Striding from the light into the deep shadows of the trees, he felt as though darkness had moved into his heart, stealing away the light and the joy he’d once felt walking this wild land. Returning to the tidy yard in front of the cabin, he whistled softly as he placed a leather hood over the head of the injured hawk he’d found a few days ago. While he checked its broken wing, Fang sat at the base of the tree. John talked to both the wolf and the hawk, trying to recapture the wonder and love of his first years in the wilds.
But by late afternoon, depression had settled around his shoulders. “One more year,” he reminded himself while setting a pan of bear fat over the fire. When the fat sizzled, he added kernels of washed and dried corn to it along with some strips of raw rabbit. After eating his supper, John bedded down beneath the trees, bathed in absolute darkness with the sounds of insects buzzing, owls hooting and Fang, his three-legged friend, snoring at his side. Staring up into the sky, he waited for the arrival of Lady Dawn to bring light into his life to chase away the shadows of the night.
Chapter One
Territory of Michigan, 1810
Late spring
“Satan’s spawn!”
The harsh bellow shattered the early-afternoon peace, startling Emily Ambrose. Her hands froze in midwring as her gaze flew from the pile of laundry to her father, a tall, rail-thin man with a wild mane of ash-brown hair. The tails of his overcoat flapped angrily behind him as he marched down the bank with a Bible in one hand and a whip-thin switch tucked beneath his arm. He stopped less than a foot away from where she knelt in the shallow water.
“Get up!”
Rushing to her feet, Emily nearly fell when she stepped on the sodden hem of her dress. She gained her balance and stared up at her father with wary eyes. “Father?” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
She shivered, not from the cold of the river, but from the icy contempt of the man who’d sired her. Emily cringed and took an involuntary step back at the fury raging in her father’s eyes. Since the disaster at the mission, he’d not spoken a word to her, and she’d stayed out of his way. Until now. These horrid words were the first he’d spoken to her in weeks.
She trembled, unable to bear the terse silence and the torturous wait. “Father?” she repeated, her voice a mere whisper. She didn’t know what had caused him to break his silence to her, but the fact that his fury had kept him silent for so long boded ill. Her fingers bunched in her skirts, and water lapped at the soaked hem, tugging at the fabric as if trying to pull her out of her father’s reach.
The man’s eyes narrowed to furious slits, his sharp chin jutting out as he clenched his jaw. His face turned a mottled hue of red and purple. “Devil’s daughter!” he exploded, leaning over to deliver a stinging blow to her face with his open palm.
Her cheek stinging, Emily bit back her cry of pain.
“Have you no shame? No decency,” he spat, his voice rising, then ending abruptly as he ran out of breath.
Fear kept Emily as still as a deer scenting danger in the air, but unlike that wild animal, she had no place to run. Biting her lower lip to still its trembling, she wondered what had set her father off—not that it took much for her to anger or upset him.
Timothy Ambrose glared down, his gaze raking over her, his hand shaking as he pointed a long, bony finger. “You’re no better than the whore who gave birth to me.”
Emily glanced down at herself and gasped when she caught sight of the bodice of her mother’s old washday dress. To her horror, the swells of her bosom had escaped the too-small confines of both her dress and the long shift she wore beneath it. The shift was low-cut, the dress several sizes too small and far too tight in the bodice. It had inched down without her being aware of it. A frantic glance behind her revealed the shawl she’d worn earlier lying on the bank.
“Please, Father,” she begged, “I meant no disrespect. My dress is hanging to dry, and Ma’s other dresses don’t fit. I—I don’t have any others.” Her voice shook. Watching her father’s mouth tighten, Emily knew it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t care that she had only one dress. He’d view her lack of decency as another act of rebellion, against not only himself, but against God. In his view, there was no greater sin.
With crazed eyes, he tightly grasped the switch in his right hand. “Whore!” Down came the switch.
Emily ducked to avoid the blow to her face, crying out against the sting of pain burning across the backs of her shoulders.
“No-good—” A second strike seared her back, the thin material of her dress proving no barrier to the slashing force of the switch.
“Sinner!” Another blow followed, and another.
“Father, please,” she begged, falling to her knees on the muddy bank, hunching over, using her arms to protect her face.
“Daughter of the devil!” He shoved her with his booted foot, then kicked her in the ribs.
Emily whimpered and curled into a tight ball. Her apparent disregard for modesty had destroyed the cold control her father had managed since their family had left the mission. With one innocent action, she’d unleashed the storm. Emily feared her father’s wrath as never before.
She cried out with the sting of another lash, this time on her thigh. Sobbing, she cowered on the ground, helpless to stop the indignant rage raining down upon her.
“Timothy!” Emily’s mother rushed over, but Emily didn’t look to her for help. No one stood against her father when he was in one of his righteous rages.
He speared his wife with mad eyes. “You bore the seed of Satan!” He lifted his arm.
His wife grabbed his arm. “No! Leave her be, Timothy. In the name of Jesus Christ, leave her be,” she begged. Beatrice Ambrose was appealing to her husband’s religious nature, but it didn’t seem to matter.
He tossed her aside. “Look at your daughter. Clad like a whore!”
“Timothy, be reasonable. It’s washday. There’s no one else around. Tonight I’ll sew her a new dress.”
The woman’s interference earned her a slap. “You’re no better, wife, encouraging her sinful behavior. And I won’t waste good material on the likes of her. It’s her own fault she ruined her last dress.”
Emily knew better than to protest. The bodice of her dress had been ripped beyond repair during her struggle with Father Richard.
“Please, Timothy. For the love of God—”
“Do not use the name of our Lord when talking about her! She led a Jesuit into temptation.” His voice rose. “A man of God! She has no regard for my work. She has destroyed me.”
Emily lifted her head and brushed muddy water and strands of wet hair from her face, tired of being blamed. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Father,” she said with a sob. How many times had she tried to convince him? Yet still he refused to listen to her. “Father Richard tried to rape me. You saw it! You were there!” Her voice broke.
“Spawn of Satan,” he continued with unrestrained and unholy fury. He stepped back.
Emily gasped, her father’s hate piercing her heart, causing more pain than his beating. And Timothy Ambrose, mired in his own narrow beliefs, stared down at her as if he’d never seen her before, as if she were some condemned heathen instead of his only child. He shot his wife a look of loathing.
“This is your fault.”
His eyes went blank then. His voice reverted to the cold, flat, unemotional tone he’d adopted since their exile. “No more lies. No more living with the shame. We’re leaving. Now.” Timothy spun around and stalked off.
Emily shivered. Water lapped at her skirts, but she shook too much to stand. Her father had gone crazy. The eerie light in his eyes frightened her more than had feeling the lash of his anger. Her hair whipped across her face, and she hugged her arms tight around her body.
Beatrice Ambrose, white with fear, bent down and stroked her daughter’s hair and smoothed the pale strands from her face. “I’m so sorry, Emily.” Sorrow edged her words.
“It’s not your fault, Ma,” Emily t
ried to comfort her mother. The woman was as much a victim as Emily herself when it came to Timothy Ambrose and his strict religious beliefs.
Her mother laughed bitterly. “It is my fault, daughter. And I’m more sorry than you will ever know.” She stood, her shoulders bent as if under a great weight. She sent Emily a pleading look. “Stay out of his way this evening, daughter.”
Emily stared at her mother, seeing a downtrodden woman who blended with her surroundings, devoted her life to serving God, and tried to be the perfect missionary’s wife. She set her jaw, forcing the tears back. Then she asked her mother. “Why won’t he listen to me? He was there. He saw it. Why won’t he admit the truth?”
Emily fought the memory, but it haunted her. Father Richard had shown up at their small one-room house after her parents had left to take food, medicine and the word of God to a nearby Indian village. The Jesuit had often asked her to help with his correspondence, but that day was different. He’d leaned close, his breath fanning her cheek. Uncomfortable, Emily had tried to shift away. Father Richard had laughed, holding her in place while kissing her on the lips.
She’d told him to stop, but he’d refused. When she struggled, she fell off her chair. He’d pinned her beneath him on the floor and had his hand up her skirts. That was how it had been when her father returned unexpectedly. He’d found her crying and fighting off the priest.
Emily shuddered. “Father saw me fighting him, saw me trying to get away, but Father Richard said I’d invited him in, that I’d teased him until he gave in to temptation.” She stared up into her mother’s eyes, needing reassurance. “You believe me, don’t you, Ma?”
Beatrice Ambrose closed her eyes. “Yes, Emily. I do.”
A loud thunk drew their gazes. Emily’s father was throwing boxes and equipment haphazardly into the back of the farm wagon he’d purchased years ago, when they’d made their living going from town to town so he could preach. They’d never stayed long in one place, though. They’d stayed at the mission for some time, had been forced to leave because of Timothy’s shame, and now they were leaving this small campsite on the edge of nowhere.
Bitterness welled deep inside Emily, seeking release. “He hates me.” She waited for her mother to defend her father, to tell her that she was wrong. But the woman didn’t. Her mother’s silence said it all. Deep inside, Emily hurt. All her life she’d tried to live up to her father’s expectations, tried hard to prove herself worthy of his love. But no matter how hard she tried, she’d never gained his affection—or even a kind word. He hated his own flesh and blood.
“I’m so sorry,” her mother repeated. “This is my fault. If only…”
Emily waited for her to finish, but the woman seemed lost in another world. “If only what?” she prompted. But she knew. If only she’d been born a boy. Her father made no secret of his contempt for women.
Shaking her head, her mother looked old, sad and guilt ridden. “Just stay out of his way, Emily. Millicente said as soon as her husband returns, she’ll have him organize a party to come after us. When they do, I’ll send you to a friend in Kentucky.”
“I hope so,” Emily prayed, her gaze following her father’s angry movements. Millicente Dufour was their only chance. The woman lived at the mission they’d just left, staying there whenever her trapper husband was away. She helped school some of the native children, and she’d befriended Emily’s mother. Sometimes Emily sneaked back to help teach, but it was mostly to be around the cheerful and loving woman.
“Wife!”
Beatrice jumped at the harsh bellow.
Seeing her father watching them, Emily got to her feet. She knew her mother was regretting past choices. After years of traveling from church to mission, going farther and farther away from civilization, her mother had finally tried to put her foot down, here. She’d refused to leave this last mission for the wilds of an unknown and untamed land. She and Emily’s father had fought, and Timothy had told Beatrice she could stay but that Emily had to go with him. But Beatrice had given in, and now her father seemed determined to take them even deeper into this wild and untamed land.
Emily tried to smile. It came out a weak grimace. “You had no choice in all this, Ma,” she said. “Now go see what Pa wants.” She didn’t want her father to turn his anger to her mother, for his was a harsh hand. Emily knew better than any. Timothy Ambrose believed women—all women—needed to be sternly governed, for they were the daughters of Eve. It was a man’s responsibility to keep them subservient and firmly under control. And if prayer or lectures didn’t give him the desired result, a man must resort to physical punishment. He had not spared the rod on his only child.
“Stay here until we’re ready to leave,” her mother whispered, gathering up the basket of laundry and hurrying toward the wagon.
Emily planned to stay as far from her father as she could. Biting back a moan of unhappiness, she stared out across the flowing river, finding no peace in the sparkle of sunlight on the water or the gentle sway of trees lining the banks. They would soon be leaving here for even more dangerous lands.
Picking up her shawl, she wrung the excess water from it and draped it over her shoulders. She shivered from both the cold and the pain of the water on the welts her father had just given her. Pacing along the bank, she knew she had to find a way for both her and her mother to get away. Her father’s fanatical devotion to the Bible, and to all things holy, had gotten out of hand—as had his abuse. More and more, he compared Emily to her grandmother, who’d been forced to use her body in a brothel to survive.
Emily thought of her father’s mother, a woman she’d never met. Her father had never gone back to see the woman after he’d run away at the age of twelve. A traveling Methodist preacher had taken him in, and later her father had married the man’s daughter, Beatrice. But Timothy’s hatred of his mother ran deep and had affected his ability to deal with women—even those in his own household.
For as long as Emily could remember, her father had been a cold, distant man. The older she’d gotten, the worse he’d become, as if the simple act of her body maturing from child to woman made her evil. And now, at sixteen, she attracted the attention of men wherever she went—which made her father even more unreasonable. Glancing over at her parents, she winced when her father threw a pot of beans at her mother. “He’s insane,” she whispered. The anger in his voice as he continued to shout at her mother was frightening. Emily had never seen him so out of control.
When he swung his furious gaze in her direction, Emily backed up and quickly averted her eyes. “It’s not right,” she mumbled, wishing she had the courage to stand up to him. After all, she hadn’t asked God for the extra curves and flesh on her short figure. In fact, her looks—her generous bust and her white-blond hair and blue eyes—had brought her nothing but trouble. It seemed it didn’t matter if men were married, young or old. They looked.
A few brave men had even tried to court her, but they had only caused Emily grief. The more persistent a suitor, the more hours her father forced her to spend on her knees in prayer, begging forgiveness. If he caught lust in the eyes of a married man, he’d take a belt or a switch to her, accusing Emily of using her body to entice them into committing adultery. And the final straw had been Father Richard’s interest. In Timothy Ambrose’s eyes, tempting a man of God had made Emily the daughter of the devil.
It did not take him long to load the wagon and hitch the mules, and when Emily spotted her father heading toward her, holding his well-worn Bible in both hands, she clutched the ends of her shawl tightly around her and swallowed a moan of pain. Her arms and shoulders still burned with her every movement.
“Kneel, daughter of Satan,” her father said as he reached her. He closed his eyes and clutched the Bible to his chest, as if drawing strength from it.
Emily bit back a cry of protest at the abominable name he called her. Gingerly she knelt, wincing as she assumed the expected pose: clasped hands, the picture of a sinner begging forgiveness, tho
ugh she prayed not for forgiveness, but for mercy. She’d done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn’t her fault that her father refused to part with any of the cloth he reserved for trading with savages so that she could sew a second dress for herself. Sometimes it seemed that her greatest sin lay in being born a female.
Her father lifted his voice in prayer. “Hear me, Father in heaven. I have tried to instill virtue and humility in this child entrusted to my care. But I can do no more. She refuses to act in a manner befitting a humble servant of God. She has forsaken the church; she lures men of God down the path to hell.”
He paused. Emily risked an upward peek. Her father’s eyes were wide open, staring heavenward. His voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes closed as if in pain. “The day I left my mother’s life of sin behind, I promised my life to you to atone for her sins. I can do no more. Take this child and do with her what you will.”
Timothy Ambrose stepped back and stared down at his child with eyes that were chillingly empty. “I have no daughter.”
Emily stared up at her father in confusion. Instead of anger in his eyes, she saw nothing. No emotion. It was as if she no longer existed. An ache settled in her chest. This outright rejection left her breathless. “Father?” Her voice choked.
“The Lord has spoken. This is His will.” Taking another step away, he said, “You, daughter of Satan, are at the mercy of our Lord and God. You live or die by his hand.” He called to Beatrice: “Come, wife, we are leaving. We have His work to do.”
Emily’s mother rushed forward and put her arms around her daughter. “Timothy, no! Have you lost your mind? There are wild animals. And savages. In the name of our Lord, be reasonable!” Desperation filled her voice.
Emily clutched her mother’s arm. Her father planned to leave without her, he planned to abandon her in the wilderness—in the name of God! “You can’t do this,” she whispered, numb with disbelief, stunned to know the depths of his hatred for her.
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