White Dawn

by Susan Edwards

  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.

  Noting his bow and a quiver of arrows, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d taken part in the brutal killing of her parents. Did he plan to kill her as well? Biting her lower lip to keep the tears from spilling, Emily glanced away. She grieved for her mother, would always remember the sight of her falling from the wagon and the slow, painful way death had claimed her. She couldn’t bring herself to mourn the loss of the man she’d grown up calling Father.

  The stroke of fingers down her face brought her back to the present with a jolt. She jumped. The savage watched, the expression in his eyes hidden by the night. Now what? If he grabbed her, she’d fight. If she was going to die, she’d rather it be quick than drawn out. She took a step back, and was relieved when he didn’t try to stop her. Survival instinct demanded she run, yet she didn’t. There was no way for her to escape. Not in the dark. Not in the day. Not anytime.

  The Indian hunkered down and picked up a pouch. He pointed to the ground where a short while before she’d lain curled up trying to sleep. Moving slowly, Emily sat, drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She kept her eyes on her companion, watching his every move.

  He came to her and sat so close that their knees nearly touched. Emily averted her eyes from the sight of his naked flesh, covered only by a breechclout. The past years spent traveling from one mission to another, she’d seen many nearly naked men—some who even went about with no regard for clothing or those who might see them. Yet it had never been beneath the stars, and she had never been alone.

  Smooth, taut skin rippled as the savage leaned forward and held something out to her. He motioned for her to eat it.

  Emily took the long strip of dried meat. She and her mother had visited many Indian women in their tipis and had seen them making this jerked beef. Though the meat was bland, hunger demanded that she take it from him. Slowly, the sounds of the night returned. When the savage stood, Emily edged away in fear.

  Yet all he did was unroll a large fur and lie down upon it a foot away from her. The fur looked like a buffalo robe. He patted the space beside him. Her heart thudded against her chest. Was this it? Did he plan to rape her now? Wide-eyed, Emily shook her head, making no move to go to him. He shrugged and closed his eyes. Emily held her breath and watched him. Hope rose. Maybe while he slept she could escape.

  She waited a long while, her heart hammering. Then she slowly edged away. A sharp command proved he was just as aware of what was going on with his eyes closed. He turned his head and indicated she should sleep.

  Hesitating, Emily lay down on the ground and curled up, her eyes fixed on the savage. He was so close, she heard the soft intake of each of his breaths. Realizing he didn’t plan to attack her—at least not yet—she let her body, exhausted from the day’s events, slowly calm. Its numbness faded and allowed her to feel the cold seeping into her bones. Her teeth chattered, and she clenched her jaw until it ached. She closed her eyes. Though summer was coming, the nights were still cold.

  Something warm and soft dropped over her. A muffled gasp escaped as her first thought was that he’d climbed on top of her—but she quickly realized he’d just given her his fur. The weight of the thick pelt, still warm from the Indian’s body heat, took the chill from her bones quickly.

  Confused at the savage’s actions, Emily stared at him as he lay back down. Why had he given her his fur? Why hadn’t he forced himself on her? What would he expect of her on the morrow? Too tired at that moment to care, too drained by the day’s events, Emily burrowed into the pelt’s warmth. She welcomed the oblivion of sleep.

  Darkness swirled around Swift Foot. He shifted on the hard, cold ground. He’d put his soft deerskin shirt beneath him, but it offered little protection from the small rocks and twigs poking him. Yet it wasn’t discomfort from lying on the ground, or the biting chill in the air, that kept sleep from him.

  He turned his head and stared with troubled eyes at the white woman. He had expected a child—not this young woman. And he had certainly not expected a woman of her beauty. In sleep, the girl wore trusting innocence like a newborn fawn. Her hair, woven of moonlight, spilled across the ground, liquid luminescence soaking into the rich earth. Though he had a grandmother, a Frenchwoman, with light hair, he’d never seen locks this pale. He stared at her hands, tucked beneath her chin like a child’s. Even her skin was white, as pale as the glittering stars.

  Unable to resist, he reached out to touch her hair. It flowed through his fingers. Using two fingers, he rubbed the strands. They were soft, like the fur of his helper, Mastinca, the rabbit. Leaving one arm stretched out to caress the woman’s hair, he reached his other hand across his body to his upper arm to touch his wide armlet of rabbit fur. Mastinca was known for fleetness of foot and endurance on long journeys. Swift Foot had earned his own name at a young age for his ability to run and jump like his helper.

  Glancing up at the moon, he thanked Hanwi for giving him the answer to the troubling dreams he’d experienced over the long, hard, cold winter. But what did the answer mean? Why had he heard this woman’s cries? And more important, now that he’d found the source of his unrest, what was he to do with her? Wakan Tanka had spared this woman’s life, then led Swift Foot to her. But why? Did she have a message for
him?

  Save her. The wind whispered the words in his ear.

  That thought gave him pause. She was lost and alone. She shifted restlessly, her arm shoving back the fur. He eyed the generous swells of her gleaming white breasts. A stab of desire rolled through his body, startling him as much as did the protective instincts that also rose within him. This woman in no time had touched some hidden soft and vulnerable spot buried deep inside his soul. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her forever. She was his. He’d found her. Saved her. She belonged to him. He wanted nothing more than to lie beside her and mate with her.

  Unsettled that the attraction was so strong, Swift Foot pulled his hand away, dropping her hair to the ground as if it were evil. He sat, troubled by his thoughts. How could he, soon to be chief of his tribe, feel such need for a white woman?

  Leave, his senses ordered. Let her find her own way back to her people. But he couldn’t leave her here on her own. She’d never survive.

  A soft moan from the woman drew his attention. She cried out briefly, then fell silent. He yearned to move closer, to pull her into his arms and comfort her, but her nearness unnerved him. Her presence frightened him. Like that of a rabbit startled by predators on the prairie, instinct told him to run and hide.

  Swift Foot glared at the heavens, furious with his weakness. He was Swift Foot, a great warrior, who at twenty winters had fought in many battles and counted coup so many times, he had two coup sticks. He killed his enemy with cold detachment. Soon he’d proudly take his place as leader of his people, an honor his father had not lived to obtain.