White Dawn

by Susan Edwards

  Emily sat in Millicente’s small one-room cabin in a crude rocking chair. The motion soothed her as she used it. A quilt lay over her lap and a cup of strong, sweetened tea sat to her side. “I’m fine, truly,” she told the woman who’d befriended her mother. The woman who’d done so much toward making Emily happy again.

  “You look peaked.” Millicente bustled around, then sat in a similar chair. Both pieces had stuffed cushions.

  “I’ll be fine,” Emily said. She reached out. “I’m sorry about your husband, Mrs. Dufour.” She’d just learned that the woman’s husband had died in his sleep a few months before.

  “Thank you, child. Henry was a good man. I’ll miss him.”

  “Are you going to stay here?”

  Millicente shook her head. “No. I stayed to wait for news of you. I couldn’t leave until we found you.”

  Emily’s eyes swam with tears to think that she had another friend—that her mother had a friend—who’d done so much for her.

  A fire burned in the fireplace to Emily’s right. Beside her, John sat on a hard-backed chair, his legs stretched out, his arms folded across his chest. He’d been quiet since he’d brought her things in. She was staying here, while he’d accepted the hospitality of the priest.

  Emily glanced at him. His eyes were dark. No spark of humor resided there. She knew it was her fault. She’d ended up hurting this person who’d brought laughter into her life. He was her friend. The only true friend she’d ever had, and she’d dimmed the light in his eyes.

  Glancing down at her hands, she wished she could ask her father or the priest for advice. Yet deep down, she knew the decision had to come from within her. If only she had more time! The presence of her father meant that John no longer had to journey to Kentucky with her to find him. He was free to return to his grandfather. Now that such was the case, Emily wasn’t sure she could bear to see him go.

  Across from her, her newfound sire sipped his tea. He finally broke the silence. “So what happened to you, daughter? Where have you been? You seem healthy.” He glanced from Emily to John.

  Emily stared at him, wary and uncertain as to how much to tell. Would he turn his back on her if she told him the truth? Would he reject her and her baby? Tipping her chin, she decided she had to tell him everything. If he truly loved and accepted her, nothing would get in the way. If he didn’t, it was better to know now.

  Slowly she gave her account. Millicente gasped when she told them how her father had abandoned her. She left out her mother’s part in it, sparing Matthew unnecessary pain. In truth, she wasn’t sure she could speak of it without bursting into tears. The agony of the betrayal still ate at her. It probably always would.

  Then she told them how the golden warrior saved her life, and how he’d taken her with him. She spoke of the freedom she’d gained, and though she didn’t spell it out, her listeners knew from her voice that they’d shared their nights as well as their days. They said nothing.

  Then she had to tell them how he’d left her, and how John had found her, and how she’d saved his life. At that point, John spoke up. Between them they finished the tale, leaving Willy out of it. But there was one last thing she had to confess. As if he knew, John reached over and took her hand in his.

  Emily took a deep breath and looked her father in the eye. “I’m with child,” she blurted, bracing herself for his contempt.

  Matthew’s eyes grew wide. “With—” He rose and came to her. “I’m to be a grandfather? A father and a grandfather all in so short a time!” He sounded delighted. He turned to John.

  “I assume you plan to marry my daughter.” Matthew Sommers sounded like a stern man now.

  John nodded. “I love Emily.” He glanced at her. “I’ve asked her.”

  Curls of warmth wrapped around Emily. In all this mess, that was the one thing she didn’t doubt. She just didn’t know if it would be enough. She knew John would claim her child. He’d marry her and allow everyone to believe him to be the father. But she would have to tell her father the truth. And when her child was old enough, she’d tell the child the truth as well. Such secrets had a way of causing hurt and pain to all involved. Better the truth be out in the open—at least among those to whom it mattered most. And who knew how that truth would change someone?

  She gripped John’s hand but stared at Matthew. “John’s not the baby’s father.” She held her breath, praying that it wouldn’t matter that his grandchild would be a breed.

  For just a moment, Matthew was stunned. Then he smiled. It was an oddly wise smile, and Emily found herself loving the man for it. “A baby is something to be thankful for.”

  “You aren’t angry?” she asked, still wary and afraid to believe.

  “Emily, I’m so glad to see you alive and healthy that the last thing I’m going to do is judge you. You survived, and you’ve come back. That’s all that matters. The rest can be dealt with.”

  John sat up straight, drawing his legs under his chair. “I still plan to marry her. Her child won’t be a bastard.”

  “John!” As much as Emily wanted his name, she felt guilty taking it. If she couldn’t give him what he truly deserved—her devotion and trust—she had no right to take his name.

  “The matter has been settled, Sunshine,” he said.

  Matthew glanced from Emily to John. “I sense there’s something going on here. But we shall deal with it later. Or perhaps just the two of you will. I’m sure you have lots of questions for me as well.” He glanced at Millicente.

  “Millie has already told me that you didn’t know about me, that Beatrice—your mother—was afraid to tell you.”

  Emily glanced at him. She’d accepted him as her father and had even allowed herself to envision a normal, loving relationship. “I never knew. Why didn’t she tell me? Did she think I’d have judged her?”

  Millicente shook her head. “No, she was afraid you would try to run away and find your father—and she knew Timothy wouldn’t have let you go. It would have made things worse between you. If she could have found a way to send you safely to Matthew, she would have. But she had no idea if his family still owned that farm, and Kentucky was a place Timothy refused to return to.” The woman took a deep breath and released it, then wiped the tears from her faded blue eyes and addressed the men.

  “Beatrice and I had a plan to leave. My Henry had agreed in a letter to take us. If Timothy refused to let them go, Henry would have seen to it that he didn’t cause anymore trouble or stop them from leaving. But Timothy decided to leave before Henry returned.”

  “Because of me,” Emily whispered, crying deep inside at the timing of things. They’d been so close to escaping. Her mother might have been alive today. She wasn’t. Again, it was all because of her.

  “No. The blame lies with Father Richard. He’d been bedding some of the young Indian girls. But none of us ever thought he’d try it on you, dear. If I ever see him again…” Millicente’s voice rose with anger.

  Matthew’s hand covered Millicente’s. “If he shows his face here, I will have a few words to say to him myself.”

  “Take your turn,” John said, flexing his fingers and rubbing his knuckles. “I’ll leave his ears to you, but I have first claim on his hide.”

  Silent understanding passed between the two men. Millicente and Emily rolled their eyes. “What’s done is done,” Emily said. Now that the time had come, she was afraid to ask her father about the past. As she’d said, it was gone. Nothing could bring her mother back or change her childhood. Yet she had to know.

  She addressed her father. “I need to know. You and my mother—what happened?”

  Matthew stared into the fire. “Beatrice’s father was a preacher. The hell-and-damnation, fire-and-brimstone sort. He came and held a revival just outside town. He’d sent Timothy and Beatrice into town to buy supplies. She was sixteen, and Timothy a few years older. At first, I thought they were brother and sister.

  “Our church invited them to stay, as our own preacher o
nly came once a month.” He laughed softly. “Only time I ever went to church was when I knew your mother would be there. She played the piano, and sang like an angel.” He fell silent.

  “I never heard her sing,” Emily said, remembering all the church ceremonies. Her mother’s lips had moved, but Emily couldn’t recall the sound of her voice.

  Matthew looked sad at that. “We fell in love, but when my father found out I was courting the daughter of a minister, he forbade me to see her again. He wanted me to marry the daughter of the man who owned the farm next to ours. Had greater ambitions for me. We had a huge fight. I told him I was going to marry Beatrice no matter what he said.”

  Emily held her breath as her father stopped once more to become lost in memories. When he looked back at her, she saw tears in his eyes.

  “The next week, when I rode into town for church, Beatrice and her father were gone. I tried to find them, rode out to the nearest towns, but no one knew of their whereabouts. I returned home, told my father I was leaving and packed my things.”

  “You left?”

  “For ten years. Just rode around. Took odd jobs; then I received word that my mother was ill. I returned. She died a few months after. I made my peace with my father. I’ve been there ever since.”

  “You never married?” Tears swam in Emily’s eyes. Her father had loved her mother, had wanted only to marry her.

  Matthew pulled out a pocket watch. He flipped one side open to reveal the time. Then he flipped open the other side to reveal the same portrait of her mother inside her own locket. “We had our portraits done secretly. I bought her a locket, and she did odd jobs around town to earn the money to purchase this. She gave it to me the last time I saw her—the night you were conceived.”

  Emily pulled her ma’s locket from beneath her dress and slid the leather thong over her head. She held it out to her father.

  With trembling hands, Matthew opened the two halves and stared at both portraits. “She kept it all these years.” His voice choked.

  Emily didn’t tell him that she’d hidden his image behind Timothy Ambrose’s. The fact that her mother had kept Matthew’s likeness confirmed that her mother had loved him.

  Yet, if Beatrice had loved this man, why hadn’t she found a way to return to him? “I still don’t understand why she married Timothy.”

  Matthew handed her back the locket and looked to Millicente. The older woman took up the story. “Your mother was scared when she found out she was with child. She wanted to return, but her father wouldn’t let her. He made her marry Timothy. Timothy hadn’t wanted to marry. He’d wanted to devote his life to God, but he owed Beatrice’s father for so much, he agreed. He never forgave her for destroying his dreams.” Millicente sat back and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  Emily sighed. “And lived to regret it.” She kept to herself the depth of Timothy’s resentment and hatred. For the first time, she allowed that perhaps Timothy had been a victim in this as well. It didn’t make things better, though. Only sadder.

  The next morning, Emily walked beside her father. The wedding between her and John would take place later that day. Between her father, John, Millicente and even the priest, they’d all told her this was best. Even if John wasn’t around, she needed a husband if she was going to return to society—for her own sake and the baby’s.

  “I can’t wait to take you home, Emily.” Her father stared down at her. “Call me selfish, but I want you with me. Of course, I’m hoping John will come as well.”

  Emily knew neither John nor her father wanted her to have the baby out here in the wild. Matthew wanted them to return with him to his home. Home, she thought again. A place where she belonged.

  The thought should have pleased her. Made her ecstatic, even. But when she thought of home, she thought of a tiny shack in the middle of nowhere. Bending down, she picked up a small twig and broke it into tiny pieces, like those of destroyed lives. “Love didn’t bring any of you happiness. It caused problems.”

  Her father stopped. He tipped her chin up so he could look into her eyes. “Do you love him, Emily?” he asked.

  The air smelled of rain. The wind was growing cooler, warning of another approaching storm. She couldn’t help remembering the last storm and the fierce lovemaking she and John had shared. The feeling of being one. Without him, she knew she’d never be complete again.

  “Yes. I love him.” With all her heart—what was left of it.

  Her father looked confused. “Well, what else is there? Why are you so sure this can’t be a real marriage?”

  Concern lined his features. He’d been shocked when Emily had told him that John would be leaving to return to his grandfather.

  “Look at what happened to my mother! It’s a risk I can’t take,” she whispered, dropping the remaining sliver of stick that she’d broken.

  Matthew Sommers’s eyes clouded. “Daughter, love is a risk. Perhaps the greatest a man or woman can ever take.” He paused, his gaze sharp. “Tell me, what would you do if you weren’t with child? Would you marry him? Would you risk your heart for him?”

  With trembling lips, Emily nodded. “It’s not just me, though. I can’t put my child through what I’ve gone through.” At her father’s raised brows, Emily was forced to confess what her childhood had been like: “It’s not fair to the baby or to John.” Her voice dropped. “I don’t think I could bear watching it happen.”

  Matthew stopped and turned Emily’s face to his. “Is it fair to deprive this child of a father’s love?”

  “John’s not the father.”

  Matthew smiled sadly. “There’s more to being a father than planting the seed, child. I’m your father, yet Timothy Ambrose was your father in many ways that counted.”

  Emily yanked away, angry and disgusted. Her voice trembled with bitterness. “Exactly! And he failed. He never loved me. He didn’t want me. He hated me.”

  “Well, there was never any love to begin with. He married your mother to please someone else. To save her reputation. Not because he loved her and wanted to claim you. He never wanted to marry. His hatred of his mother had destroyed any feeling he had toward women. He wanted nothing to do with them.”

  At Emily’s surprised look, Matthew smiled sadly. “I was around him enough to know of his contempt. Plus, Beatrice eventually told me how he’d come to be traveling with her and her father. Timothy Ambrose had no room in his life for a woman. Especially one who’d sinned.”

  “We were reminders of his own mother,” Emily whispered. That much she’d known. Timothy had never let her or her mother forget that women were creatures of sin. So why had Timothy never told her the truth? Why had he pretended? Pride? He’d have done anything to protect his reputation. Having others know that Emily wasn’t his child would have been the last thing he’d have wanted.

  Emily stared at her hands. She didn’t want to feel sorry for Timothy.

  Matthew took her by the shoulders. “That’s no excuse, I know. But if you can understand the pieces of the past, then maybe you won’t fear the future so much.”

  Emily felt her father’s fingers press into her flesh. She glanced up.

  “Love is the key, Emily. Had Timothy loved your mother, it wouldn’t have mattered. Had I known, I’d have married her, and your life would have been much different. I’m so sorry things happened this way, but don’t deny yourself, or this child, the gift of love. Trust me. You’ll regret it all your days.”

  Emily wanted to believe her father. Badly. She wanted to marry John and be his wife, form a family—a true family with love and laughter.

  “Do you trust this man with your life?” her father asked.

  Startled and confused by the abrupt change of topic, Emily nodded. “Of course.”

  “Then give yourself and your child to him. Part of loving someone is trusting them with your heart as well as your life. The gift of love is rare and should be guarded and cherished. It can be taken away in the blink of an eye. Think about that. I’ll see y
ou in the church.” And with that, he left.

  Emily watched her father walk away, then turned her attention to the rough water of the lake. Trust. She did trust John, didn’t she? In times of trouble she knew he would protect and take care of her.

  And love? She loved him. Knew he loved her. She’d known it for a long time now. And she’d shared herself with him, made love with him, because she loved him back. But, she realized with sadness, she’d held back, hadn’t given herself completely over to him. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to trust him with her heart. Even before she realized she was with child, she’d held some part of herself away.

  Putting her hand over her abdomen, she recalled John’s gentle handling of the hawk, the humorous byplay and devotion between him and Fang.

  She thought of how he’d treated her, kindness when she’d been most vulnerable. He could have treated her with contempt, considered her ruined and not worthy except to bed. She knew when she returned to civilization, she’d never be able to tell anyone else of her time with her Indian lover. And if her child bore the dark looks of the father, she and that child would forever be spurned.

  But John had never seemed to care that she’d spent the summer living with an Indian. And even after she told him of the baby, he’d professed his love, and his desire to become the baby’s father.

  He loved her.

  The words made her heart swell. Suddenly a life without love didn’t seem worth living. No matter that she’d found her father. If she returned to his farm with him—without John—she’d always feel empty inside. And what would she tell her child? That she, out of fear, had denied them a father’s love?

  Remembering her own desperate need for that exact thing, Emily knew she couldn’t deny it to her child. She couldn’t deny herself love. Or John. She needed him to feel whole. Alive. Like the grass and flowers needed fresh water to grow and renew, she needed John’s love and friendship. Without him, she’d become a stale pond.

  Her smile faded. Love was the answer for her and John. But there was one other thing she needed to do before she went to him. When she did, it would be with a clear mind, and an open heart.