White Dawn

by Susan Edwards

  Besides, her time spent with the savage should have taught her that men wanted only one thing: a willing body. Once they had that, they lost interest in the woman herself. Hadn’t that been why her warrior had left? She leaned against the door frame. The thuds of the ax tearing into wood resumed, a backdrop for her troubled thoughts. She had no doubt that if she accepted the friendship John offered, he’d soon want more. And she might want to give it. And then, when he had all he wanted from her, he too would disappear.

  It hurt even to imagine it. Better now than—

  A harsh cry tore through the air.

  Startled, Emily opened her eyes and her gaze found John. The man stood, doubled over, his hands wrapped around his thigh. Red blood oozed between his fingers. Without stopping to think, Emily dropped the shirt she held and ran toward him.

  “John!”

  By the time she reached him, the amount of blood dripping through his fingers was already staggering. The sight of all that gore made her dizzy. He staggered as he tried to keep his feet. Instinct took over. Emily eased him down and grabbed a piece of toweling fluttering in the breeze along a nearby clothesline.

  “Sit!” she commanded. She and her mother had treated many emergencies at the mission—everything from arrow and gunshot wounds to birthing and illnesses. Folding the toweling, she pressed it tightly over the gash that was midway up his thigh.

  Spotting a knife dangling from the belt John wore around his waist, Emily took it from its leather sheath. Her fingers shook as she cut away his pant leg several inches higher than his profusely bleeding wound. Carefully, she pulled the buckskin off his leg. Removing the bandage, she gasped at the deep gash running along the outer edge of his thigh. Its severity took her breath away, and she pressed the cloth back to try to stop the bleeding.

  The cloth didn’t work. Panicking, she knew she had to work fast. She ripped a wide swath from her shift and folded it into a thick square. Her heart pounded as she removed the bloodied towel and pressed the new pad to the wound. John groaned and fell back. One glance at his white face sent her heart down to her toes. “Don’t you die on me, John. You hear me? Don’t you die!”

  He tried to lift his head. “Told you I wouldn’t leave you.” He groaned.

  Terrified that he’d do just that, Emily grabbed the hem of her shift and ripped another wide strip, which she folded into a thick square. She removed the now-soaked pad. The gash was nearly five inches long, and deep, and still bleeding steadily. Pressing the square of her shift to his wound, Emily took John’s red handkerchief and bound it around his leg.

  Standing, she stared down at him. There was one more way she knew to stop the bleeding. The thought of it left her queasy, but she had no choice. Working quickly, she went to the fire pit and stoked the embers, feeding small chunks of wood into the flames until they grew. Then, taking John’s knife, she placed it in the coals to heat. She returned to John and put her weight on his wound to help stem the flow of blood. She called his name while she did so.

  He groaned, his head rolling to the side.

  “I have to sear the wound. It’s going to hurt,” she told him. Tears laced her voice. She hoped he would pass out; that would be the best—for both of them.

  “Do it,” he rasped.

  “Oh, God. I don’t want to hurt you.” She started to leave his side to check on the knife. He called her back.

  “Emily—tie me down. Don’t…don’t want to hurt you.”

  “What?” Then she recalled one time she’d assisted her mother with the same procedure. It had taken four strong men to hold down the injured man while her mother had pressed the hot knife to his skin.

  Emily found a length of rope. Moving fast, she bound one end of it to his hands and wrapped it around a tree. Using the bloodied ax, she cut the rope and tied his feet the same way. “Whiskey—do you have any?”

  “In the shack. Brown bottle.”

  Emily returned, then gave him some.

  He coughed and lay back down. “Just do it, Emily. No time to get me drunk.” He attempted a weak smile but his eyes were dark, nearly black with pain, and his face was white, drained of blood.

  “All right.” Using more of her shift, uncaring that the length now barely covered her buttocks, she folded it and placed it between John’s teeth, then returned to the fire. Grabbing his red-hot blade, she knelt beside him and took a deep breath as she loosened the knot of the bandage and pulled it away.

  “Give me strength,” she prayed, tears blinding her. She glanced once more at John. In his eyes, mingled with the pain, she saw something that surprised her faith. Confidence in her.

  She hoped it wasn’t misplaced. Taking the bottle of spirits, she splashed some of the whiskey over his wound. He hissed in pain, his feet and hands jerking against the ropes. Drawing another deep breath, she murmured, “Forgive me,” then placed the flat side of the searing knife against the bleeding wound.

  John screamed, though the sound was muffled. He jerked against the rope. His low, harsh moan tore an answering sound from her. This was her fault. He’d been distracted—tired, maybe—because of her. If he died, she’d never forgive herself.

  Then he went blessedly still. The acrid scent of burned flesh and hair rose. Nausea welled inside Emily, and bile rose to the back of her throat, but to her relief, John had only passed out. Working quickly, she turned the knife over before it cooled and repeated the process. It took twice more of heating the knife to completely seal the wound and stop the bleeding.

  At last she was finished, and she sat back, wiping the sweat from her brow and the tears from her eyes. She studied his wound: puckered, blistered and raw. But she was thankful the bleeding had ceased, except for a bit of oozing from one end. Running back to the shack on rubbery legs, she searched for decent bandage material and found none. Removing her locket and then her shift, she took her garment and tore the rest of its thin material into strips.

  Donning his shirt, she fetched from the nearby stream a pot of water, and put it on to boil over the dancing flames. Using a strip of her shift, she washed the blood from John’s leg and his hands after untying him. He still hadn’t come to. Sitting back on her heels, feeling exhausted, she glanced around. A poultice next. Then tea to help keep the fever at bay.

  Working in a daze of fear, Emily bandaged the trapper’s wound, put a rolled blanket beneath his head, then covered him with another. She glanced over her shoulder at the shack, unsure how she was going to move him inside. There was no way she was going to be able to drag him.

  Sighing, she stood. She needed herbs.

  Fiery pain dragged John through the darkness. His leg throbbed with every beat of his heart. He groaned, fighting the agony. Cool fingers slid across his forehead. He opened his eyes, blinked against the bright rays of the afternoon sun and gazed into Sunshine herself.

  Emily sat beside him, leaning over him, her wide blue eyes filled with worry and fear. It all came back to him in a rush: the ax glancing off the knot, slipping from his fingers and slicing into his thigh. The rest was hazy—except for Emily. She’d been there, talking to him, telling him not to die. He smiled weakly. “Tol’ you I wouldn’t die.”

  Her smile wobbled and she brushed a hank of hair from his eyes. “You’re not out of the woods yet, Johnny.”

  He grimaced and licked dry lips. “No one but my ma has called me that since I was a boy.” No one had dared, especially as he’d been head-and-shoulders taller than most boys his age. And his mother had called him Johnny only on rare occasions. From Lady Dawn, it sounded heavenly.

  She tried to smile. “Right now you look as helpless as a boy.” She sobered, her lips trembling, her eyes dull with worry. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my own needs—”

  He reached up with shaky fingers to still her words. He didn’t want to see more pain in those beautiful eyes. He wanted to see them lit with laughter—and love. Yet he knew that was asking for the moon and the stars. Still, somehow h
e felt as though he’d loved her forever, as if she’d been a part of him that he hadn’t known existed.

  “Not your fault, Lady Dawn. I was careless.” He gasped with pain when he tried to turn toward her.

  “Because of me.” Using a cool cloth, she patted his face.

  “Doesn’t matter.” He closed his eyes, his lips pinched. He felt her move away. She returned and slid a hand into his hair. “Here, lift your head, John.”

  He did. She put a cup to his lips.

  “Drink.”

  He did, then gasped at the bitter brew. He tried to pull away but she wouldn’t release him.

  “More. Please.”

  “No. What the hell is that?” It tasted as vile as the concoctions his mother had used when he ailed.

  “It’s for the fever. And the pain. Please, Johnny?”

  He groaned, but not from pain. How could he refuse this woman anything? He took another wary sip, relieved when she seemed satisfied. “That is the worst stuff I’ve ever tasted,” he complained.

  Seeing her tremulous smile, John knew he’d drink the whole damn cup just to see it again.

  “Can you stand if I help you?” she asked. “We need to get you inside, and I’m afraid I can’t do it alone.”

  John lifted himself up onto his elbow. The movement made the throbbing in his leg worse, but he gritted his teeth. From his other side, he heard a low whine. Fang nosed him. Reaching over, he scratched the wolf behind the ears. “You be good, boy.”

  Sitting, he stopped to breathe heavily, fighting waves of pain. He caught sight of his hawk in the tree and groaned. “The hawk. Have to feed him.”

  Emily took hold of his arm. “I’ll deal with it. Come on.”

  He glanced at her, noted the determined set of her jaw as she prepared to help lift him. “Lady Dawn, you’re a little bitty thing. You’re not going to be able to help get me inside.” It amused yet pleased him that she’d even think she could.

  She lifted a brow. “I’m stronger than I look. Now come on. I want you inside before it gets dark. And before you pass out on me again.”

  The fact that she’d just about tossed his own words back at him made them both smile. To his surprise, she was stronger than she looked, and he knew that without her to lean on, he’d never have gotten to his feet.

  “Careful. Don’t put any weight on that leg. Just drag it behind you. I don’t want your wound to open back up.” She looked him in the eyes. “I don’t think I could go through that again.”

  Smiling weakly, he agreed. “Neither do I.”

  With her help, he hopped the short distance to the shack. The pain nearly blinded him. Once inside, she left him leaning dizzily against the doorway while she moved his bedding closer. With a groan of relief, he fell onto it.

  “Can I get you anything?” She looked anxious as she stared down at him.

  “No.” His eyes drooped. He fought to keep them open, focused on her. But the pain was consuming him, dragging him into a world of gray. He struggled to hold on to consciousness.

  “Okay, I need to make more tea for you.” She hesitated, clearly afraid to leave him.

  Her image continued to blur. He wanted to tell her that he had all he needed in her presence, but it seemed too hard to talk.

  “I’ll be right outside.” Slowly she went out the door, her gaze lingering on him; then she was gone.

  The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on John. How had their situation completely reversed itself? But unlike her wanting to die, he wanted to live. This woman had entered his life, chasing away the shadows, bringing sunshine into his world. Sunshine. Emily with her pale hair and warmth. Lady Dawn. “Sunshine.” The name tumbled from his lips as darkness descended, dragging him back beneath a blanket of pain.

  ***

  Swift Foot sat in the tribal lodge surrounded by his ailing uncle, the shaman and the rest of the elders. The rest of the tribe’s warriors were seated to one side, watching and listening. He’d just finish telling all of his walk across the maka, including his time with the white girl.

  Silence weighed heavily as Wind Dancer, their shaman, consulted with the rest of the elders. Everyone waited as Swift Foot’s fate was decided. He didn’t have long to wonder.

  Wind Dancer lifted both hands over his head in a gesture of victory. “Our son has proven his worth. The Great Spirit sent him a difficult test. Our son took up the challenge. He has pleased the spirits this day. He has proven his worth. Wakan Tanka was wise when he sent Swift Foot away.”

  Wind Dancer turned to Swift Foot’s uncle. “The council has decided not to make your brother’s son wait until his marriage to Small Bird. He will assume his new role of chief starting with this day, and join with Small Bird as soon as her tribe arrives.”

  His uncle, Charging Bull, beamed, his old, leathery face crinkled with pleasure. “This is good news, for I grow old and weary.” His voice ended in a cough.

  Talk around Swift Foot turned to the feast that would be held that night to celebrate his return.

  He’d passed. Tonight he would officially become chief. It was what he wanted, what he sought. Then why did he feel so sad? He should be celebrating his achievement, but he felt only a cold emptiness inside—as though he’d died, instead of having been given the greatest honor a warrior could achieve.

  He glanced up into Wind Dancer’s knowing gaze. The shaman, though not as old as most of the men present, hunkered down beside him. He spoke low.

  “It cost you much to leave this woman, son.”

  It wasn’t a question. Swift Foot could not lie, nor could he prevent himself from touching his sacred medicine bundle, which held a lock of her hair and a piece of her skirt. Two pieces of rabbit fur—from one of the pelts she’d tanned—encircled both arms. “It was the will of Wakan Tanka that I return alone. I will find a way to restore peace. I have taken the first step.” A very painful one.

  The wise shaman nodded. “You will be rewarded.” Seeing the lingering, unspoken hope in Swift Foot’s eyes, he added, “Not with the white woman. She is not to be your mate. Yet your time with that woman was meant to be. While she is now of your past, she has changed your future.”

  “What do you mean?” He knew Emily had changed his future: she’d taken away his ability ever to love again.

  The wise man smiled. “It is not for me to reveal, my son. I can only offer you hope. Your heart will find love with another, and your spirit will find peace as well. I have seen it.”

  Swift Foot watched Wind Dancer move away. For once, his heart held doubt. He didn’t think he’d ever know true peace, not the kind he’d had for those wonderful weeks with the white woman named Emily.

  Chapter Seven

  Time lost all meaning for Emily. Her days and nights were filled with caring for John. Despite her efforts with teas and poultices, fever racked his body, chills rattled his teeth and delirium haunted his sleep. His wound turned red and puffy, the flesh shiny and taut, forcing her to open the skin several times to drain it. She drew on all her knowledge to fight for his life.

  Out in the wilderness with her Indian warrior, she’d watched him use a funny plant that looked like a puff-ball to stop the bleeding on a cut to her foot. Hopeful after squeezing out the pus from John’s wound, she went in search of that plant, then used it to help stop the bleeding.

  From her time at the various missions where there were no doctors, she and her mother had become quite learned in herbs. She found the root of wild four-o’clocks, which she boiled. It aided in reducing his fever. Boiled willow bark made a pain reliever. The inner bark of sweet elder, along with chamomile and sweet clover, was mixed with bear fat and placed over the wound too. And when it seemed that nothing worked, Emily had prayed, begged and even ordered God to heal him.

  Between caring for John, gathering the herbs she needed for his teas and obtaining greens and berries for food for herself, she also saw to the feeding of his hawk, suffering only one nasty bite from the bird. But when she ran out of raw
meat for the hawk’s meals, she had to make a decision.

  Testing the bird’s ability to flap its wings, she finally untethered and released it. To her relief, it had flown high into the tree, then soared off, fully healthy and one less thing for her to worry over.

  On the fourth night, John’s fever spiked. She’d removed his shirt as soon as the fever had set in, and took up her seat beside him. Wringing out a square of toweling, she ran the damp cloth over his face, down his throat and neck, over broad shoulders, across his chest, and down over the heated flesh of his legs, desperately trying to cool him.

  When he thrashed and tried to get up, she used all her weight pressed down on his chest to hold him, and her voice to soothe him. In between such spells, she forced spoonfuls of willow bark tea down his throat and kept his wound clean.

  Just before dawn of the fifth day, Emily thought perhaps John’s skin felt slightly cooler. A slight sheen of sweat dotted his skin. Drawing a blanket over him, she closed her eyes. She was so tired. Without conscious thought, she slid down beside him, wanting to be near in case his fever returned.

  A low moan woke her. Disoriented, she shot upright, her gaze going to John as he fought the blankets twisted around him. “Shh,” she cooed, “it’s all right, Johnny. It’s all right.” She used that ridiculous name for him—he was definitely no Johnny with his incredible bulk—as the nickname seemed to please him as much as it did her. He calmed.

  The first time she’d uttered the name, she’d almost laughed, close to hysterics as she was. He was the least Johnnyish-looking man she’d ever seen. But somehow the name also fit. It was the tender, gentle side of him. She also remembered his telling her that only his mother had used the name. Hopeful that that was good, she whispered it in his ear whenever he grew restless. It helped calm him, as if his mother truly sat at his side. Yet Emily didn’t feel the least bit maternal toward him. Not anymore.

  She had tried to put thoughts of his very masculine body from her mind, but it was hard to ignore the firm skin when she ran a cloth over him. Nor could she quite ignore that other part of him. When she’d first undressed him, cutting his breeches carefully down the seams so she could wash and keep him cool, she’d figured that she’d seen it before, and it wouldn’t be a big deal.