Winter's Touch

by Hudson, Janis Reams

If only she could remove her hand, she knew the pain in her head would cease. But a new knowledge assailed her then. If she removed her hand, the rabbit would die. If she left it there, the rabbit would live.

  Such a thing, as far as Winter Fawn knew, was impossible. Yet the knowledge was there inside her, telling her it was true. She tried to look at her father—could he tell her what was happening?—but her eyelids grew weighted, too heavy to hold open. Her heartbeat raced in time with the rabbit’s, but her breathing slowed. The back of her neck prickled as though she sensed someone were staring at her.

  Gradually the pain began to fade, and with it, the heat in her hand, and the tingling. Her heartbeat and breathing returned to normal while her strength, her energy drained away. She felt incredibly tired. Exhausted. She could not keep her eyes open. Beneath her hand, the rabbit’s eyes popped open, its nose twitched. And in a flash, it rolled to its feet and dashed away into the bushes at the edge of camp. Darkness swirled, and Winter Fawn tumbled down, down, down into its welcoming depths.

  When she woke, her father was there. “Father? What happened?”

  Because she asked in the language of her mother, which she was most familiar with, her father had answered in kind. “You do not remember?”

  With a start, Winter Fawn sat up and frowned down at the lone dead rabbit beside her. “The rabbit, it was not dead. I put my hand on it and felt its pain. It hurt me, but then it didn’t, and the rabbit got up and ran away.” She looked up at her father, confused. “Did you see, Father? What does it mean?”

  Her father had shuddered. When he spoke, his voice was more harsh than she had ever heard. “It means trouble. Never, ever, do anything like that again! Do ye hear me, lassie? Never!”

  Hurt by his harshness, Winter Fawn shrank in upon herself. “I didn’t mean to do it. I don’t know what I did.”

  “Promise me, Winter Fawn. You must promise never to touch a wound again. Not ever, do you understand? Promise.”

  “I promise.” Her heart thundered behind her ribs. Her stomach knotted. “Don’t be angry, Father. I did not mean to take the rabbit’s wound away.”

  Her father had gripped her shoulders tightly. “You must keep this promise, Winter Fawn. You must.” His fingers bruised her with their strength. “You must tell no one, not ever.”

  “Not even Grandmother?”

  “No one,” he cried, shaking her for emphasis. “Say it. Say you will tell no one.”

  “It is to be a secret then?”

  “More than a secret,” he said desperately. “Swear on your mother’s soul that you will tell no one what happened here today. No one must ever know. Promise me.”

  Terrified by the intensity in his eyes, she had promised.

  And he had left. The very next day, as thunder had boomed across a sky turned dark and ugly, he had flung his possibles bag over his shoulder, picked up his rifle, and ridden out of camp without a word as to when he would return.

  He had not returned. Not that spring, not that summer, nor the next fall or the following spring.

  Finally, during that next summer, he came. He stayed three days and left. That had set the pattern of his visits. Sometimes in spring, when their band was camped in the foothills of the great mountains. Sometimes in the summer when they joined the rest of the tribe along the Arkansas River to hunt the buffalo. He would stay a few days, then leave again.

  It was her fault, she knew, although she had never understood why he’d grown so angry, why what she had done had made him leave. She had never dared to ask him about it during any of his brief visits for fear he might stop coming altogether. She had hoped and prayed that he had forgotten the incident and that someday he would come back to live again with Our People.

  He did not know that she had used this strange gift secretly for others. She could not tell him such a thing. She had never done it on purpose. But sometimes, when she was near someone in pain, it was as if she stood to one side and watched herself touch the source of the pain and take it away. There seemed to be no way to stop herself from doing it. Her hand to a wound was like water rushing downhill. Unless something large and forceful were thrown in her path, nothing could stop her. Just as earlier this night when she had pressed her hand to the gash on Carson’s head.

  She had been certain, to be sure, to pull her hand away before the wound could completely disappear. She had gotten good at that over the years. She had known that she would never be able to explain if a wound were to disappear. Her secret would be out then. She had, against her will, broken her promise to her father to never do such a thing again, but she had kept her word to keep it a secret.

  Perhaps some day she would learn why such a wondrous gift must not be revealed. Perhaps some day she would find the courage to ask her father. But until then, she would keep it secret, as he had bade.

  Keeping her gift a secret meant she could not heal her own wounds now, even if she were able. Not completely. Carson would surely want to inspect beneath the bandage in the morning to make certain his new stitches had not pulled loose in the night. But she might be able to partially heal it so that she would not slow him down with her pain and her fever.

  So she would try again.

  He lay against her good side. All she needed to do was get her hand beneath her and press her palm against the wound there.

  She moved her arm and reached for the wound in her back.

  Lying on his side next to her, Carson shifted and pulled her closer.

  Winter Fawn stiffed. Was he waking?

  His warm breath teased the sensitive skin at her temple. Oh, how wonderful that felt. Then his nose brushed her there and he murmured.

  “Carson?” she whispered softly, cautiously.

  His knee shifted across her thigh, but his breathing remained slow and deep.

  Still, she waited several long moments to make certain he was not awake.

  Finally assured that he would not know what she did, she pressed her palm over the pad covering her wound.

  Carson woke some time before dawn, startled to realize he was not alone in his bedroll. He stiffened and reached for the revolver he never slept without.

  It wasn’t there. No revolver.

  Heart pounding, he groped beside the blanket and touched his rifle.

  Then memory returned, and he relaxed somewhat. The warm form curled into him was not some Yankee come to kill him in his sleep. It was Winter Fawn. Firm yet soft in his arms.

  Gently, so as not to wake her, he pressed his hand to her cheek. It was warm, but not hot. No fever.

  Thank you, God. He didn’t know what he would have done if she’d been out of her head with fever.

  Her eyes fluttered open. She groaned softly. “Is it time to leave?”

  Carson let out the breath he hadn’t realized was locked in his chest. “Not yet. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you.”

  She needed more rest to recover. Real rest. But they couldn’t stay here. He had thought briefly, humorously, last night that he might die for her, but he wasn’t ready to sit and wait for Crooked Oak and his men to catch them. He would die if they did. He had no doubt of that. But his death wouldn’t guarantee Winter Fawn’s safety or health. She would still have to be carried down out of these mountains and back to camp. If, that is, they did not kill her outright for helping him escape.

  If she had to be carried, Carson figured it might as well be him doing the carrying. Not back to her camp, but to his ranch. From there, after she was fully recovered, she could decide what she wanted to do.

  The thought of watching her ride away from him left him feeling strangely hollow inside in a place he didn’t recognize.

  Maybe she wouldn’t want to leave. Maybe she would want to stay.

  Yeah, right, Dulaney.

  What did he have to offer her? What, if anything, was he even willing to offer her? A place to live? Why would he think she would even consider leaving her people?

  For her father.

  The thought teased him. Y
es, she might want to stay with her father. But from what Carson knew of Innes, the Scotsman roamed the mountains, did a little prospecting here, a little trapping there. There was a cabin, Carson thought he remembered his father saying once, somewhere in the White Mountains, where Innes stayed part of the year.

  Would Winter Fawn and Hunter go there? Would Carson ever see them again? Any of them?

  He wished for daylight so he could see her face. But the night was pitch black, the moon having set while he’d slept. But judging by the stars, dawn wasn’t far off. Already a few birds were starting to stir.

  The birds weren’t the only things stirring. So was his blood, he realized with surprise. If he didn’t take his arms from around Winter Fawn and crawl out from beneath the blankets, something else was going to stir. The way he and Winter Fawn were lying, like two spoons in a tray, with her tucked up against his chest and his thighs and his loins, Winter Fawn was quite likely to come awake and feel something of his he’d rather she didn’t feel, and slap him in the face. And he would deserve it.

  He forced himself out of the warm blankets and into the icy pre-dawn air. The fire he started helped a little, but not much. Damn fine time to be down to his undershirt.

  But at least he wasn’t wearing a skirt, like Winter Fawn was, which allowed cold air to circulate beneath it when she stood, and which bared her thighs when she straddled the back of the horse.

  Thinking of skirts, he hoped that Megan and Bess hadn’t had to spend a cold night in the mountains. Hell, they didn’t even have the buffalo robe or the ground sheet. Only two blankets for all four of them.

  Frustrated and angry over their circumstances, and blaming himself, he whacked into the slab of bacon and severed off slices for breakfast. Once it was cooking, he groped beneath the blankets for the canteen, to use the water for coffee.

  The back of his hand brushed across something. He turned his palm to it and grasped.

  Ah…that, uh, wasn’t a canteen. It was round and firm, but too soft. It was a butt, and a shapely one. He jerked his hand away.

  Winter Fawn sprang upright, her eyes flying wide open. The abrupt action caused her to wince.

  She must have pulled her wound, he thought, sorry to be the cause of more pain for her. The firelight lent an amber glow to her face. He’d never seen a more beautiful face.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  Incredibly, Carson felt heat sting his cheeks. “Sorry. I was just…looking for the, uh, the canteen.”

  “I am not wearing it.”

  “I know. Sorry. If you’ll, uh, fish it out for me, I’ll start coffee.”

  She frowned. “Fish? Oh.” Reaching beneath the covers, she pulled out the canteen from a spot that made it look as though she’d been hugging it in her sleep.

  Lucky canteen.

  “Here.” She handed it to him.

  “Thanks.”

  As soon as he took the canteen from her she shivered and dove back beneath the buffalo robe.

  While he put the coffee on and mixed up a batch of biscuit dough, he heard her shifting around in the bedroll. A moment later he felt a gentle nudge on his arm and turned to find her holding out one of the blankets toward him.

  “Take this,” she said. “It’s too cold for so few clothes.”

  Carson smiled and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. “Thank you.”

  After they ate he insisted on checking her wound again.

  “It feels much better this morning.”

  “Good. But I still want to see it.”

  She seemed reluctant to let him, but she gave in and turned her back to give him access.

  The condition of the wound impressed him. The fine tremor that started in his hand when he touched her skin shocked him. It was a moment before he could speak. “The, uh, willow bark must have done the trick. It looks good. How’s the pain?”

  “Better,” she answered.

  Realizing that he was still holding her tunic up and staring at the expanse of smooth bronze skin across her back, Carson dropped the tunic, letting it fall into place, and turned back toward the fire.

  They ate in silence, then packed up and headed out as soon as it was light enough to see even a short distance.

  “Do you know these mountains?” he asked her.

  Seated behind him on the horse, Winter Fawn gripped the saddle rather than the man. Something had happened inside her when he had touched the bare skin of her back that morning. Something hot and wild that she didn’t understand. It had made her heart pound and her breath catch as though she had been running for miles. She wasn’t sure that she liked it. She wasn’t sure that she didn’t. For now, she thought it best not to touch him lest it happen to her again.

  “No,” she told him. “I’ve heard my father speak of them, but I’ve never been beyond the foothills until now.”

  “There’s a pass,” he said, “north of here.”

  “To the north, yes. I remember. A wide, easy pass, he said.”

  “On the other side is Ute territory.”

  Winter Fawn stiffened. The Utes were old and constant enemies of Our People.

  “Will Crooked Oak follow us there?” Carson asked.

  “I do not know. With so few warriors, I think not. But he might think the Utes would not be this far east until later in the spring, when more of the snow melts.”

  “That’s my thinking, too. I remember seeing a cabin up here when I was here last summer, but we can’t afford to get trapped like that.”

  He had come to these mountains because they were the closest ones to the ranch. His father had told him that when a man’s soul was needy, he could usually find peace in the mountains, if he would only allow himself to sit still and listen.

  After the surrender at Appomattox, Carson’s soul had indeed been needy. He had gone to Atlanta to see what was left of his family, and while there, realized he could not provide for them in Georgia. The plantation, everything his father and his grandfather before him had worked for, was gone. Only the ranch in Colorado was left. The ranch his father had spoken of with reverence in his voice.

  So Carson had ridden west. The ranch had been rundown, neglected, but he’d seen the possibilities. But he’d felt so damn tired. Down deep, soul-deep, weary.

  The mountains can heal you, if you’ll let them, his father had said.

  So Carson had headed for the nearest mountains. These mountains. He’d spent a month roaming them up and down, back and forth, and, a great deal of the time, merely sitting still and breathing in the peace of the place.

  He remembered one afternoon when he had ridden up out of a steep, winding, red-and-gray-streaked canyon to find a pile of boulders that had tumbled from higher up the mountain to form what to him, that day, had looked like a bear and two cubs. It had seemed magical. Whimsical, he remembered with a smile. Farther up the mountain, in the next valley, he’d come across an abandoned cabin, where he’d stopped for a while to rest his horse before riding on.

  But the cabin, near as he could figure, was too far up the mountain. There was no pass up there. They needed to get over the pass at Hardscrabble Creek. For that, they had to head north. And along the way, he had to make tracking them as difficult as possible.

  To this end he stuck to rocky ground when he could, or traveled through pine forests whose floors were covered in deep layers of pine needles, or guided the horse into a creek bed. He marveled, and thanked God, when he realized that the mule walked directly behind the horse rather than off to the side.

  At the next ridge Carson used the binoculars to study their back trail. He spotted their pursuers instantly as they crested another ridge. “Damn.”

  “They still come?”

  “Yes,” he said grimly, lowering the binoculars. “They still come.

  Angling north toward the pass as best he could, Carson kept mostly to the creek beds, going up one stream, then taking a branch out of that one up another, weaving northeast, then northwest, sometimes having to
go south before finding another finger canyon heading north.

  Around noon they stopped to give the animals a rest.

  At least, it felt like noon. It was hard to tell with the clouds so thick. They gathered all morning around the mountain peaks, then rolled quickly down the slopes and seemed to press down on him like lead weight. The smell and the feel of snow to come was a threat he could have done without.

  That, and the bastards still dogging his trail. They were still back there, still coming, although there were only three now. He would have felt a hell of a lot better if he knew for certain that the other three had turned back.

  Hoping that his zigzagging up and down the streams was slowing the Arapahos down, he took a chance and followed a game trail out of the stream and up the side of the mountain. At a level spot he stopped and concealed himself at the edge of a grove of tall pines. Using the binoculars again, he scanned the area below them.

  After about ten minutes he spotted Crooked Oak and two others, right where he’d feared they would be, less than two miles south and gaining on them.

  But where were the other three? Had they turned back? Another ten minutes of searching gave him no sight of them.

  Twice more during the afternoon he stopped to look again. It was during the second stop that he spotted the other three. His hackles rose. He recognized a pincher movement when he saw one. The other three had gone down the mountains to smoother terrain, for faster traveling. They were now coming at him from about east northeast.

  “What shall we do?” Winter Fawn asked.

  Carson whirled, startled. He had left her deeper into the trees with the horses and hadn’t heard her approach. Damn good thing she was on his side, he thought with disgust. If she’d been one of the warriors, he’d be a dead man.

  He gnawed on the inside of his jaw. “They’re coming at us from two directions now. If we stay where we are, we’ll be caught between them. If we keep angling north toward the pass, the two groups will eventually rejoin each other and continue dogging our trail. If we head east, we’ll end up down on the plains, on the Taos Trail where they first attacked me. There’s no cover, nowhere to hide, and the warriors aren’t riding double. Catching us would be child’s play.”