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.
Chapter Four
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.
&
nbsp; 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.
Most of the tribes knew John and his grandfather, and the two of them were on good terms with those. Still, he worried over any kind of confrontation with savages, especially if the woman had been held against her will. She didn’t act like she’d been a captive, but John knew she might have gone crazy in captivity. He’d worry about it later, though. Right now he needed to get her to safety in case there was trouble.
The woman went limp in his arms, as if too exhausted to fight. Cradling her close, John bent low to avoid the stinging slash of a low branch. Once clear, he straightened and glanced down at his burden.
She’d closed her eyes, shutting him out. Up close, he noted the streak
s from tears, her swollen eyelids and her vulnerable beauty. Her hair, nearly white and silky-soft, caressed his arm and hung down in waves to brush against his thigh. A rush of tender protectiveness rose in him toward this woman. Whatever her past—and whatever the future held—it didn’t matter. Right now she needed him. And he needed to help her. Fate had sent him Lady Dawn.
For now, that was enough.
Swift Foot watched the white man carry Emily away from him. The trapper he’d observed many times over the past few days had found her, as he’d known would happen. He’d observed the man, seen his gentle and kind way with animals. Though this man hunted and took from the maka, he also gave. Emily would be safe with him. Swift Foot could leave. Yet even as he watched the white man carry away the woman he loved, his mind continued to war with his heart. It wasn’t too late for him to go to her, to reclaim what was his. But as fast as the thought came, it went. His destiny had been decided long ago.
The spirits had tested him. He’d passed. So why didn’t he feel triumphant? Pleased? Because in proving himself, he’d lost. He’d done what had been asked of him, and now it was time for him to return to his people.
When the white man disappeared through the wall of trees, Swift Foot silently bade Emily goodbye. Standing, he shouldered his bow, gathered his belongings, and turned to head off in the opposite direction.
He stopped, staring out into the meadow. Moving quickly, he returned and reclaimed his furs and pouches. Holding to his face the blanket Emily had made for them, he breathed in deeply, inhaling her scent, feeling the wetness of her tears.
Unable to leave this last part of her behind, he slung it over his shoulders, rolled his buffalo robe and disappeared into the trees. The bleakness in his heart and the ache in his soul warned that for him, life would never be the same.
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