White Dawn (3 page)

It did not take him long to load the wagon and hitch the mules, and when Emily spotted her father heading toward her, holding his well-worn Bible in both hands, she clutched the ends of her shawl tightly around her and swallowed a moan of pain. Her arms and shoulders still burned with her every movement.

“Kneel, daughter of Satan,” her father said as he reached her. He closed his eyes and clutched the Bible to his chest, as if drawing strength from it.

Emily bit back a cry of protest at the abominable name he called her. Gingerly she knelt, wincing as she assumed the expected pose: clasped hands, the picture of a sinner begging forgiveness, though she prayed not for forgiveness, but for mercy. She’d done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn’t her fault that her father refused to part with any of the cloth he reserved for trading with savages so that she could sew a second dress for herself. Sometimes it seemed that her greatest sin lay in being born a female.

Her father lifted his voice in prayer. “Hear me, Father in heaven. I have tried to instill virtue and humility in this child entrusted to my care. But I can do no more. She refuses to act in a manner befitting a humble servant of God. She has forsaken the church; she lures men of God down the path to hell.”

He paused. Emily risked an upward peek. Her father’s eyes were wide open, staring heavenward. His voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes closed as if in pain. “The day I left my mother’s life of sin behind, I promised my life to you to atone for her sins. I can do no more. Take this child and do with her what you will.”

Timothy Ambrose stepped back and stared down at his child with eyes that were chillingly empty. “I have no daughter.”

Emily stared up at her father in confusion. Instead of anger in his eyes, she saw nothing. No emotion. It was as if she no longer existed. An ache settled in her chest. This outright rejection left her breathless. “Father?” Her voice choked.

“The Lord has spoken. This is His will.” Taking another step away, he said, “You, daughter of Satan, are at the mercy of our Lord and God. You live or die by his hand.” He called to Beatrice: “Come, wife, we are leaving. We have His work to do.”

Emily’s mother rushed forward and put her arms around her daughter. “Timothy, no! Have you lost your mind? There are wild animals. And savages. In the name of our Lord, be reasonable!” Desperation filled her voice.

Emily clutched her mother’s arm. Her father planned to leave without her, he planned to abandon her in the wilderness—in the name of God! “You can’t do this,” she whispered, numb with disbelief, stunned to know the depths of his hatred for her.

The man walked back and yanked her mother away. “I said, we are leaving.” He dragged the woman, sobbing and pleading, toward the wagon without a backward glance. “You, too, will pay for your sins,” was all he said.

Shrieking, the woman fought to return to Emily. “No! I won’t leave my daughter,” she screamed. A hard blow to the side of her face silenced her.

Stunned by the violence of her father, Emily stood rooted to the spot. But when the man tossed her mother’s unresisting body up onto the wagon seat, she ran forward. “No!” Fear as she’d never known left her shaking so hard that her teeth chattered. He wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t. She was his daughter, no matter what he’d said.

“No! You can’t leave me. Ma, don’t let him do this! Don’t leave me! Father! Please!”

Her father whirled around. “You are no daughter of mine. Begone!” He picked up the reins and urged the mules forward. Her mother screamed until another blow silenced her.

Emily ran after the wagon. “How can you do this? This is not the will of God. What about forgiveness? What about love?” She grabbed the back of the wagon as it left the shadows of the tall stand of cottonwood trees where they’d camped, headed into an open meadow.

The wagon stopped. Relieved, Emily tried to still her frantic breathing. Her father would take her back if she begged, if she promised to be good. She’d pray on her knees all day if that was what it took. “Please, Father—”

She froze at the sight of the shotgun in his hands, her heart springing up into her throat. Sitting beside him, her mother sobbed brokenly.

Her father pointed the gun at her. “Get away from the wagon. Didn’t you hear me, girl?
I have no daughter.
” The words were cold and devoid of emotion. At his side, Emily’s mother had her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sorrow.

Fearing that he’d actually shoot her, Emily stood in horrified shock as her father snapped the reins and drove on without her. Her breath came in short gasps. Hysteria threatened to choke her. Backing up in disbelief, she felt the hard trunk of a cottonwood stop her retreat.

Numb with fear and shock, she stood there, watching, unable to believe he’d truly meant what he’d said. He’d disowned her. He’d abandoned her. He hated her so much, he wanted her to die.

Surely her mother would stop him. But the wagon rocked and swayed across the uneven meadow and didn’t stop. Her mother didn’t jump down and run back to her. Instinct urged her to follow, but Emily didn’t. She had no doubt her father would kill her if she tried again—and he would justify it because he believed her to be the devil’s daughter.

She had to do something, but she couldn’t move. She felt like the tree at her back, rooted to the spot. What was she going to do? How could she survive out here alone? She had no food. No blankets. No weapons. No family. She’d die out here, and no one would ever know.

“What am I supposed to do?” she cried to the sky. Panic clawed at her insides. She’d never been so afraid in her life. Each breath came in shorter gasps. “Please tell me what to do.” She wasn’t sure if she was praying—or if she even believed in God anymore. Closing her eyes, Emily leaned her head against the tree behind her, her fingernails digging into the rough bark as she tried to stop her world from spinning out of control. She had to gain control. Had to think.

But her mind had gone blank, her heart numb. She slid down and wrapped her arms around her knees, unable to accept the fact that she’d just been abandoned. Surely her father would change his mind and turn around. And her mother? Her mother couldn’t just ride away and leave her. Emily was their only child. This had to be part of some horrible punishment, but her mother would make sure her father would stop and fetch her. Or if he didn’t,
she
would come back. Together Emily and her mother would head back to the mission and let Timothy Ambrose go on his way.

When Emily glanced up and saw the wagon lumbering along without her—halfway across the meadow—reality set in. Her father wouldn’t stop. And there wasn’t anything her mother could do. Fear overshadowed any lingering thoughts of hope.

“Oh, God, what am I going to do? I don’t want to die.” Emily sobbed, resting her forehead against her updrawn knees as she fought the nausea welling inside her. Her body trembled and shook so hard, her sides ached. She clasped her hands together, ragged nails digging into her flesh. The trembling increased. It turned to a rumble, as if the earth beneath her was angry at the injustice.

Emily pressed her palm to the ground. It continued to tremble beneath her. She lifted her head and glanced around. Shouts came from her right. Hope rose inside her. Had Millicente’s husband gotten help and come after her and her mother?

On the other side of the river, farther upstream, she spotted a large group of riders heading toward her parents. She started to stand, but sudden yells filling the air chilled her soul.

Savages!

This was not help from the neighboring mission. Instinctively, Emily shrank down low, pulling her shawl more tightly around her. Normally Indians didn’t frighten her. Those who lived near the mission had been friendly. But from the cries filling the air, and the lances held high overhead, she knew these Indians were not.

They splashed through the water, riding en masse toward her parents. Emily’s gaze returned to the stopped wagon and she watched in mounting horror as her father climbed onto the seat and stood tall, his Bible held high for the savages to see.

“No! No!” She tried to warn her father, but the words seized in the back of her throat.

Horrified, she saw a flurry of arrows fly through the air. Stunned and helpless, she watched her father topple from the wagon and heard her mother’s screams. The mules bolted, and the savages gave chase. Stunned and helpless, Emily gasped as she saw her mother fall off the wagon and beneath its wheels.

“Dear God, no,” Emily sobbed, over and over. She was more scared than she’d ever been, but instinct took over. She slid around the trunk of the cottonwood tree, farther back under the brush and deeper into the shadows of the grove, making herself as small as possible. She covered her head with her garments, the shades of brown on both dress and shawl blending in with her surroundings.

The Indians’ wild yells continued to echo across the meadow. Numb with fear, Emily buried her head beneath her arms, afraid, yet feeling guilty for not having done anything to help her parents. The knowledge that she was helpless to do anything was little consolation.

After what seemed hours, the acrid scent of smoke filled the air, followed by more loud, victorious cries. Peeking through the brush, Emily saw the savages riding away, continuing in the direction her parents had been headed. In their arms, they held the blankets and bolts of material her parents had intended to trade for food and other necessities.

When the earth’s trembling and the savages’ triumphant yells died away, Emily stumbled to her feet and stared at the burning wagon in the distance. The mules were gone. Cloth from torn clothing was plastered by the wind against a tree nearby.

“Ma,” she whispered. A dark shadow passed overhead. Then another. Emily glanced up, then cried out at the sight of the large, dark birds soaring closer, circling overhead, waiting. Running out into the open, Emily prayed as she’d never prayed before. Reaching her mother, she fell to her knees. Blood from an arrow stained the bodice of the woman’s dress and dribbled from her mouth. Her legs lay at awkward angles.

“Ma!” Emily grabbed her mother’s hand. The skin felt chilled. Her mother couldn’t be dead. “No. Please, no,” she cried.

“Em—”

Startled by the faint whisper of sound, Emily glanced at her mother. “Ma. Oh, God, you’re alive. You’re going to be fine, I’ll take care of you.” The rush of words left her mouth as fear shoved back the impossible truth.

“No. Too late. Take—” Beatrice Ambrose broke off as a spasm of coughing overtook her. Blood bubbled from her mouth.

“Don’t talk.” Emily glanced around frantically. She had no idea what to do. Should she remove the arrow or wait? “Please,” she whispered. “Help me. I don’t know what to do.” Deep in her heart, Emily knew it was too late, but she couldn’t give up without a fight. There had to be something she could do. Pressure on her fingers drew her attention back to her mother.

“Locket. Take it. Yours. Have to tell you…before I go—”

“No, Ma. It’s yours.”

The woman attempted a weak smile. “Father… Truth—” Her hand fumbled toward her neckline.

“Wait. I’ll do it.” Emily didn’t want her mother to exert herself. She knew about her mother’s locket, how it was worn pinned to the inside of her chemise. Gently she removed the locket and held it in her hands. It felt cold, like her mother’s fingers.

“Sorry, child. My—” Another spasm hit.

Emily gently wiped the blood from her mother’s lips. “Mother! Mother!”

“—fault. Not his. Father…made…me…”

Alarmed at her mother’s growing weakness and the steady trickle of blood seeping down the side of her mouth, Emily begged, “Don’t talk, Ma. Please.” Tears streamed down her face.

Her mother continued: “…always loved you. Go to Kentucky…where you…born. Matthew Sommers…find…” Beatrice Ambrose paused, then spoke again, her voice filled with desperate strength. She lifted her head. “Mission—Millicente…knows the truth. She was going to take us to him. She knows…where to find…your father… Good man. Go to him.”

Confused, Emily stared down at her mother as she tried to make sense of the jumble of words. But before she could say anything, ask anything, her mother gave a final gasp.

“Love you—” And with that, her head rolled to the side, all life gone.

Emily stared at her mother’s still body in disbelief. “Ma?” She couldn’t be dead, couldn’t have gone. “Ma, please don’t leave me,” she said in a sob. Then, leaning over her mother, her locket clutched in one hand, Emily cried.

After what seemed like a long time, she lifted her head. Around her, the dark birds were watching. They inched closer, their long wings outstretched as they squabbled for position.

Jumping to her feet, Emily shouted and chased them away, watched the birds soar up into the air and circle. Turning, she saw her father sprawled nearby. Going to him, she bent over and called his name. She shook his shoulders but got no response.

Returning to her mother’s side, she sat, her knees drawn to her chest, unable to comprehend that she was truly alone. Opening her fists, she stared at the locket. Inside, twin ovals with her parents’ images stared out at her. Fresh tears welled up as she stared at a much younger image of her mother. On the opposite side a sketch of her father stared back.

Hate rose inside her. How could he have done this to them? Her mother had wanted to return to civilization, to the east, fearing that this untamed land was no place for her or Emily. Her father had refused to listen to her, or to any of the others who’d tried to warn him of the dangers out here.

Furious that Timothy Ambrose’s blind faith and religious zeal had ultimately caused her mother’s death, Emily scratched at his likeness, unable to bear looking upon it. Finally she tore it out of the locket. To her surprise, she found another portrait hidden beneath. Peering close, she saw immediately that it wasn’t her father, but the face of a stranger.

The young man depicted appeared around the same age as her mother in the other picture. He had light hair—much lighter than her mother’s. In the portrait, it looked nearly white—like Emily’s own. Recalling her mother’s jumbled words, and her father’s comments, the inconceivable truth dawned. If she’d understood her mother correctly, this man, a stranger named Matthew Sommers, was her blood father.