The man walked back and yanked her mother away. “I said, we are leaving.” He dragged the woman, sobbing and pleading, toward the wagon without a backward glance. “You, too, will pay for your sins,” was all he said.
Shrieking, the woman fought to return to Emily. “No! I won’t leave my daughter,” she screamed. A hard blow to the side of her face silenced her.
Stunned by the violence of her father, Emily stood rooted to the spot. But when the man tossed her mother’s unresisting body up onto the wagon seat, she ran forward. “No!” Fear as she’d never known left her shaking so hard that her teeth chattered. He wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t. She was his daughter, no matter what he’d said.
“No! You can’t leave me. Ma, don’t let him do this! Don’t leave me! Father! Please!”
Her father whirled around. “You are no daughter of mine. Begone!” He picked up the reins and urged the mules forward. Her mother screamed until another blow silenced her.
Emily ran after the wagon. “How can you do this? This is not the will of God. What about forgiveness? What about love?” She grabbed the back of the wagon as it left the shadows of the tall stand of cottonwood trees where they’d camped, headed into an open meadow.
The wagon stopped. Relieved, Emily tried to still her frantic breathing. Her father would take her back if she begged, if she promised to be good. She’d pray on her knees all day if that was what it took. “Please, Father—”
She froze at the sight of the shotgun in his hands, her heart springing up into her throat. Sitting beside him, her mother sobbed brokenly.
Her father pointed the gun at her. “Get away from the wagon. Didn’t you hear me, girl? I have no daughter.” The words were cold and devoid of emotion. At his side, Emily’s mother had her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sorrow.
Fearing that he’d actually shoot her, Emily stood in horrified shock as her father snapped the reins and drove on without her. Her breath came in short gasps. Hysteria threatened to choke her. Backing up in disbelief, she felt the hard trunk of a cottonwood stop her retreat.
Numb with fear and shock, she stood there, watching, unable to believe he’d truly meant what he’d said. He’d disowned her. He’d abandoned her. He hated her so much, he wanted her to die.
Surely her mother would stop him. But the wagon rocked and swayed across the uneven meadow and didn’t stop. Her mother didn’t jump down and run back to her. Instinct urged her to follow, but Emily didn’t. She had no doubt her father would kill her if she tried again—and he would justify it because he believed her to be the devil’s daughter.
She had to do something, but she couldn’t move. She felt like the tree at her back, rooted to the spot. What was she going to do? How could she survive out here alone? She had no food. No blankets. No weapons. No family. She’d die out here, and no one would ever know.
“What am I supposed to do?” she cried to the sky. Panic clawed at her insides. She’d never been so afraid in her life. Each breath came in shorter gasps. “Please tell me what to do.” She wasn’t sure if she was praying—or if she even believed in God anymore. Closing her eyes, Emily leaned her head against the tree behind her, her fingernails digging into the rough bark as she tried to stop her world from spinning out of control. She had to gain control. Had to think.
But her mind had gone blank, her heart numb. She slid down and wrapped her arms around her knees, unable to accept the fact that she’d just been abandoned. Surely her father would change his mind and turn around. And her mother? Her mother couldn’t just ride away and leave her. Emily was their only child. This had to be part of some horrible punishment, but her mother would make sure her father would stop and fetch her. Or if he didn’t, she would come back. Together Emily and her mother would head back to the mission and let Timothy Ambrose go on his way.
When Emily glanced up and saw the wagon lumbering along without her—halfway across the meadow—reality set in. Her father wouldn’t stop. And there wasn’t anything her mother could do. Fear overshadowed any lingering thoughts of hope.
“Oh, God, what am I going to do? I don’t want to die.” Emily sobbed, resting her forehead against her updrawn knees as she fought the nausea welling inside her. Her body trembled and shook so hard, her sides ached. She clasped her hands together, ragged nails digging into her flesh. The trembling increased. It turned to a rumble, as if the earth beneath her was angry at the injustice.
Emily pressed her palm to the ground. It continued to tremble beneath her. She lifted her head and glanced around. Shouts came from her right. Hope rose inside her. Had Millicente’s husband gotten help and come after her and her mother?
On the other side of the river, farther upstream, she spotted a large group of riders heading toward her parents. She started to stand, but sudden yells filling the air chilled her soul.
Savages!
This was not help from the neighboring mission. Instinctively, Emily shrank down low, pulling her shawl more tightly around her. Normally Indians didn’t frighten her. Those who lived near the mission had been friendly. But from the cries filling the air, and the lances held high overhead, she knew these Indians were not.
They splashed through the water, riding en masse toward her parents. Emily’s gaze returned to the stopped wagon and she watched in mounting horror as her father climbed onto the seat and stood tall, his Bible held high for the savages to see.
“No! No!” She tried to warn her father, but the words seized in the back of her throat.
Horrified, she saw a flurry of arrows fly through the air. Stunned and helpless, she watched her father topple from the wagon and heard her mother’s screams. The mules bolted, and the savages gave chase. Stunned and helpless, Emily gasped as she saw her mother fall off the wagon and beneath its wheels.
“Dear God, no,” Emily sobbed, over and over. She was more scared than she’d ever been, but instinct took over. She slid around the trunk of the cottonwood tree, farther back under the brush and deeper into the shadows of the grove, making herself as small as possible. She covered her head with her garments, the shades of brown on both dress and shawl blending in with her surroundings.
The Indians’ wild yells continued to echo across the meadow. Numb with fear, Emily buried her head beneath her arms, afraid, yet feeling guilty for not having done anything to help her parents. The knowledge that she was helpless to do anything was little consolation.
After what seemed hours, the acrid scent of smoke filled the air, followed by more loud, victorious cries. Peeking through the brush, Emily saw the savages riding away, continuing in the direction her parents had been headed. In their arms, they held the blankets and bolts of material her parents had intended to trade for food and other necessities.
When the earth’s trembling and the savages’ triumphant yells died away, Emily stumbled to her feet and stared at the burning wagon in the distance. The mules were gone. Cloth from torn clothing was plastered by the wind against a tree nearby.
“Ma,” she whispered. A dark shadow passed overhead. Then another. Emily glanced up, then cried out at the sight of the large, dark birds soaring closer, circling overhead, waiting. Running out into the open, Emily prayed as she’d never prayed before. Reaching her mother, she fell to her knees. Blood from an arrow stained the bodice of the woman’s dress and dribbled from her mouth. Her legs lay at awkward angles.
“Ma!” Emily grabbed her mother’s hand. The skin felt chilled. Her mother couldn’t be dead. “No. Please, no,” she cried.
“Em—”
Startled by the faint whisper of sound, Emily glanced at her mother. “Ma. Oh, God, you’re alive. You’re going to be fine, I’ll take care of you.” The rush of words left her mouth as fear shoved back the impossible truth.
“No. Too late. Take—” Beatrice Ambrose broke off as a spasm of coughing overtook her. Blood bubbled from her mouth.
“Don’t talk.” Emily glanced around frantically. She had no idea what to do. Should she
remove the arrow or wait? “Please,” she whispered. “Help me. I don’t know what to do.” Deep in her heart, Emily knew it was too late, but she couldn’t give up without a fight. There had to be something she could do. Pressure on her fingers drew her attention back to her mother.
“Locket. Take it. Yours. Have to tell you…before I go—”
“No, Ma. It’s yours.”
The woman attempted a weak smile. “Father… Truth—” Her hand fumbled toward her neckline.
“Wait. I’ll do it.” Emily didn’t want her mother to exert herself. She knew about her mother’s locket, how it was worn pinned to the inside of her chemise. Gently she removed the locket and held it in her hands. It felt cold, like her mother’s fingers.
“Sorry, child. My—” Another spasm hit.
Emily gently wiped the blood from her mother’s lips. “Mother! Mother!”
“—fault. Not his. Father…made…me…”
Alarmed at her mother’s growing weakness and the steady trickle of blood seeping down the side of her mouth, Emily begged, “Don’t talk, Ma. Please.” Tears streamed down her face.
Her mother continued: “…always loved you. Go to Kentucky…where you…born. Matthew Sommers…find…” Beatrice Ambrose paused, then spoke again, her voice filled with desperate strength. She lifted her head. “Mission—Millicente…knows the truth. She was going to take us to him. She knows…where to find…your father… Good man. Go to him.”
Confused, Emily stared down at her mother as she tried to make sense of the jumble of words. But before she could say anything, ask anything, her mother gave a final gasp.
“Love you—” And with that, her head rolled to the side, all life gone.
Emily stared at her mother’s still body in disbelief. “Ma?” She couldn’t be dead, couldn’t have gone. “Ma, please don’t leave me,” she said in a sob. Then, leaning over her mother, her locket clutched in one hand, Emily cried.
After what seemed like a long time, she lifted her head. Around her, the dark birds were watching. They inched closer, their long wings outstretched as they squabbled for position.
Jumping to her feet, Emily shouted and chased them away, watched the birds soar up into the air and circle. Turning, she saw her father sprawled nearby. Going to him, she bent over and called his name. She shook his shoulders but got no response.
Returning to her mother’s side, she sat, her knees drawn to her chest, unable to comprehend that she was truly alone. Opening her fists, she stared at the locket. Inside, twin ovals with her parents’ images stared out at her. Fresh tears welled up as she stared at a much younger image of her mother. On the opposite side a sketch of her father stared back.
Hate rose inside her. How could he have done this to them? Her mother had wanted to return to civilization, to the east, fearing that this untamed land was no place for her or Emily. Her father had refused to listen to her, or to any of the others who’d tried to warn him of the dangers out here.
Furious that Timothy Ambrose’s blind faith and religious zeal had ultimately caused her mother’s death, Emily scratched at his likeness, unable to bear looking upon it. Finally she tore it out of the locket. To her surprise, she found another portrait hidden beneath. Peering close, she saw immediately that it wasn’t her father, but the face of a stranger.
The young man depicted appeared around the same age as her mother in the other picture. He had light hair—much lighter than her mother’s. In the portrait, it looked nearly white—like Emily’s own. Recalling her mother’s jumbled words, and her father’s comments, the inconceivable truth dawned. If she’d understood her mother correctly, this man, a stranger named Matthew Sommers, was her blood father.
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.
Chapter Two
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, s
o 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.
White Dawn Page 3