White Dawn

by Susan Edwards

  She groaned mentally at her naivete. It had been a big deal. A very impressive big deal, which had prompted her to keep a towel over him to hide that impossibly large part of him. They weren’t lovers; she was just the only one around to care for him. It shouldn’t affect her. Like being a nurse or doctor, he should have just been a body she tended.

  Wrong. His was a very male body, one she couldn’t help but appreciate.

  Without warning, John tried to get up. Moving quickly, she pressed down on him, leaning all her weight against his shoulders to keep him on his back. She raised her voice when her gentle murmurs had no effect. “John, be still. You’ll open the wound.” Twice he’d thrashed to the point of causing fresh bleeding, which she’d managed to stop only with pressure.

  The man’s eyes shot open, his gaze wild one minute, and full of wonder and hope the next. “Lady Dawn. You’re here.” His voice sounded weak and raspy.

  Emily frowned. For some reason, he kept calling her Lady Dawn. Or Sunshine. She didn’t know why he called her those names, but she found she liked it. His voice was always soft and so tender, as though the terms were endearments. Now that’s silly, she scolded herself. It must be the fever. That thought scared her, as it meant he was still delusional. But rather than correct him or remind him who she was, she smoothed the wet cloth over his face, lingering on his brow. “Yes, Johnny, I’m here,” she cooed. He was sweating in earnest now. A very good sign. “Rest, John. Rest.” She turned to get a cup of water for him to drink.

  “No! Don’t go.” His arms came around her, pulling her over him. “Stay, Sunshine. Stay. I need to feel you.”

  Lying chest-to-chest, her knees straddling him, conscious of both his wounded thigh and that other part of him that didn’t seem to be covered anymore, she stared into his glazed eyes. “John—”

  “Stay,” he muttered thickly, his hand sliding beneath the curtain of her hair to caress her neck and pull her closer.

  Emily didn’t struggle. His mouth brushed hers softly. Then his lips slanted over hers, warm with the end of his fever, yet soft with need. She couldn’t resist the tender exploration of his lips upon hers. It was a kiss unlike any she’d ever experienced, as if the fever in him had spread to her. She moaned, and, without warning, the kiss caught fire, leaving her mouth burning with hunger.

  She knew she should stop him, had to stop him, but the intimate contact turned the pit of her stomach into a fluttering mass, and that part of her intimately touching him became a wild swirl. Her lips moved with his, willing and eager for all he offered.

  Shocked at her wanton response, she was helpless to stop her madness. He was sick with fever. He didn’t know what he was doing. But by God, she did. She wanted his kiss.

  His arms caressed her back and slid down. The hem of her borrowed shirt had risen, leaving her buttocks bare. Her under clothes had long since disappeared—cast off by her warrior. John’s big hands, palms roughened by years of hard labor, cupped and squeezed her gently. She moaned and moved against his hands, wanting him to ease the ache between her legs. When his fingers slid toward her heated core, she held her breath, her body anticipating the release to come, the bright lights, the stars that would seem to burst around her.

  She tossed her head back, her open eyes finding a roof over her head instead of an open sky dotted with twinkling lights or the bright glare of the sun. As if doused by icy water, Emily froze. What was she thinking? This wasn’t her warrior. She wasn’t back out on the plains. She was in a shack with John Cartier—a man who’d been near death and couldn’t know what he was doing or with whom. She was about to make love to a stranger, not her warrior. This was not the man she’d given herself to at first because her body seemed the only thing she could offer in return for his kindness, then later because she fell in love with him. This was someone else. Again, she heard her father’s scorn: Satan’s daughter. Daughter of the devil. No-good whore.

  She cried out. How could she feel desire for another so quickly? Her father was right. She was no better than the whore he’d accused her of being. She’d enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh and now she couldn’t fight that pull. Or could she?

  “No, John, stop.” She pushed away.

  He looked confused at her abrupt end to their kiss. His fingers trailed through her hair and stroked along the line of her jaw. “Sunshine,” he murmured, his eyelids growing heavy. “Stay. Don’t leave.”

  Unwilling to upset him while he was still feverish, Emily allowed him to pull her down beside him, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder. His breathing grew slower and deeper, and finally he slept, a much calmer sleep. Against her cheek, his skin felt cool. But her body still felt on fire just as waves of shame chilled her heart.

  She buried her head beneath John’s chin. She’d thought herself in love before. Now she wasn’t sure. How could she have loved her Indian warrior, spent long nights wrapped in his arms, reveling in the way her body sang for his, then respond to John like this? Would her body react to every male this way?

  Waves of memory swamped her: the first time she’d given her body to her golden Apollo, his patience, his gentleness as he taught her to respond to his caresses, the way he’d shown her how to touch him. Feeling John Cartier’s hard, long length pressed to hers, she yearned to run her hands over his body, feel his big, rough hands cupping her and easing the restless ache between her legs. The need coursing through her was frightening. It was wrong. She couldn’t feel for John what she’d felt for another, not this soon. She pressed her fingers to her lips to keep from crying out. Maybe the price of her sins was never to know love. Maybe her father had been right.

  But no matter how hard she tried to forget the kiss she’d shared with John, or convince herself that it meant nothing, it kept her wide awake. She’d felt something new, different. The summer with her warrior had been filled with lots of touching and loving—more ways than she’d have ever thought possible—but he’d seldom kissed her on the mouth.

  And the few times he had, it hadn’t been anything like John’s kiss. She hadn’t thought anything of it, figuring that Indians didn’t kiss, or people in general. She knew so little about acts of love; she’d never even been allowed alone with a boy. Now she had to wonder. Why hadn’t her warrior kissed her like this? And why had John’s kiss evoked such a reaction from her? Just before she fell asleep, she prayed that John wouldn’t remember the kiss, or her own wanton response. More than anything she wanted a friend. The friend he’d promised to be. She had been foolish to risk that on the whim of his body.

  The glare of the sun woke John. For a few minutes he lay still, trying to get his bearings. Warm breath on his shoulder made him turn his head. Emily lay in his arms, sleeping. She looked pale, the skin beneath her eyes translucent. Slowly, a memory came back to him: the accident with the ax, and the agony of her burning his flesh. Everything else was hazy except for her voice and her touch. He remembered hearing her voice dragging him back from the darkness. He also remembered pain. Lots of it. He frowned. There was something else. He glanced down at Emily. Her lips were softly parted.

  A kiss. Had he dreamed that kiss? It had seemed so real. He shifted, then bit back a groan. The movement brought her awake. She stared up at him with eyes as blue as the early-morning sky peeping in through the unshuttered window. “Morning, Sunshine.”

  She shifted her head to look out the window. “It’s late!” She struggled to sit.

  He let her go. She wore one of his flannel shirts, which hid her curves, but it didn’t matter, the fact that it was his only drew him more, especially with her hair falling over her shoulders in wild disarray. She looked dreamy, as he imagined she’d look after a night of making love.

  That thought stirred another part of him, and he glanced down, horrified. He was completely naked, the blanket twisted around his legs. He groaned.

  Emily looked over at him with concern. “What’s wrong? Do you hurt?” She glanced at his thigh, then turned crimson. “Oh.”


  Sitting despite the pain, he grabbed the blanket, feeling as embarrassed as she was as he covered himself. Tongue-tied, he didn’t know what to say. It was just morning hardness, he tried to tell himself. But he knew it was more than that—not that he’d tell her!

  “I, uh, need to get up.” He looked pointedly out the door.

  “Wait here.” Luckily, she seemed to know that he needed breeches.

  But when she returned, she had one of his cooking pots. She set it beside him. He shot her a look of disbelief. “I’m not… I’ll go out—”

  Her stern look stopped him. With hands on her hips, Emily stared down her nose at him. “I’ve seen you naked for four days, John Cartier. Five if you count today. I’ve bathed your body and taken care of all your needs while you fought the fever. Emptying a pot of piss is a lot easier than washing you because you couldn’t even use one.”

  He fell back with a humiliated moan and covered his face with his hands. He was somewhat shocked by her bluntness, but he supposed it was better than her being shy with him. “Four days? I’ve been out four days?” It seemed like yesterday. No wonder he was buck naked. The thought of her seeing to his bodily needs embarrassed him further. There was only one of his needs he’d wanted her to ease, and it was out of the question.

  She gave him another pointed look. “You’re not getting up yet. You’ll tear that gash open if you do. And John?” She waited until he took his hands from his face and looked at her. “I never want to have to cauterize a wound again.” Her voice wobbled. “It was horrible.”

  Tired just from the short bit of exertion, John gave in. “All right. You win. But I have to get up soon. We need food. And the hawk—” He broke off, horrified at the thought that the bird had been neglected. It’d be almost dead if what she said was true. Four days! He’d had enough raw meat left for only one day. “And Fang? Where is Fang?” While the wolf could do some hunting on his own, being on three legs left him at a disadvantage when it came to running down larger game. John always shared his meat with the animal.

  Emily tapped her bare foot on the hard dirt floor. “John Cartier! I should smack you with that pan. Do you think I’m completely worthless and lazy? Thanks to my father, I’ve lived on the edge or beyond with little or no comforts. My mother and I learned to survive on very little, making do with what nature provided.”

  “But the hunting—”

  “I may not have great aim, but I can use a shotgun to defend myself or hunt. And I can set a trap and skin and cook my meal. Lots of trappers came through the mission. I learned to do what it takes to survive.” Bitterness edged with anger and resentment turned her voice harsh.

  John groaned. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Emily.” He held up his hands. “Was just worried.”

  “Well you needn’t be. The hawk is fine. I released it. And Fang is fine. He’s outside. Now use the pot—think of it as a chamber pot and me as your maid.” Turning on her heel, she walked out the door.

  John stared after her. Maid? He thought not. She reminded him of the dour housekeeper who’d run his father’s household with an iron fist. He grinned. But Emily was not dour. She was beautiful. Sweet. And …bossy. He laughed. The change in her was nothing short of miraculous. She’d gone from not caring whether she lived or died to taking charge of everything. There was no doubt in his mind that she’d saved his life. When he realized nature was demanding immediate attention, he used the pan, then covered himself and lay back, exhausted, feeling weak as Fang had been when he’d first found the pup barely alive.

  All that day and the next, Emily refused to let him up. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he could stand, and was somewhat relieved that he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself by falling flat on his face.

  Still, he was bored. And hungry. She’d cooked a pot of beans, but he wanted meat—hot, juicy and tender meat, smoked over the fire. They’d run out of just about everything else.

  That thought reminded him that his grandfather and Willy were long overdue. How would the old man react to Emily’s presence? And his cousin? John frowned. Willy was notorious for bedding any willing woman. Or even unwilling ones, if he believed some of the stories. He found himself hoping that Willy had remained behind in St. Louis.

  Sighing, he lifted himself up onto his elbows and tried to move his leg. Fire shot up his thigh. Still, he tried to move. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Emily said as she stormed in.

  “I’m tired of sitting here,” he said, wincing at his whining tone. He fell back, fighting the nausea as the throbbing pain in his leg increased.

  Her features softened. “You have to give it time, John.”

  With his hands beneath his head, he stared up at her, trying not to stare at her shapely bare legs. “Stay with me, then. Talk to me.”

  She flushed. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  The hazy memory of a kiss came back to him. He wondered if it had been real. Dare he ask? “Tell me, did I dream of that kiss?”

  The color across her cheeks darkened. She glanced away. “No.”

  He lifted a brow. If he recalled right, it had been a very passionate, very satisfying kiss that had left him hungering for more. He grinned. “I’m glad.”

  “John, we…can’t.” She worried her lower lip.

  “Don’t worry, Emily. I’m not looking for what you can’t give.”

  She sighed. “That’s the problem.”

  Confused, he motioned for her to sit. She did, a respectable distance from him. “Want to explain that?”

  “I already gave it to you—in that glade where you found me.”

  He swallowed. He’d never forget how she’d defiantly bared herself to him, telling him to take what he wanted. Oh, how he remembered. “I didn’t accept, though.”

  “Not yet.” She wouldn’t look at him. “I gave myself to a man I thought I loved. Then, days later, I’m kissing you, and it felt… I felt things I shouldn’t. What if I didn’t love him, but only thought I did because he saved my life? Now I’m here with you, and…”

  “And you want me, too?” Secretly it pleased him that she wanted him, but it also bothered him that she might only be reacting to their circumstances. He wanted her, but not out of gratitude.

  “You saved my life.”

  “So you think it’s the same. Gratitude.” Trying to keep things light between them, John winked. “Well, if that’s the way it works, then that means I have to give myself to you. You saved my life, Emily.”

  Her mouth fell open, then closed. She looked uncomfortable—and nervous. He took pity on her. In truth he felt as though he did belong to her, had since the first moment he’d seen her, but he didn’t want to add to her confusion. Emily was special: he wanted her love but knew it was way too early for that. Too much had happened in so short a time.

  “Come here, Sunshine.” He patted the space next to him.

  “I don’t think that’s wise. And why do you call me Sunshine? Or Lady Dawn?”

  He smiled. “I found you in the dawn. You took away the darkness and are a bright ray of sunlight in my life.” He didn’t dare go into more detail, such as how he’d dreamed of her, fantasized over finding his Lady Dawn.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll stop if you want.”

  She laughed uncertainly. “No. There’s no harm, I guess.” She looked embarrassed.

  “Ah, you like it. Just a little,” he added when she looked as though she’d protest. The thought that it secretly pleased her warmed him.

  “Well, maybe. Never had anyone call me by anything but my given name.”

  John smiled. “Then I’m glad to be the first. Trust me, Emily,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Slowly she moved over next to him. He took her hand. “Let’s start over. I told you that I wanted to be your friend.” He held up his hand when she looked as though she was going to question him.

  “Yes, I want to be your lover—and more. But for no
w, let’s work on being friends. Where it goes from there, we’ll just wait and see.” He only hoped he could stick to his own suggestion. It wasn’t going to be easy, especially if she continued to nervously lick her lips like that. He grimaced inwardly. Of course, the way he felt right now, she didn’t have much to worry about; he was too weak and in too much pain even to think of making love to her.

  “I guess we could try.” She gave him a tentative smile. “I’ve never had any friends.”

  He smiled and held out his hand to shake hers. “John Cartier—sort of at your service.”

  She grinned back. “Emily Ambrose.” Her smile faded. “Rather, Sommers, I guess—though I can’t really claim the name.”

  Seeing the light dim in her eyes, he was suddenly wild to know what she meant. “Tell me.”

  She stared at him. “Tell you what?”

  “Why you looked sad and angry at the same time. Tell me who you are.”

  Emily woke to lengthening shadows. Staring up at the ceiling, noting the cobwebs in the corners and fine particles of dust swimming in a single beam of late-afternoon light, she wondered what it was about John that had made her tell him things she’d never told another soul.

  Fingering the locket around her neck, she recalled how she’d opened up to him. In her desire to ease his pain and give him something else to think about, she’d told him everything: her childhood, the hours spent praying on her knees, the beatings that were supposed to make her humble before God. She shared with him her yearnings for a father’s love, and her need for roots. How she’d hated the constant moves from city to city, church to church, moving farther and farther away from established cities to missionary outposts.

  She’d shared her awe and terror the first time she’d seen a savage, and also what had made her family leave the last mission. How her father had felt too shamed to stay. She explained Father Richard’s actions, and how her father had disbelieved her. She’d told John, and felt his fury on her behalf.