against the tree’s rough bark, he stared out into the night, watching the moonlight glitter over the fast-moving river. The breeze off the water was a welcome relief after the scent of death he’d come upon several hours ago.

Wearily, he thought of the two graves he’d come upon: a couple killed by the Sioux. Killed by his people, but not his tribe. And what concerned him most was the presence of a third white in the area, one who’d survived to mound dirt and bits of wood over the bodies. After a brief search of the area, he’d found small prints following the river, heading east—obviously
those
of the survivor.

Worried that a child roamed this vast land, he’d followed. Perhaps this was the answer he sought. He’d been led here; perhaps this child held the answer to his troubling dreams. He sighed. Whether or not this youth held any answers, Swift Foot could not leave him or her out here alone. Children were gifts from
Wakan Tanka
and were to be treasured and cared for—whether Sioux or white.

Swift Foot thought of the couple. In the dirt, dug up by wolves, he’d found a thick black tome that he recognized as a white man’s holy book. It meant these were the whites who called themselves Missionaries, or Fathers, or men of God—a most contradictory and confusing group. They called his people heathens, savages, and came to teach the Sioux to pray to their god. Yet these men did not seem to understand that man was of the earth. They ignored the spirits of the
maka.
The Sioux did not trust such men who only listened to one spirit, and therefore these men posed little threat. However, his people studied and learned much from them. It was odd that they had been killed.

Overhead, a huge, winged shadow slid across the sky, wings outstretched as if seeking to touch the glittering stars. Then, without warning, the owl folded back its wings and shot silently toward the ground with the speed of a well-made arrow. Swift Foot watched the bird rise once again with a triumphant cry before it soared off with a small creature clutched in its talons.

He silently admired the bird of prey. Strong. Silent. Built for speed and stealth. Qualities he and all other warriors sought to emulate. Once the bird faded from sight, he closed his eyes. The symphony of the night lulled him into a light sleep: the call of birds, the howls and barks of wolves, the rustle of small mice and other rodents scurrying through the undergrowth, the ever-present buzz and cadence of insects. Swift Foot’s breathing slowed, each deep breath he inhaled moist from the river and tasting of pine. Images flowed across his mind’s eye. His body relaxed as sleep claimed him.

Bursting into the recess of his mind, a sharp and sudden cry startled him awake. His eyes flew open. It was the same cry that had haunted his dreams since winter, and was the reason he’d been sent away from his tribe: his shaman had ordered him to seek answers to this disturbing dream. He was to allow the spirits to lead him until he had his answers. For months he’d searched and found nothing, just this haunting cry that came to him during dreams.

He jumped to his feet, unsure whether the cry had been real or an echo in his thoughts. He listened intently but nothing seemed out of place. Closing his eyes, he stood still and waited. Just when he was convinced it had been only another dream, the cry came again, louder. Shrill. Sharp. Filled with fear. Chills traveled up his arms. With his heart racing, Swift Foot rushed through the trees.

This was no dream.

His fingers tightened around his bow as he slipped from shadow to shadow, following the shrill screams of terror.

Emily stood with her back to the tree, a thick branch in her hands, waving it at two wolves crouched five feet away. “Go away!” she shouted, jabbing the limb at the animals. They jumped back, but then crept forward, each coming toward her from a different direction.

Icy chills skittered up and down her spine at the sound of low growling. The beast to her left snarled. She waved the branch at it, then heard the snap of teeth from her right.
Oh, God, I’m going to die.
“Not like this,” she prayed, staring in horror at the two animals closing in on her.

Fear made it hard to breathe. Crying wouldn’t save her. Maybe nothing would. Yet she wouldn’t give up. Moving fast, she swung the branch first left, then right. The wolves sprang back, startled by her move. She tried to back away, tried to find a tree to climb. But the fierce animals didn’t give her enough time, and she didn’t dare turn her back on them. With heads down, the fur on their neck standing on end, they circled her.

Emily struck out with the branch again and again, but it didn’t take long for the animals to anticipate her movements. Hope of making it back to the mission on her own died, and anger at her fate took hold. How could her father have done this to her? How could anyone treat another in so cold a manner?

He’d dragged her and her mother out here, judged her, then had condemned her to death. It mattered not that he had met his own terrible fate; he’d condemned her to die. Bitterness lodged in Emily’s throat. She was tired of being a victim. Facing the vicious attack of the wolves, she screamed in frustration, shouting at them, trying to frighten them into leaving her alone. Yet she knew they would not.

Then, with no warning, a dark figure rushed out of the shadows and lunged forward, startling both the growling wolves and Emily. Vaguely aware of rocks being hurled at the animals, she heard the newcomer’s voice join hers. He waved and shouted. Her two tannish-gray assailants turned toward the new threat.

Emily didn’t wait to see if the animals attacked him. The savage posed more of a threat to her than the wolves. She turned and ran. Once out of sight, knowing she couldn’t outrun the man, she debated climbing a tree to avoid detection. But the trees were either too tall or too sparse of leaves in the lower branches to hide her.

She found a thick clump of bushes and ducked behind them, drawing her knees up to her chest and burying her head in her arms. She scrunched her eyes closed and waited, praying. Would the savage win over the wolves? In the distance, she heard a howl of pain, followed by high-pitched barks. Nausea made her take several deep breaths. To her relief, silence fell. Abruptly. Completely. Time seemed to stand still.

No insects chirped or buzzed near her head. There was no rustling in the bushes behind her. No owls screeched overhead. The silence unnerved her. The hair on her arms rose, and she broke out in an icy sweat. She shivered, but not from cold. Something was out there. Near her.

The savage.

Her blood hammered in her ears as she slowly lifted her head and opened her eyes. A slight crunch of leaves warned that something was closer than she’d thought.

Please let it be a raccoon. Or a badger. Not a wolf. Not the savage. Please, God, not the savage.

Bile burned the back of her throat, the pain so great she couldn’t swallow. When two shadowy shapes stopped near her place of hiding, her eyes widened in terror.

Feet. Legs. Two of them. They bent at the knees, and hands parted the bushes. In horror, Emily stared at the shadowy face of the savage. She wasn’t sure which would be worse: being raped and killed by him or torn apart by wolves. Both Indian and beast were predators, and either way she was going to die. Tears of helplessness slid from her eyes.

The savage stared at her in wonder. He reached out to touch the wetness on her face, obviously spellbound by the color of her hair and the softness of her skin.

The sound of his harsh, guttural voice and the feel of his fingers skimming over her face released Emily from her frozen stupor. She screamed, scrambled to her feet and ran for her life. If she was to die out here, she wouldn’t do so by giving up. Adrenaline pumped through her as she hurled herself around trees and bushes. The savage shouted. She heard his steps as he ran after her.

“No. No!” She gasped, running as fast as she could in the dark. She hadn’t survived today’s massacre to be killed or, worse, taken captive.

Heavy steps behind her spurred her on. Harsh, painful sobs tore from her. Even beginning to believe she could not outrun the man chasing her, Emily ran for all she was worth, ignoring the painful slaps of low tree limbs on her face and neck. At any moment, she expected to feel the savage’s hands on her, grabbing her. And when something yanked her hair, she screamed. But it wasn’t the Indian. A hank of her hair had tangled in a low branch.

Desperately she pulled, but the branch refused to give, and she reeled backward, caught. Using both her hands, she tore at the tangled strands.

The savage reached her. His fingers closed over hers.

“Let me go!” Emily shrieked, flailing her fists, tearing her hands from his. She couldn’t turn, couldn’t run, so she kicked out with her feet. Her heel made contact with a solid shinbone. The hiss of breath near her ear confirmed she’d done damage. With all her might she aimed another heel at him. But her foot swung free, the force sending her falling forward. She’d have fallen if not for the tree’s hold on her hair.

“Please,” she said, sobbing, “go away. Leave me alone.” Her fingers clawed at his, her skull aching from the pull of her hair. Oh, God, was he going to scalp her? Slice the hair from her head? She’d heard of such out here in this wild land filled with savages who were, according to her father, doomed to an eternity of hell.

“Ayustan!”

The order startled her. When she didn’t continue to fight him, he gently pushed her hands aside and tugged her hair free strand by strand. Emily’s chest heaved with each breath. When she felt the last bit of her hair come free, she tried to sprint forward, but his hands held her hair wrapped around his fist. His other hand clamped down over her shoulder and forced her to turn and face him.

Ready to lash out, Emily lifted her head, then gasped as the faint moonlight revealed the man’s features. It was an impossibly handsome face. She’d seen many savages, young and old, but none with the beauty of this one. It didn’t seem odd to use the word
beauty
to describe this man. Shadows hid his eyes, but the moonlight illuminated a long, straight nose, full lips, high cheekbones and smooth skin pulled across a strong jaw.

A strong, handsome face was her first impression. He seemed young, a few years older than herself, she guessed, her gaze drawn to his dark hair that floated around his face and streamed over his shoulders. The wind blew a few strands of his black hair to lie over hers. Light and dark. Day and night. White and savage.

He took a small step closer, surrounding her with his heat and the scent of pine and man. Her heart, if possible, beat just a bit faster. But when he brought his hand, tangled in her hair, to his face, panic at the thought of being raped took hold. She hadn’t survived the fate of her parents just to die at the hands of
this
savage. It surely didn’t matter that he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen; he was a savage, and her desire to live gave her courage to shout, “No!”

The savage froze, his hand stilling in midair. He said something, his voice low and soothing. Slowly he released some of her hair, letting it fall slowly so it separated like hundreds of gossamer spiderwebs. He pointed to the moon, then let the rest of her hair fall slowly so the fine ribbons of light shimmered and fluttered around her face. With gentle fingers he traced the slim line of her jaw, running his fingers over her cold, wet cheeks.

All hope of escape fled. Though she feared what he’d do, she didn’t bother to run. It was no use. She knew it. He knew it.

Was she about to experience the horror of all the stories of captive women that she’d heard about? Friends of her father had warned Timothy Ambrose against taking his wife and young daughter into the wilderness to do his godly duty. Members of their last congregation had tried to warn him of the dangers. One pastor’s wife had even begged him to allow Emily to stay with her and her family, but her father refused. He was heading north and no one could stop him.

She could only hope that the end, when it came, would come quickly. “Don’t hurt me,” she begged, staring up into the savage’s impassive, dark features.

The Indian lifted his hand. Emily ducked instinctively. He gave her a quizzical look, then pointed back the way they’d come. She understood his gesture but her feet refused to move. She felt like a condemned man being asked to walk to his death. He grabbed her arm and pulled.

“U wo!”

Emily knew she had no choice but to go with him. She moved slowly, dragging her feet, lagging a step behind. He stopped in the clearing where he’d found her and let her go. Several pouches and a roll of fur lay on the ground where he’d dropped them.