White Dawn (7 page)

At first he’d thought he could spend the warm months with her, then leave. He’d never expected it to be so painful to do so. He’d never expected to fall in love with her—and it didn’t help to see the love in her eyes, taste it in her kisses, or hear it in her voice. He’d never thought he’d yearn to say those words in return. But he couldn’t. Not even in Lakota could he say the words, for that would only make it so much harder to let her go.

In her arms alone could he show her the love he felt—but it was a love destined to tear them apart when he finally gathered the strength to leave.

Over the past two weeks, Emily sensed a difference in her warrior. They’d traveled long and fast for a while, and then they’d stopped. Often during the past several days he left her hidden, returning each evening to take her in his arms and love her long into the night, as if he couldn’t get his fill of her.

Not that she minded. She grinned, quickening her steps to keep up with him. Today he’d decided they should continue on.

Her gaze lingered on his bare back. She loved to look at him, see the play of muscles ripple beneath his skin. Her eyes skimmed downward. The flap of his breechclout swished from side to side, revealing glimpses of flesh as bronzed as the rest of him. He was her Apollo, bronze and beautiful. She smiled and stared at her own arms. Her skin had turned a rich shade of honey after hours spent in the warmth of the sun. She was not as deeply tanned as he, still, she no longer looked white.

Her clothing felt heavy on her. At first it had seemed strange to go without. Aside from taking baths, she’d never gone naked. And never outside, in the open. She smiled. Her warrior had convinced her that it was silly to put on clothing each day when he was just as likely to take it off again; so whenever they were camped, she wore only her shift—or if he had his way, nothing at all. But when they traveled, in case they came upon anyone else, she endured the heavy weight of her mother’s old dress which she’d salvaged. She had shortened the skirt, enjoying the brush of tall grass against her calves; and the warm air on her bare arms; and the heat had convinced her to tear the sleeves from the shift.

Happy with her life, she laughed. Her warrior turned to see what she found amusing. Reaching forward, Emily stroked her fingers down his back, slid their tips beneath the hide covering his buttocks. His eyes darkened and roamed down her body, making her breasts ache for his touch. With a glint in his eyes, he trailed his finger down across one budded breast, then across and over the other.

She groaned. This time it was his turn to laugh. Then, to her annoyance, he turned and continued on. Again, she wondered about his pace. Perhaps they were returning to his tribe. Beneath her feet the grass crunched, and it surrounded her, along with leaves from trees that had lost their glossy texture. Everything looked dry. Summer would soon give way to fall and winter. Surely he didn’t roam on his own during the winter? He must be returning to his tribe. Thinking of that brought a new worry to her.

What would his people be like? Would they accept her? She had no idea.

Dusk was nearly upon them before he stopped and motioned for her to hide. She settled back while he went ahead to scout. They’d gone through this many times, especially when he spotted other Indians in the area. He’d taught her to sit absolutely still, to walk without leaving tracks, and to move through the bushes without breaking leaves or branches.

When he returned and motioned to her, she followed him deep into the lengthening shadows. Without warning, they burst out of the woods into a small, secluded clearing.

There was just enough light to reveal a fallen tree trunk, tall brown grass and shrubs, all enclosed by a wall of thick tree trunks. Beneath Emily’s feet, tiny flowers drooped on fragile stems—another sign that summer would soon be past.

“It’s wonderful,” she murmured, staring around at this little bit of paradise.

He grunted, then indicated she should make camp. Untying a long leather thong that crisscrossed her back to hold their belongings while they traveled, she quickly unpacked the pouches of food, a blanket of rabbit pelts she’d sewn together and the buffalo hide that she used to roll everything into. Gathering fistfuls of dry grass and leaves, she piled them together, making a soft bed upon the hard ground. She laid her warrior’s buffalo robe on top. Turning, she waited to see if he was going to hunt, or if they’d just eat a meal of dried meat and berries.

The look in his eyes made her smile. Dried meat and berries. When he held out his hand she took it and let him lead her down onto the soft bed she’d just fashioned. Without hesitating, she stepped out of her cumbersome skirt, noting that it was in tatters and would soon be worthless. And when she pulled the shift over her head, she heard it rip. She winced. Soon she’d have nothing to wear—but right now, it didn’t seem to matter.

After a bout of leisurely lovemaking, Emily rose and brought the pouch of food to their bed. She also brought the comb she assumed her warrior had gotten from traders. She handed it to him, and as he did each evening, he settled her between his thighs.

“I’ve never had anyone comb my hair as gently as you do,” she commented, leaning back into his hands as he gently untangled her long locks. While he attended to her hair, she sampled from the fresh batch of berries she’d picked yesterday.

“I wish you could talk to me. It’s the only thing I really miss, you know.” She’d tried to get him to teach her his language, but outside of a few words here and there, it hadn’t worked.

So in the evenings, she talked: about what she’d seen during the day, her fears, her childhood. Anything she could think of, just to hear a voice she could understand.

When he tossed the comb aside and slid his hands around to cup her heavy breasts in his palms, she leaned back. Laughing, she tipped her head back and held out a freshly picked berry.

“You really should eat.”

He took the food from her, deliberately nipping her pink-tipped fingers with his teeth.

Long into the night, Emily gave herself to her warrior, sensing an edge to his loving. But the touch of his mouth skimming her flesh shoved the worry aside. Her lover wouldn’t allow any distraction on her part. When she finally fell asleep, her legs tangled with his, her head tucked beneath his chin, and her fingers twined with his, it was with a smile on her lips.

The howl of a wolf broke the predawn stillness, startling Emily awake. Sitting, leaning on one hand, she blinked against the darkness. The moon had gone behind a cover of gray clouds. Her heart raced. What had awakened her? She no longer feared the beasts of the forest. Not with her warrior at her side. But tonight she sensed something was wrong. Seeking warmth and reassurance, she turned to her companion.

He wasn’t there. She reached out and touched the bedding but found only a cold, empty spot where she’d fallen asleep wrapped snugly in his arms. She rose to her knees and peered into the darkness. Where had he gone? She shivered.

Suddenly a small ray of moonlight broke through the blanket of clouds, and Emily spotted a familiar figure moving farther into the gray shadows, away from her. Why the sight of her warrior walking away struck terror into her heart, she didn’t know. Yet all of his strange behavior came back to her, and she didn’t care if he was going scouting or checking up on a noise he’d heard; she didn’t want to be left alone.

Not now.

“Wait!” she cried softly. She jumped to her feet, heedless of the rocks and branches stabbing her bare soles as she stumbled after the departing figure.

Catching up, Emily grabbed his arm, dimly aware of the weapons slung across his shoulders and the animal-skin pouches of personal items hanging from a throng around his waist.

She froze. He never took those with him unless they were moving on. “Where are you going?” Panic edged her voice.

His nostrils flared with emotion; then she was caught close by strong, muscular arms. Emily threw her arms around his neck, clinging fiercely, drinking in his rich scent, a combination of sweat and the woodsy outdoors. It was all right. He wasn’t leaving.

He murmured something in her ear. She heard the beat of his heart, and the sharp intake of air as he reached up and pried her hands from his neck, forcing them back to her side. She stared at him, trying to read his expression in the dark of the night.

His arms lifted, his fingers brushing up her bare arms, feathering over her collarbone, and up to frame her small oval face.

“Kopegla sni yo.”
Leaning down, he gently kissed her.

Emily closed her eyes, comforted by his kiss yet troubled by it. His lips were firm and warm, yet they trembled. When he gently led her back to the fallen log, she sat, staring up at him, catching the glimmer of moisture in his eyes.

He turned and picked up a water pouch made from the stomach lining of a buffalo, and a bulging parfleche filled with meat, berries and greens. He held them out to her.

Emily took the precious pouches—she’d refilled them just yesterday—and laid them in her lap, wondering why he was preparing to leave so early this day. Then he held out a wooden object that had been sitting among the food pouches. She’d never seen it before. Reaching for it, Emily twisted sideways on the decaying log to find beams of moonlight to illuminate his offering.

A thick piece of bark formed the top of a crudely carved box. Lifting it, she peered inside. Soft brown rabbit fur lined the interior. Curled on the silky fur lay a necklace. Emily lifted it out and held it up. She gasped at the long bear claw strung on a leather thong. It was one he’d worn around his neck, one she hadn’t even noticed was gone. Planning to take her mother’s locket that she wore around her neck on another length of leather and combine the two, she turned to thank him.

Her cry of pleasure lodged in her throat. She scanned the area but he was nowhere in sight.

Looking at the gifts he’d given her, the necklace dangling from the tips of her fingers, the wooden box resting on her palm, she knew if she stood and ran after him, she wouldn’t find him.

He’d said goodbye.

Tears slid from her eyes, ran down her cheeks and dripped down onto her bare breasts. Her head moved slowly from side to side as she refused to believe her protector, friend and lover had disappeared forever behind nature’s wall of greenery.

High overhead, the sky turned gray, the silence of the night broken by birds chirping and fluttering sleepily as they woke to greet the coming light of a new day. Emily heard none of it. She sat perfectly still, too numbed to move. This couldn’t be happening!

Hadn’t she suffered already? Hadn’t losing her family in that gruesome massacre been enough?

A rustling from the bushes behind Emily caused her to jump up from the log. Her precious water pouch fell to the ground, bursting to create a puddle at her feet. Her heart raced. Had he returned? She clutched her warrior’s gift to her chest. Rounding the large green bush, she scanned the area, praying that he’d changed his mind and had come back to get her.

Instead, a doe, startled by her sudden appearance, flicked its white tail and bounded into the concealing darkness of the woods. Emily’s shoulders slumped in despair. Unsure of what to do or where to go, she staggered back to the bed she’d shared with her warrior and fell to her knees, feeling dead to pain.

She also felt vulnerable sitting there—naked and alone. She grabbed her shift and yanked it over her head, heedless of the sound of more ripping cloth. Garbed, she sat still, trying to reach out with her senses. The feeling of being watched overtook her. He was there somewhere. She felt him. Sensed his presence.

“Where are you?” she yelled.

No answer. Why? Why wouldn’t he come back to her? What cruel joke was this? Was it a test?

The silence lengthened, unnerved her. What had she done wrong? Had she displeased him? Why had he left? Panic overcame her numbness and disbelief as the sharp pain of the truth hit her—she’d been abandoned. Again.

She covered her trembling mouth with her fingers in an effort to choke back the rage and sorrow that rose from deep within and clawed at the back of her throat for release. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t just have left her out here to die. Not after taking her in. Not after loving her. And he had loved her. She knew he did, just as she loved him. So why? Why? Fear released her voice.

“I love you,” she cried out. “Come back. Please come back! I love you…”

Over and over she alternated between screaming for him to come back, begging him not to leave her and crying desperately for him not to do this.

Finally she cursed him for abandoning her until her voice grew hoarse. Then she was forced to accept the fact that, once again, she was alone in a harsh, untamed land.

Each piercing scream tore through Swift Foot as painfully as an arrow tearing through his flesh. The despair, the fear and the agony in her voice nearly drove him back to her. When she paced, staring through the trees, looking for him, seeking him, calling him, he wanted to go to her and end her suffering—and his own. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

The
thunk
of an object hitting a nearby tree made him peer carefully from his hidden spot between two pines and a thick bush. He watched Emily bend down, grab several rocks and throw them with all her might into the forest around her. One fell just short of where he knelt.

He listened to her angry shouts, to the names she called him. He didn’t understand all that she said, but he knew she cursed him. As he cursed himself. Covering his eyes with his hands, he shuddered. How could he do this to her? To himself. To them. How could he destroy the most precious gift he’d ever been given? Was there anything more important in life than the gift of love?

The weight of his love bowed his shoulders. Added to his own pain, he also felt his father’s. The last of his bitterness and resentment toward the man he never knew died. No longer could he blame him for choosing love over pleasing others. Listening to Emily’s quiet weeping, he felt his own heart ache. Life without love didn’t seem worth living.

So claim her. Take her. She is yours.

Those thoughts rolled through his mind, tempting him. Who would blame him? He suppressed a moan of pain. He himself would. He’d grown up with the results of that love, dealt with the cost of it in lives lost due to warring. From a young age, he’d striven to be strong—all that his father had not been—vowed to restore honor and peace to his people. If he followed in the footsteps of his father, he risked more than just another war. He risked losing all that he was. Without honor, he would not be a man.

Swift Foot watched Emily stumble back to the bed of furs and fall facedown. Her husky sobs brought tears to his eyes. In silence, he cried with her. If he only had himself to worry about, things would have been different. He’d have gladly given up the honor of becoming chief—better a life with love as just a man, than a man of power with no love.

But there were too many others to consider Emily and any children he and she might conceive, the innocent women and children of his tribe, the old, feeble and sick among both tribes, all vulnerable to acts of war. Whether he liked it or not, too many people depended upon him to make the right choice. And the choice he had to make lay in putting the needs of the many over his own. And over Emily’s.

No, he couldn’t give in. Though it hurt unbearably, he had to remain strong.

Time crawled. The faint light of
Wi
stretched across the horizon. Birds swooped overhead, deer ventured into the clearing, only to bound off into the bushes once they spotted Emily. Still Swift Foot watched. And waited. Without taking his eyes off the only woman to claim his heart, he prayed.

From
Okaga,
the spirit of the south, the giver of life, the spirit with a good, kind heart, he pleaded for strength and understanding. And that something good would emerge from the depths of this pain—for all of them.

***

Standing on the bank of a slow-moving tributary off the Missouri River, John Cartier eyed the new day with hands fisted on his hips. Rich golds surrounding wide ribbons of red-amber shot from the horizon in a wild splash of color.

Giving in to fanciful notions, John pictured the dawn as a woman. The golds became long tresses of silky-soft curls; the reds, her soft, pouting lips; the paler shades of rose, the blush of her cheeks; and the pale sky, her lovely eyes. The greens of the leaves fluttering on the trees became the bodice of her dress, and the wild array of the colors her skirt, swirling around her as she danced across the sky.

This was Dawn at her womanly best, in his opinion. Some days she greeted him with the shy blush of a virgin, and days like today, it was the vibrant beauty of a well-loved woman. Either way, mornings were his favorite time.

Inhaling the sweet morning air, John tipped his head back, taking a moment to enjoy this bit of peace and quiet. “A gift of true beauty.” Realizing he’d spoken the words aloud, he sent a rueful grin to Fang, who sat on his haunches, staring up at his master. “Yeah, I know. I’m talking aloud again.” The animal shook his head, his great tongue lolling, then bounded off into the brush.

John turned back to the lightening sky, wishing he had someone to share every sunrise with: a woman, not a wolf. He sighed. The image of a perfect woman flashed before him, brought forth from the heavens themselves: sky-blue eyes, hair of the sun and a richness of spirit to match the earth at his feet. Each night he dreamed of her, and each dawn he waited for her—which was ridiculous, as the only women out here were wives of other trappers. They were mainly squaws or coarse women of indeterminate age who led the lives of their husbands.

Wiggling his bare toes into the muddy bank, John heaved out a long, slow breath, then shrugged off the silly notions that seemed to grow stronger with each day, making him work harder, pushing himself to exhaustion to keep the loneliness at bay. Only in the early mornings did it creep up on him.

“You’re a foolish man, John,” he scolded himself. “Been alone too long.” His grandfather and cousin were long overdue to return. He was starting to worry.

Rolling his shoulders, easing the kinks from a night spent on the hard ground, he set about starting his day. He yanked his buckskin shirt over his head and stepped out of his breeches, leaving them in a heap near his rifle a short distance from the bank. The caress of the gentle morning breeze played over his body, now naked as the day he slid from his mother’s womb. Drawing in a deep breath, he stepped farther into the cool river, then dove in head-first.

Surfacing, he shook his mane of dark hair, sending droplets of water whirling around him. He washed quickly, lifting his voice in a bawdy, off-key song. A low whine sounded from the bank. John glanced at his wolf, who’d returned. He called: “Need to hear a voice, Fang, even if it’s only my own.”

Like the otter and beaver he trapped, he drifted on his back for a while, staring skyward, enjoying the coolness of the morning. By afternoon, temperatures would climb as the sun blazed over this dry land.

His wolf barked and whined. John glanced at the animal. Normally Fang sat quietly or joined him in the water to play. Today he seemed agitated. The beast hopped back and forth from the bank to the path leading away from the shack. John stood, letting water slough off him in sheets. “What is it, boy?” He left the stream, dried off and quickly dressed, then went to scan the area.

The animal continued to whine and pace. When John picked up his rifle, the wolf took off. John followed, alert to each sound around him. Between Indians and the other trappers who roamed this land along the river, he trusted no one save a handful of friends.

At last the wolf stopped, and John stopped as well. After a pause Fang continued at a much slower pace, the fur at his neck standing on end. John lightened his steps and moved cautiously through the thick band of trees. He knew where he was, and when he reached the end of the trees, he hunkered down. Beyond the tree line lay one of his favorite places—a small, secluded meadow.

He glanced down at the wolf, who was staring intently at something just beyond the trees. An injured animal? Or a human? John frowned but didn’t leave the concealing foliage. At his side, Fang growled. “What is it, boy?” he asked softly, his hand on his rifle tightening as he searched for movement. Then he heard it: a muffled sound. A cry.

The wolf left the wall of trees and approached the fallen log on the other side. John followed, sure that it was another injured animal. Had it been another trapper or an Indian, Fang would have stayed clear. The wolf approached the fallen log with his head down, nose sniffing. Then he sat, cocked his head and let out a mournful whine. John stepped around the log and stopped in shock when his searching gaze fell on a woman.

She lay sleeping on her side, curled into a tight ball, her bare arms held close to her body, fingers curled beneath her chin. She wore a ragged and threadbare shift that did little to hide her slim waist and rounded hips; but it was her features, set into a small, perfect oval, that held him spellbound, and made him wonder if he hadn’t fallen and knocked himself senseless. He’d never seen such delicate beauty, such perfection.

Shades of browns and yellows dominated her coloring—from pale blond hair the shade of spun silk and sunshine, to eyebrows and lashes a shade darker. Skin the tone of rich honey became the perfect backdrop for freckles as fine as gold dust and evenly distributed across the gentle sweep of her nose. Her lips, he noted with awe, were the rosy kiss of dawn.

His gaze slid down along the gentle line of her jaw and her rounded chin. She mumbled something, her arm lifting, the back of her hand pressing against her mouth in sleep. When she rolled onto her back, the material of her torn shift pulled taut across the generous swells of her breasts. The thin fabric hid little of their size or shape. Even the pale tips were visible. Feeling uncomfortable staring while she slept, John forced his gaze back to her face, and the halo of golden hair spread out beneath her.

“Lady Dawn,” he whispered, stunned by the presence of this woman. Just looking upon her fair beauty seemed to ease the darkness creeping through his soul. She couldn’t be real. Had to be a dream. Maybe he’d drowned and died and had gone to heaven.

He wanted to reach out and touch her, see if she was real. But if he’d truly gone crazy out here, he didn’t want to break the spell. He could look upon her for an eternity and never get enough.

Fang made the decision for him. He bounded forward and sniffed the woman’s foot, his cold nose startling her awake. She bolted upright, stared at the wolf, then screamed, startling all of them. John jumped back, Fang ran, and the woman herself watched him warily with eyes as blue as the sky above. She scrambled to her knees, ready to bolt like a frightened doe.

John couldn’t have moved if his life depended on it. He fell, long and hard, into the liquid pools of her blue eyes. Fang’s muffled bark from behind the log jerked him back to reality. This was real.
She
was real. The fear in her eyes made him snap his jaw closed and remember his manners.

“Easy, miss. Name is John Cartier,” he said. His voice was too loud in his own ears. She flinched. He cringed and gentled his tone to a lower, softer timbre. “I won’t hurt you.” Noticing her gaze straying from him to Fang, he cleared his throat. “That there is Fang. Had him since he was a pup. He won’t harm you, either.”

For a moment, she looked like she’d bolt like a rabbit. Instead, all emotion drained from her face, leaving her pale, her eyes lifeless, like an empty, unseeing shell. She lay back down without speaking.

Confused and concerned, he moved slowly forward. “Who are you?” Silence met his question. More important, how had she come to be here? He glanced down at the fur she lay upon, then noticed the bear claw around her neck and the leather pouches lying near the log.

She’d been with an Indian. That much was clear. Was she a captive? He glanced around uneasily. If so, where was the warrior who’d claimed her? Bending down, he reached out to touch her on the shoulder. She jumped but didn’t look at him.

“Miss? I can help. I have a cabin—not much—but it’s shelter. You’ll be safe there.” With other trappers returning for the coming winter trapping season, and the tribes of Indians who roamed the area, it wasn’t safe to leave a woman alone and unprotected.

“Doesn’t matter what happens to me.” The girl’s voice faded and she drew herself tighter into a ball, clutching a wooden box.

Her grief reached out and snared him as surely as his traps snared the prized beavers he hunted. She appeared to be in shock, yet was unharmed—at least physically, from what he could see. “It’s not safe for you to stay out here,” he added.

Her actions confused him. If she’d been a captive, she should have been happy to see another white man, even one as rough-looking as him. He ran a hand over his ragged beard, and glanced at his filthy clothing. Perhaps not.

She spoke, almost as if talking to herself. “I wanted to live.” She laughed, a hollow, humorless sound. “God would have done me a favor had He taken my life and let me die along with my parents.” Her voice, hoarse with tears and grief, rose slightly.

Horrified by her talk of dying, John moved closer and reached out. He said, “Come on. I’ll take care of you and see that you’re returned home.” Wherever that was.

Of course, the thought of sending her away left John protesting inside. For the first time he understood how the Indians felt and thought when they found a woman and took her captive. John
wanted
this woman. It didn’t matter that he didn’t even know her name or her circumstances. Just her presence filled that emptiness inside him, as if she’d been made for him. As crazy as it seemed, he felt a connection to her just from looking at her.

When he tried to scoop her into his arms, she came alive. “No! I have to stay here. He’ll be back. I know he’ll come back for me!” She fought his hold on her.

He? Trapper or Indian? “Who? Who left you here and why?” John didn’t want trouble, but in good conscience, he couldn’t just leave her alone without knowing more.

“Please,” she beseeched, scooting away. “Leave.” She shoved at his hands. “My Indian warrior will return. He won’t abandon me.” Gut-wrenching sobs shook her. “Not again. Oh, God, not again.”

Her words didn’t make sense to John except that she’d been left by an Indian. The fact that she seemed to think she’d been abandoned—though John couldn’t imagine any man, white or red, doing so—gave him the excuse to effortlessly lift her into his arms. He stood, and she fought, but against his strength she didn’t have a chance.

“Calm down, miss. It’ll be okay. I promise. We aren’t going far. Whoever you’re waiting for will find you if they come back.” He made his way across the meadow and into the deep shade of the woods.