White Dawn

by Susan Edwards

  Chapter Five

  Shouldering open the door to his tiny shack, John bent his head and stepped inside its gloomy interior, moving to the center, where he could stand upright. A thin ray of light came through one unshuttered window and fell on the woman in his arms. She lit the room with the sunshine of her beauty. Dropping his rifle onto the table, John went to his bedding and gently laid her down.

  She seemed unaware of him as she curled back into a ball, keeping her eyes tightly closed. A single tear leaked from the inside corner of one eye and made him long to brush it away. He backed away, feeling out of his element in the face of her tears and the sadness that cloaked her. “I’ll be back with some food and a strong cup of hot coffee.”

  She didn’t reply. John hesitated at the door. The austere cabin, its log walls chinked with mud, didn’t usually bother him, for he spent so little time here. But today he surveyed the place with a critical eye. Clothes littered the floor, and a small stack of pelts sat against the far wall along with a dozen traps and other tools. A rough-hewn table with three stools took up most of the center of the room.

  He compared this place he’d called home for the past ten years with the grand manor he’d once shared with his parents, and he grimaced. This wasn’t just a shack. It was a hovel. The two windows, not much more than square holes in the wall since the shutters had fallen off, were open to let in as much light as possible—which, until the sun rose a bit higher, wasn’t much. There was no fireplace. No stove. Nothing.

  He walked across the room and kicked his clothes into a pile, then did the same for his grandfather’s and cousin’s belongings, moving them to the same wall with the furs and traps. He even moved the table over to try to make the single room look bigger. Still it looked cluttered and small—not a place any woman would want to call home.

  A wet nose tickled his hand. Glancing down, he stared into Fang’s liquid brown eyes. Reality intruded. What was he thinking? There wasn’t a chance in hell that she’d stay here with him. Nothing could disguise the fact that this was what it looked to be: a simple shelter constructed of logs and mud and a thatch roof.

  Yet, with his inheritance and the money he’d saved over the years, he could buy a grand place. Maybe a town house in St. Louis. Or he could go home to Virginia and purchase a house with land. With a wife at his side, he could even pursue his dream of raising horses.

  Though he enjoyed what he did, for the most part, and made a decent living at it, the solitude closed in on him. At sixteen, going off to live with his grandfather in the wilderness had been exciting, an adventure. And with grief over his parents’ death clawing at his insides, being alone for months at a time had given him the time he’d needed to deal with his loss. But lately, the life he’d embraced as a young man left him restless and yearning for something more.

  At twenty-six, he found that the thrill of adventure had long since died. The wilderness that had once been his refuge now felt like a prison. He didn’t want to be alone anymore. He wanted a family: a wife to come home to and children to greet and romp with in the evenings. He wanted the love-filled marriage his parents had had.

  But first he had to find a willing woman. Again, his gaze swept over the woman lying on his bedding. Hope warred with caution. Right now he didn’t have much to offer her—or any woman. Not out here. Again, that vision of a home and family sneaked into his mind, teasing him with what could be.

  Fearing that he was truly losing both his sanity and his heart in one fell swoop, John knew he had to get out of there and get a grip on himself. Here he was, planning a future with a woman who was clearly distraught. And her desire to die made him fear that she’d lost her mind.

  She couldn’t be crazy, though. The thought left him feeling as if someone had slugged him in the gut. Grabbing the rifle he’d set on the table, he left the cabin with Fang at his heels. He didn’t trust her with the weapon in her present state of mind.

  His pot of coffee sat near the edge of the fire pit, keeping warm. John poured a tin cup of the thick, strong brew and gulped it down. Feeling much clearer in the head, he poured a second cup, which he carried back inside. He dropped to his knees. “This will warm you,” he said, setting it down on the hard-packed dirt floor. When he got no response, he touched her bare shoulder. She flinched. “It’s coffee.” He made a face. “Don’t have any sugar or cream to offer.”

  She sat up, her eyes filled with pain. “Take me back. I have to stay there. He won’t know where to find me.”

  He. The way she said the word, the desperate yearning in her eyes, told him that she had not been unwilling. At least she wasn’t now. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his still-damp hair. “I can’t. It’s too dangerous. Besides animals, there are savages and other trappers out there. Some would take advantage of you. Or worse.” She didn’t react. Whatever had happened, she didn’t look as though she’d been mistreated.

  Her hair fell over her shoulder, drawing his attention to her full figure. With great difficulty, he averted his eyes. He wouldn’t frighten her with ogling, but damn, he was drawn to her—and not just her body, though he couldn’t ask for more in a woman. No, the haunted pain in her eyes drew him as flames drew moths. He wanted to know what had happened to her. He needed to offer comfort and chase away the shadows. As with many of the animals he found injured and nursed back to health because he was unable to kill them, he wanted to take her pain away.

  She lay back down, ignoring his offered cup of coffee, her eyes blank once more. “It doesn’t matter. You should have just left me. It doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

  John shook his head in disbelief and scratched at the back of his neck. He searched for words of comfort, but nothing came to him. Only protests that someone so young and beautiful should want to die. “You shouldn’t talk like that, miss. Nothing is worth dying over.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “Having nothing makes life not worth living.”

  Shaken and a bit unnerved by the emptiness in her eyes, John stood. “I’ll leave you to rest. If you need anything, I’ll be outside.”

  John left the cabin door ajar so he could hear her if she called out. As he paced, he wondered what horrors she’d suffered. His gut clenched. Most certainly she’d been taken captive, but for her not to rejoice in her freedom worried him. Had her mind snapped or did she fear her return to society? Was death better than the stigma of having lived among—survived captivity among—the savages?

  Troubled, he picked up his ax and went to a pile of logs. He’d heard that most women who survived captivity were never again right in the head, and those who retained their senses were often driven into committing suicide by the cruelty of their own people. Family and friends and society at large would turn their backs on the poor, innocent women.

  It troubled him to think that the woman in the shack might lose all respect over something with which she’d had no control, or that she’d never marry and have children. She might never be invited to parties and never again be accepted into the world of her birth. She’d likely live her life alone, locking herself away behind closed doors.

  John vowed there and then that it wouldn’t happen. Her situation surely hadn’t been this woman’s fault, and he refused to accept that her death was better than her alternatives. She would not die if he had any say. He glanced over his shoulder to where an injured hawk he’d found perched on a low pine branch. A leather hood covered its eyes.

  Like the hawk, the woman had been wounded—and when John made up his mind to save a life, he seldom failed.

  Emily stared up at the steeply sloped ceiling, her eyes blurred with tears. Why had her golden Apollo left her? Over and over, the question swirled within her, demanding an answer. She played and replayed their last days together. There had been no angry words; neither had he acted bored with her. Nothing had changed. She frowned. No, that wasn’t exactly true.

  Plucking with her fingers at the edge of the wool blanket covering her, small things,
things she hadn’t thought important, came flooding back—things like finding him staring out at the rolling plains with tears in his eyes, or the faraway look that seemed to overtake him at odd moments. Even the way he’d taken to touching her during the day—as if he couldn’t get enough—had made her wonder at the thoughts in his head. Then, at other times, he’d seemed to withdraw from her.

  Pulling the material up to her chin, Emily shivered, feeling chilled as she began to see what had been there all along but she’d been too blinded by love to acknowledge—no, she’d been too afraid to see what she saw so clearly now.

  During the past few weeks, something had changed in her warrior—something below the surface. She’d sensed a growing sadness in him. He’d been distracted, and had at times seemed so distant. At night, when he’d take her in his arms and love her, she’d put aside her worries; yet even then, she acknowledged, he’d been different—almost reckless in his passion. Only now, as she looked back, did she recognize the desperation in his touches, and in the way he’d held her. It had been especially noticeable last night.

  Then, from the time she’d set up their bed, he’d held her. Loved her. Then held her some more. And in the throes of passion, he’d even murmured, “I love you,” in English. It was as if the words had been torn from his throat, which had shocked and pleased her beyond measure. She’d assumed he learned them from her, as she said them to him often enough, but her body had been too aroused and on fire for his touch for her to question him.

  Closing her eyes against the pain, she felt tears squeeze free and run down the sides of her face. “Why?” she said in a sob. “Why did you leave me? If you love me, why did you leave?” Her voice hitched as tears clogged her throat. Turning, she buried her face in her arms, feeling lost and alone as never before.

  She had no idea how long she lay there before she heard footsteps returning. Throughout the day her rescuer had come in to check on her, brought her food and drink. All of which she refused. She felt his presence, and knew he was standing there, trying to decide whether to disturb her or not.

  “I brought you more food.”

  The deep baritone voice sounded so gentle, so concerned, that it was hard to ignore. It wasn’t this man’s fault that she’d been betrayed yet again, or that she felt like she’d already died inside. He hadn’t caused the grief welling inside her…yet the thought of eating made her dizzy with nausea.

  “Not hungry,” she said, her voice sounding scratchy.

  “You need to eat.” Again that voice drew her, tempted her to accept the help he so willingly offered.

  Emily remained silent, hoping the man would just go away. She felt him sit down beside her.

  “Miss, can you look at me?”

  Shaking her head no, Emily didn’t dare look at him. The gentleness she knew she’d find in his eyes drew her like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. The last thing she wanted was to feel anything—period.

  John spoke, drawing her from her ugly thoughts. “Listen, I know captive women are usually scorned, but surely this wasn’t your fault. No one knows but me—and I won’t tell anyone.”

  He thought she’d been a captive? Emily laughed, the sound harsh and hollow. She turned her head and looked at him. “I wasn’t a captive.”

  The man cocked his head to the side and looked puzzled. He clearly didn’t believe her.

  “No?”

  “He saved my life.” Defiance laced her words.

  Her eyes itched and burned with the need to cry, but there were no tears left. At the question in his eyes, she said with a snarl, “He left me. Are you satisfied? He just dumped me there and left me to die.”

  Anger began to replace her shock at being abandoned. She felt used. Worthless. Her warrior had used her like Father Richard had wanted to use her. Except her golden Apollo had taken the gift of her love along with her body, and he’d tossed them both away as if they held no meaning to him.

  “No.” She groaned. She refused to accept that he, of all people, had been so cruel. She glanced out the door, surprised to see that it was late afternoon already. What if she was wrong? What if he’d just left her for the day? Maybe he planned to come back, and she’d misread his intentions that morning. Could he have already returned and found her gone? Guilt replaced her anger, and hope rose inside her. The thought spurred her to action.

  She jumped to her feet. “Take me back to where you found me. He’s coming back. I know he is.” He had to. He couldn’t have meant goodbye. Emily needed him desperately. He was all she had. She had to believe in him. For without that belief, she truly had nothing to live for.

  The man stood, his eyes troubled. “I can’t let you go out there alone. There’s wolves and bears—not to mention other trappers and Indians.”

  Recalling the last time she’d been alone in the dark, and the terror of fending off the two wolves, Emily hesitated—but only for a moment. She’d risk it. She’d risk anything to go back, to have him return to her. “I have to go back. I have to be there in case he returns.” Picking up her carved wooden box, she walked out the door. Her new protector followed.

  “Look, miss…”

  “Emily.” Realizing that for the first time in months she was conversing, carrying on a two-way conversation, Emily faltered. How many times had she longed for someone to talk to, and for someone to talk back? Another spasm of guilt shook her. Outside, she put everything from her mind except returning to the spot where her golden warrior had left her. But as she stared around her, nothing looked familiar. She didn’t know where to go. Behind her the man—what had he said his name was? John Cartier?—sighed.

  “Fine. I’ll take you after I finish my chores.” He pointed to a stool. “Why don’t you sit and eat? It won’t take me long.”

  Thirsty, she accepted a cup of coffee from him but turned down the food he offered. Her stomach felt tied in knots. Sipping the warm, bitter brew, she felt an unexpected bit of pleasure. It had been a long time since she’d had coffee, and only now did she realize how much she’d missed it.

  Cartier pulled on thick, leather gloves, then took several large hunks of raw meat from a tin just outside the door. He strode toward the tree a short distance from the shack. Curious despite herself, Emily followed and watched him stop in front of it. To her surprise, there on the lowest branch sat a hawk with a leather hood covering its eyes.

  He murmured something. The bird flapped its wings in response. The man’s laugh filled the air. “Smell your supper, do you?” He untied the leather strip that tethered the bird to the perch, then held his gloved hand out to touch the bird gently on the breast. It stepped onto his gloved finger. Using his thumb to hold the hawk’s feet in place, John removed the small leather hood. The bird ruffled its feathers, shook its head, then let out a loud screech. As if happy, it threw back its head and flapped its wings.

  Cartier laughed and held the bird out from him. “That’s it. You’re getting stronger. A few more days of rest should do it.” After letting the hawk exercise its wings some more, he put the bird back on the branch and tethered one leg, but left the hood off. He impaled several chunks of meat on nailheads driven into the branch, then filled a tin of water that had been fastened to the other end of the perch.

  Something in Emily responded to the way this gentle giant of a man handled the bird. He wasn’t her idea of a coarse, rough trapper. Though looking at him, she certainly didn’t get the impression that he even knew the meaning of gentle.

  For the first time since he’d brought her here, she really looked at John Cartier. He was as different from her warrior as a hawk from an eagle. He was tall, wide and packed with solid muscle. But contrary to his size, he moved with a slow, easy grace that rivaled that of her Indian. It intrigued her.

  Once the hawk had finished eating, John Cartier placed the hood back over the bird’s head and removed his gloves. Emily stared at his hands: ham-sized hands that looked as though they were made for smashing faces. This man could easily crush that bir
d—or her—with one of those hands, yet he was gentle.

  Moving her gaze upward, Emily noted that his hair, nearly black in the shade, looked browner in the sun. To her surprise, the light glittered off it in red highlights. Cartier wore it combed neatly and held in a long tail behind his head. She’d never seen hair comprised of so many different shades. Her warrior’s hair had all been a soft black.

  A shaft of pain hit when she thought of how his long, flowing hair had caressed her when he made love to her. She’d loved his hair.

  Trying to put the painful memories aside, Emily focused on the biggest difference between the two men. John’s face was covered with a full, dark beard. She couldn’t tell what he looked like beneath it, but it didn’t seem to matter. Of all his features, it was his gentle, direct, sherry-colored gaze that told her this man was one she could trust. His eyes mirrored the goodness she sensed within him.

  John left the animal to go and grab a blanket from inside the shack, and her leather pouch of food. “You don’t mind if we eat while we’re waiting do you? Or if we share these berries you picked?”

  Emily shrugged. “No.”

  “Good. ’Cause I love berries.” He smiled; then his eyes roamed downward. Apparently overcome by a sudden discomfort, he gulped, then strode back into his cabin.

  Emily glanced down and, seeing her nipples jutting out, pressing against her nearly sheer shift, she flushed. So accustomed she’d become to wearing little clothing she’d forgotten how threadbare her shift had become—not to mention all the places it had torn. Embarrassed, she crossed her arms across her chest, wishing she had something else to wear. She wasn’t even sure where her skirt was.

  Deciding to fetch the blanket she’d used earlier, she hesitated when John returned. He held out a buckskin shirt. “Here,” he said, his voice deep and rough. “It’s big but clean. You’ll swim in it, but it’ll keep you warm.”