White Dawn (13 page)

“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 now, 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.

But that had been nothing compared to his rage when he’d learned what her father had done in the wilderness. He’d been incensed that any man could leave a woman alone and unprotected in the wild. He’d pulled her into his arms when she cried, the pain of it still raw in her mind and heart.

He’d grown quiet when she told him how her warrior had saved her from wolves. The rest didn’t need much telling. He knew, or could assume, the rest.

She and John had fallen asleep then—him weakened from his bout with fever, and her from the sleepless nights spent worrying about him as she bathed his skin.

Knowing it was time to get up and go find something to eat, Emily eased away from John’s body. His arms tightened momentarily, then released her. He yawned as he came awake. “Looks like we slept the day away.”

“I’ll go—” The sound of Fang’s deep growls and loud barking cut her off. The wolf never barked or growled—not like this! Scrambling to her feet, Emily grabbed the rifle from the tabletop. Behind her, John cursed and called her back. She ignored him and went to the doorway to glance out. The wolf was standing near the ring of trees around the shack, tail down, head lowered, fur standing on end.

“Emily, get back here. Give me the rifle!”

She continued to watch, aware that John was trying to stand. When she heard voices, she lifted the rifle, pointing it in the direction the wolf stared. When two figures came into view, she shouted, “Stop! Don’t come any closer.”

The pair stopped, mouths gaping open at the sight of her. One, a trapper nearly as tall and wide as John, stepped forward, then stopped when Emily trained the rifle on him. “Name is Ben. This here’s my wife, Mary. We’s lookin’ for John.”

Behind her, Emily felt large, warm hands settle on her shoulders heavily, as if John needed to lean on her just to remain upright. “It’s okay, Emily. Ben’s a friend.” He reached around her and took the rifle from her shaking hands.

Over her head, John called off his wolf. Ben and Mary joined them. Each of the two newcomers led a mule and wore heavy packs on their backs.

Emily tried to hide her shock. From a distance, she’d never have guessed that the person with Ben was his wife. Mary, though shorter than her husband by a good foot, was still several inches taller than Emily. She wore a cotton shirt, buckskin breeches caked with mud, and moccasins. Her dark hair was cut short, and she wore a floppy hat on her head and a red kerchief around her neck.

Mary and Ben stared at her, too, just as speechless as she. Emily flushed, becoming acutely aware of just how little she wore—and what: John’s shirt. And John… She glanced back and groaned. He was standing behind her with only a blanket wrapped haphazardly around his waist. To anyone looking at them, it would surely appear as though they’d just… Heat and shame ran through her. “I’m sorry… This isn’t what it seems.”

John’s fingers tightened. “It’s all right, Emily. Ben’s a good friend. He’ll understand.”

“So will his wife, you big oaf,” the woman added. She turned to Emily, her face open and friendly. “Pleased to meet you, Emily. It’ll be nice to visit with another female out here—one who speaks English, anyway. Most of the women out here come from Indian tribes.”

John leaned more weight on Emily. She tipped her chin up and smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you, too, Mary and Ben. But I need to get John back into bed.” At the two pairs of startled eyes, Emily realized what she’d said. She threw her head back against John and groaned. His eyes twinkled down at her.

“What she means is, if I don’t sit back down fast, I’m going to fall flat on my face.”

For the first time, Mary seemed to notice his pallor and the sweat dripping down the sides of his face. “John, what have you done to yourself?”

“He tried to chop his leg off.” The thought of John nearly dying still made Emily sick. She turned to lead him back to the bed.

Mary stepped to his other side. “Let me help. If this big oaf falls on you, you’ll be squashed like a bug.”

“I can get myself back to bed, both of you.” John looked to Ben for support, obviously hating the weakness in his body.

His friend shook his head. “Don’t think I want to have to pick you up when you collapse.” His dark eyes sparkled with laughter as he moved both women out of the way, then started John walking the few feet back to his pallet.

Mary snapped, “Men. Can’t stand to appear weak, but that big lug looks like he’s gonna pass out any minute.”

Emily grinned at her as they watched. Ben, equal in size to John, perhaps a tad taller, wider and heavier, brooked no argument from John, who was still insisting that he needed no help. He ushered the other man along like a naughty boy being led back to his bed.

As soon as John had stretched back out on his pallet and was decently covered, Mary rushed forward, insisting on seeing the wound. John protested. It did no good; she just shoved aside his hands. Emily earned herself a dark look when she pulled the blanket up past John’s ankle, his knee and over his thigh to reveal the wide bandage. Mary’s capable hands unwrapped the cloth, and Emily winced at her sharp intake of breath.

“Holy mother of God, John.” Ben’s wife gently prodded the reddened flesh, ignoring John’s muted groan of pain. “You did a good job, Emily. I’ve got some ointments and herbs we can use—we just stocked up in St. Louis.” She turned her head. “Ben—” Her husband had already anticipated her needs and he handed her a rolled pack.

Emily worked alongside Mary, ignoring John’s ill temper. In truth, she felt relieved to know she’d done things right and was grateful for the additional help and advice.

Mary finally stood. “Come with me to the river. I need a bath. We’ll leave the men.” It was an order.

John met Emily’s gaze. They both knew Mary wanted to get her alone to talk. Emily didn’t mind, though, and the thought of a bath sounded all too good. She’d been afraid to leave John alone unless absolutely necessary.

In the cool, refreshing water, they bathed in silence. After she dried, Emily put John’s buckskin shirt back on. She frowned. As much as she loved the freedom of going about clad in his clothes, she needed to do something about obtaining some of her own.

“Mary, this is going to sound odd, but do you have an extra dress…or something?”

Mary’s eyes widened. “I don’t bother bringing dresses out here—pants and shirts work better to hide the fact that I’m a white woman. Indians usually don’t bother us if they think we’re just two men, and from a distance no one can tell.”

“I see.” Emily wrung her hair out.

Mary used her fingers to smooth her own short black hair. Already it was starting to curl around her head. “So…would I be considered rude if I were to ask you what a young white girl like you is doing out here, dressed only in John’s shirt?”