White Dawn

by Susan Edwards

  His forehead dropped to rest on hers, his breath feathering across her lips. “I can’t do it, Emily. I can’t use you like this.”

  His words chilled her desire. She shoved at his shoulders. “Use me?” Furious and horrified, she stared up at him. “I thought it was more than that! I thought you lo—”

  She broke off, humiliated and hurt. Turning her head, she tried to scoot from beneath him. He refused to budge. His strong fingers forced her to meet his gaze. She had to blink rapidly to keep tears from forming.

  “That’s the problem, my sweet, desirable Lady Dawn. I do love you.”

  Confused, she stared into eyes that showed the truth of his words. “You’re not making sense, John.” Confusion replaced some of her hurt.

  “I love you, Emily, with all my heart. You are the light of my life. My Lady Dawn. Without you, I’m not whole.” His large hands cupped her face, his fingers trailing into her hair to gently massage her scalp.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “I want this.”

  John smiled weakly. “I know, sweetheart. But do you love me, too?” His voice was low, husky with emotion.

  “I… I—” Troubled, she lifted her fingers to his rough cheek, scraping their backs against his shadow of stubble. “I don’t know,” she answered, unable to tear her gaze from his.

  “That is the problem, Sunshine: I want you to be sure. And until you are, I won’t have you thinking that I’m using you. Nor will I allow you to give yourself to me out of gratitude.” John smiled tenderly, and sadly. “There’s more to making love than the mating of bodies. When I join my flesh to yours, I want our minds, hearts and souls to join as well.”

  “Do you think I kissed you because I’m grateful?” It troubled her that he might be right. Yet she felt something else. Something that frightened her.

  “You’re vulnerable out here. Choices are few. But it won’t necessarily always be that way. I want you to know what you want and why.” He ran a hand over his jaw and around to the back of his neck. “A short time ago you were devastated, ready to die when the man you loved left you. I don’t want to go through that same thing if you leave.”

  He sat and drew her up beside him, then pulled her across his lap, his chin resting on the top of her head. Her back was flush with his chest. She felt the wild thumping of his heart; it matched hers.

  “Can a person love another without really knowing them, John?” She thought of her Indian savior and how much she’d loved him—how much she’d thought she loved him. But compared to what she was beginning to feel for John, she didn’t know what it was she’d felt. Had she truly loved the Indian, or had she just loved the way they’d lived? Or maybe she’d loved him out of simple gratitude.

  With John, everything was different. There were no secrets. No walls. He was as open to her as a book. She’d accepted him willingly, but he was right: this was his world—much the same as roaming the wilds had been the life suited to her golden Apollo. This wasn’t her. She wasn’t here by choice. Only circumstances.

  John’s breath teased the tip of her ear as he rubbed her head with his cheek. “I believe there are many kinds of love, Sunshine. Some deeper, more lasting than others. Yet when things aren’t meant to be—when loves don’t work out—that doesn’t mean what you felt wasn’t real. And the pain of it ending is still there.”

  Knitting her brows together, Emily took John’s other hand into hers. “I did love him and the freedom he gave me. But I didn’t know him. And he didn’t really know me. We were lovers but not friends.” She tipped her head back, resting it in the cradle of his neck, her temple brushing his jaw. “But I feel like I’ve known you all my life.”

  John bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. “I’ve waited for you for a long time, Sunshine. I won’t lie and say I don’t want to become your lover right now. But more than anything, I want you to be sure of your heart. When the time is right—if it’s right—you’ll know. For now, we’ll stick to being friends.”

  Some part of her felt relieved. She realized he was right: she wasn’t ready to commit herself into John’s hands. Before she allowed the urges of her body to rule, she needed to know and understand her heart and mind. It was only fair to him—and to herself.

  Yet there was something about John that made her want to toss caution to the wind and take what his eyes, his touch and his kiss promised. Reason, caution and desire all warred with each other, and finally she ran the tip of her finger across his lips. “Good friends?”

  “The very best.” He nipped the tip of her finger.

  Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Can friends kiss?”

  “Absolutely.” John lowered his head and kissed her. After the brief touch of their lips, his finger stroked the moist fullness of her mouth. Though the kiss had been gentle, the smoldering heat in his eyes was anything but.

  John undid her braid and ran his fingers through her hair. Then he wrapped his arms around her. Emily relaxed. “What’s your happiest childhood memory, John?”

  “Happiest? Well, that’s kinda hard. But Sundays were fun.”

  Emily’s breath caught. Sundays had been pure hell for her. She found herself desperately wanting to hear that, for some, the Sabbath had some sort of meaning. Tell me.”

  “Well, we had to attend church. Ma insisted. But after that, Pa and I would go fishing. We knew this one spot.” He laughed softly. “Unfortunately, everyone else knew about it so we didn’t always catch anything. But it never seemed to matter. I ran and played with my friends while my Pa talked with the other men or napped in the shade.”

  “That sounds fun,” Emily said wistfully. Though she regretted much of her childhood, she loved listening to stories of his. Loved the way his deep baritone vibrated through her as he spoke.

  “Yeah. It was fun. After, we’d trudge home and Ma would have a big fancy Sunday supper ready. Or sometimes she’d surprise us by bringing a picnic supper to the pond.

  “What about you, Sunshine? Surely there’s a happy memory for you as well?”

  Emily felt tears well. “I can’t think of anything,” she whispered. While there had been good times, fun moments with her mother or others, each was overshadowed by her father in some way.

  “Then we’ll just have to make some fun memories for you,” John whispered, his hands tenderly rubbing her arms.

  Leaning back in his embrace, remembering their first kiss, the warm acceptance of his friends Mary and Ben, the laughter they shared each day, and John and Fang and their roughhousing play, Emily smiled. “I think we’re already doing that.”

  They spent the afternoon talking with the gurgle of the stream and the song of birds lending a soft backdrop of noise. The sun was slowly sinking when they stood and leisurely made their way back to the shack. As they walked hand in hand, Emily thought that if what she felt growing in her heart was really love, then the seed planted earlier had sprouted today—when he’d put her needs ahead of his. Content now to wait and see if it grew and blossomed, she gave herself over to the pleasure of walking shoulder-to-shoulder with a friend. A very good friend who knew how to kiss her senseless.

  They were nearing the shack when, without warning, John went flying. One minute he stood beside her, the next he lay flat on his back. Emily stared down into his stunned gaze. The bark of Fang, who was now sitting a short distance in front of them with John’s crutch lying on the ground in front of him, drew her attention.

  Realization dawned. The wolf had sneaked up from behind and grabbed one of John’s crutches. That was what had sent John tumbling to the ground.

  Laughter welled in her at the crippled animal’s victory over his huge, healthy master. What a sneaky beast! “Oh, that was good—I mean, are you okay?” She tried to clamp down on her humor.

  Before John could sit or react, Emily felt the swipe of the crutch across the back of her knees as the wolf rose and ran past, taunting his master with his prize. Emily’s legs buckled, and she fell.

  J
ohn reached up and caught her as she fell on top of him. This time it was her turn to be shocked by the suddenness of losing her balance.

  “You were saying, Sunshine?”

  Sprawled atop him, Emily felt the rumble of his laughter roll through his chest into hers. The tips of her breasts tightened. The sheer absurdity of it all released her own mirth. Their laughter rang out, mingling with the smug barking of John’s wolf.

  Chapter Ten

  Clear skies paled against the heat of the blazing sun. Bereft of water, the grasses darkened to a honey brown, became dry and brittle. Leaves lost their luster and the summer flowers drooped. Nothing moved. Even the river seemed sluggish.

  Riding in the afternoon heat, Willy wished he were back in St. Louis. He hated it out here. Hated the summer heat; the cold, rainy and snowy days of winter; and the wind, which often blew viciously across the land. He hated the openness. He hated the thick stands of trees. He hated the deep ravines that came out of nowhere and the rolling plains. In short, he hated this godforsaken land.

  Most of all, he hated the work necessary to scratch out a meager living here. He scowled. What was the point in slaving long hours during the winter, trudging all over hell and back in conditions that sane folk refused to go out in, just to get a small, piddling amount of money that flowed through one’s fingers like a swollen river raged over the land in the spring? His share of the winter’s trapping hadn’t even lasted him a month in St. Louis.

  He glared at his grandfather, who rode ahead of him leading one pack mule. Willy led two behind him. Due to the old man’s health, they’d traded their canoes for the mules and bought horses. More money lost to him.

  It was also the old man’s fault Willy had lost his money so fast. His grandfather had given him only half his share, keeping what Willy had promised John for the right to go to St. Louis. He tightened his hold on the reins, making his mount shy nervously.

  What right did his grandfather have to interfere? Willy knew if he’d had more cash, he could’ve won back what he’d lost—doubled it even. And now the whole damned cycle would start over.

  Swatting at an annoying bee, he narrowed his gaze on his grandfather. Too bad the old man hadn’t done the decent thing and died while they were in town. Then he could’ve gone to fetch John so they could go to the bank to claim their inheritance. He’d be free, then. Free to do as he pleased.

  His grandfather was rich. Hadn’t his father complained bitterly enough about the old man’s tight fist? Aside from money in the bank—lots of it from the sale of the land and business—there was a cache of money and gold buried somewhere out in this god-awful land.

  The thought of being rich, being able to do what he wanted, was the only thing that kept him at his grandfather’s side. He had no use for Gascon Cartier, who did nothing but nag and order him about. But Gascon wouldn’t live much longer, he mused. Then he’d be rich. With the money the old man hoarded, burying it like a dog buried its meatiest bones, Willy would be able to live the way he wanted. A nice house. Women. The best whiskey. Whatever he wanted.

  “Yeah, not much longer.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken until his grandfather glanced back at him.

  “You could’ve stayed, you know. Didn’t have to come back.”

  Startled, Willy shifted his gaze. He stared into his grandfather’s eyes—his mother’s eyes. “Don’t have much choice,” he groused.

  The old man lifted a stern brow. “You could have found work—or saved your earnings instead of gambling and drinking and whoring them away.”

  Willy stared to one side of his grandfather so he wouldn’t have to see the disgust written across the man’s face. “A man’s got to have some fun now and then.”

  Gascon spat on the ground. “Boy, that’s all you care about. Fun. Women. Drinking. When are you going to start looking to your future?”

  Willy shrugged. “I’m young. Only twenty-four. Plenty of time,” he said, hating to be put on the defensive. The old man just didn’t understand.

  His grandfather shook his wild mane of white hair and snorted. “Boy, time’s running out for you. You’ll be old before you know it, and you won’t have anything to show. Not like your cousin. He saves his money—has me bank it for him. When he leaves this, he’ll have enough to do whatever he wants.”

  Willy fisted his hands and glared at them. John had always been able to do whatever he wanted. He didn’t have to work out here. He had money. After the death of John’s parents, he’d been set. He could have just stayed in the house and lived a life of luxury. And Willy could have stayed, too. Then their grandfather had shown up and ruined everything. He’d sold the house, land and business. Said they were too young to manage it, then dragged them off to the wilds.

  Willy slid his grandfather another assessing look. How long could the old man live?

  “Stop looking at me like I was on my deathbed. I’m not gone yet, boy.”

  Willy flushed. He hated the way the old man made him feel—like he was no good. He remained silent.

  Gascon cackled. “I know you better than you think, boy. Always looking for someone else to give you what you want. Your pa was no good—had a good farm after his parents died, but he lost it because he was too lazy to work it. He only married my daughter because he’d figured he’d get rich off her.”

  Unable to look his grandfather in the eye, Willy knew it was the truth—and he hated knowing the old man was right. His grandfather dropped back and met his resentful gaze with a hard, piercing stare.

  “Your pa was wrong. I don’t give nothing to anyone for doing nothing. Didn’t matter to my father that we had money—I had to earn my way, and I made my son earn his. Your pa could’ve had a job in our family business. Could’ve worked his way up. But he refused. Took your mother away just to spite me, then let her die.”

  Willy protested. “It’s not his fault he didn’t have money for a doctor. You hated him because my mother loved him more than you.” He closed his mind to all the fights, the sounds of his mother weeping that she wanted to go home, the furious shouts of his father telling her it’d be a cold day in hell before he let her go, and the sounds of his father’s palm against her face.

  “Boy, your father never even tried to get her to a doctor. He knew I’d pay for the best money could buy, but he just let her die—out of spite. For that, I won’t forgive him. Not ever.”

  Willy felt sick with hatred. He still remembered how afraid he’d been as he watched his mother waste away. She’d been the only one who’d loved him. His father hadn’t wanted him, had made it clear he was a burden, not a cherished child to be loved and doted on. Not like his cousin’s parents who’d given John everything he himself had lacked.

  “It wasn’t my fault she died,” he said. “I tried to take care of her.” For the first time, he voiced his bitterness.

  “I’ve never blamed you for her death,” Gascon said, his voice gruff. He drew a deep breath. His eyes, set below thick, bushy brows, watered at the painful memories. Then his jaw tightened, and his voice took on an edge.

  “I’ve judged you by your own actions, and from the time you went to live with my son and his family, all you cared about was making sure you got your share. Maybe you weren’t to blame then—you were an angry, hurt child. But you’re a man now, and a man has to stand on his own two feet and make his own way. All you’ve done is hold on to the past and use it as an excuse for your failings.”

  He kicked his horse in the side and sped up. “I’ve given you more chances than you deserve, boy. And you’ve disappointed me every time. This is my last year out here; then I’m retiring and you’ll be on your own. You’ll get what you earn this winter and no more. Let’s go. We’re nearly home.”

  Willy glared at the old man’s back. His grandfather might not give him money, but his cousin would. John had always felt sorry for him. He’d always been able to get what he needed.

  Tired of dealing with the old man, Willy actually looked forward to arriving home—if o
ne could call their crude shack a home. Very soon he’d be able to go back to spending his days doing pretty much whatever he wanted. He’d take off with his third of the traps and rendezvous with his pals. All he had to do was kill a few animals, win some more furs from his buddies in card games, or trade for them from the natives, and wait for spring to come. Only one more year of this hell; then he could get his money from John.

  As they entered the thick wooded area surrounding their shack, a strange sound reached Willy’s ears. He paused and glanced around. It sounded like laughter. He listened. There it was again. It sounded like…like a woman’s voice: sweet and lovely. Like the wind itself.

  Spurring his mount faster, Willy hurried through the trees toward the shack where it was hidden from Indians and trappers just passing through the area. At the edge of the clearing he came to a startled stop, sure he was seeing things. His cousin was walking toward the shack with a woman who looked like an angel.

  Willy blinked. Then rubbed his eyes. Angels weren’t real. But when he looked again, the angel with long silvery-blond hair floating around her face was still there, walking toward the shack with his cousin.

  Her beauty and sweet laughter held him immobile. Her dark blue skirts swirled around her, making it look as if she walked on air. Spellbound, he let his mouth gape open as he stared at the vision. Next to John, she looked small and fragile, yet her figure was every man’s dream: large breasts, tiny waist. Willy’s breathing quickened.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Gascon said.

  Together the two men stared, mesmerized. When John’s wolf sent both its master and the woman to the ground, the pair laughed—and the sound beckoned. Willy followed his grandfather out of the cover of trees. He kept his attention focused solely on the woman, afraid to even blink, in case she might disappear.