White Dawn (5 page)

Noting his bow and a quiver of arrows, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d taken part in the brutal killing of her parents. Did he plan to kill her as well? Biting her lower lip to keep the tears from spilling, Emily glanced away. She grieved for her mother, would always remember the sight of her falling from the wagon and the slow, painful way death had claimed her. She couldn’t bring herself to mourn the loss of the man she’d grown up calling Father.

The stroke of fingers down her face brought her back to the present with a jolt. She jumped. The savage watched, the expression in his eyes hidden by the night. Now what? If he grabbed her, she’d fight. If she was going to die, she’d rather it be quick than drawn out. She took a step back, and was relieved when he didn’t try to stop her. Survival instinct demanded she run, yet she didn’t. There was no way for her to escape. Not in the dark. Not in the day. Not anytime.

The Indian hunkered down and picked up a pouch. He pointed to the ground where a short while before she’d lain curled up trying to sleep. Moving slowly, Emily sat, drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She kept her eyes on her companion, watching his every move.

He came to her and sat so close that their knees nearly touched. Emily averted her eyes from the sight of his naked flesh, covered only by a breechclout. The past years spent traveling from one mission to another, she’d seen many nearly naked men—some who even went about with no regard for clothing or those who might see them. Yet it had never been beneath the stars, and she had never been alone.

Smooth, taut skin rippled as the savage leaned forward and held something out to her. He motioned for her to eat it.

Emily took the long strip of dried meat. She and her mother had visited many Indian women in their tipis and had seen them making this jerked beef. Though the meat was bland, hunger demanded that she take it from him. Slowly, the sounds of the night returned. When the savage stood, Emily edged away in fear.

Yet all he did was unroll a large fur and lie down upon it a foot away from her. The fur looked like a buffalo robe. He patted the space beside him. Her heart thudded against her chest. Was this it? Did he plan to rape her now? Wide-eyed, Emily shook her head, making no move to go to him. He shrugged and closed his eyes. Emily held her breath and watched him. Hope rose. Maybe while he slept she could escape.

She waited a long while, her heart hammering. Then she slowly edged away. A sharp command proved he was just as aware of what was going on with his eyes closed. He turned his head and indicated she should sleep.

Hesitating, Emily lay down on the ground and curled up, her eyes fixed on the savage. He was so close, she heard the soft intake of each of his breaths. Realizing he didn’t plan to attack her—at least not yet—she let her body, exhausted from the day’s events, slowly calm. Its numbness faded and allowed her to feel the cold seeping into her bones. Her teeth chattered, and she clenched her jaw until it ached. She closed her eyes. Though summer was coming, the nights were still cold.

Something warm and soft dropped over her. A muffled gasp escaped as her first thought was that he’d climbed on top of her—but she quickly realized he’d just given her his fur. The weight of the thick pelt, still warm from the Indian’s body heat, took the chill from her bones quickly.

Confused at the savage’s actions, Emily stared at him as he lay back down. Why had he given her his fur? Why hadn’t he forced himself on her? What would he expect of her on the morrow? Too tired at that moment to care, too drained by the day’s events, Emily burrowed into the pelt’s warmth. She welcomed the oblivion of sleep.

Darkness swirled around Swift Foot. He shifted on the hard, cold ground. He’d put his soft deerskin shirt beneath him, but it offered little protection from the small rocks and twigs poking him. Yet it wasn’t discomfort from lying on the ground, or the biting chill in the air, that kept sleep from him.

He turned his head and stared with troubled eyes at the white woman. He had expected a child—not this young woman. And he had certainly not expected a woman of her beauty. In sleep, the girl wore trusting innocence like a newborn fawn. Her hair, woven of moonlight, spilled across the ground, liquid luminescence soaking into the rich earth. Though he had a grandmother, a Frenchwoman, with light hair, he’d never seen locks this pale. He stared at her hands, tucked beneath her chin like a child’s. Even her skin was white, as pale as the glittering stars.

Unable to resist, he reached out to touch her hair. It flowed through his fingers. Using two fingers, he rubbed the strands. They were soft, like the fur of his helper,
Mastinca,
the rabbit. Leaving one arm stretched out to caress the woman’s hair, he reached his other hand across his body to his upper arm to touch his wide armlet of rabbit fur.
Mastinca
was known for fleetness of foot and endurance on long journeys. Swift Foot had earned his own name at a young age for his ability to run and jump like his helper.

Glancing up at the moon, he thanked
Hanwi
for giving him the answer to the troubling dreams he’d experienced over the long, hard, cold winter. But what did the answer mean? Why had he heard this woman’s cries? And more important, now that he’d found the source of his unrest, what was he to do with her?
Wakan Tanka
had spared this woman’s life, then led Swift Foot to her. But why? Did she have a message for him?

Save her.
The wind whispered the words in his ear.

That thought gave him pause. She was lost and alone. She shifted restlessly, her arm shoving back the fur. He eyed the generous swells of her gleaming white breasts. A stab of desire rolled through his body, startling him as much as did the protective instincts that also rose within him. This woman in no time had touched some hidden soft and vulnerable spot buried deep inside his soul. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her forever. She was his. He’d found her. Saved her. She belonged to him. He wanted nothing more than to lie beside her and mate with her.

Unsettled that the attraction was so strong, Swift Foot pulled his hand away, dropping her hair to the ground as if it were evil. He sat, troubled by his thoughts. How could he, soon to be chief of his tribe, feel such need for a white woman?

Leave,
his senses ordered.
Let her find her own way back to her people.
But he couldn’t leave her here on her own. She’d never survive.

A soft moan from the woman drew his attention. She cried out briefly, then fell silent. He yearned to move closer, to pull her into his arms and comfort her, but her nearness unnerved him. Her presence frightened him. Like that of a rabbit startled by predators on the prairie, instinct told him to run and hide.

Swift Foot glared at the heavens, furious with his weakness. He was Swift Foot, a great warrior, who at twenty winters had fought in many battles and counted coup so many times, he had two coup sticks. He killed his enemy with cold detachment. Soon he’d proudly take his place as leader of his people, an honor his father had not lived to obtain.

Another sharp cry jolted him from his thoughts. The woman thrashed and cried out as bad spirits chased her while she slept. He watched, his gut lurching at the soft, mewling cries choking her. The sound woke her. She scrambled to her knees, her eyes wild with fear and the lingering darkness of her dreams. Seeing him watching her, she tensed. Before she could bolt like
Mastinca,
he reached out, his fingers circling her wrist.

Murmuring softly, he scooted close to her, using the white man’s tongue to reassure her that he would not do her harm. His voice seemed to pierce the fog of fear shrouding her. Slowly the tension left her shoulders, yet she made no move to lie back down.

Releasing his hold on her wrist, Swift Foot used his hands to force her to recline again on his fur.
“Istima yo.”
He repeated the words in English. “Go to sleep,” he ordered in a voice soft and low, as if speaking to a frightened child.

She watched him through wide eyes. “Who are you? What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

Swift Foot understood her. Like most of his people, he’d learned enough of the white man’s tongue to aid him in dealing with trappers and those who came to trade with his tribe. He seldom spoke the words, preferring that whites not know how much he understood.

Listening to her voice, Swift Foot wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the woman. He felt strangely vulnerable in her presence. Already he regretted speaking to her in her own tongue; his need to comfort had made him careless. Needing to distance himself from her, he lay down on his side. He turned his back to her, as he was unable to think while looking upon her beauty.

With a few words he could reassure her that he meant her no harm, but if he did, he would remove the one barrier that he sensed was his only protection—and he needed that distance between them. Self-preservation
demanded
he hold his tongue. He could only hope she wouldn’t press further. Perhaps she might assume that he knew only a few words of her tongue.

The woman finally fell silent. Relieved, Swift Foot took a deep breath. But the silence didn’t last long. Soft sounds of tears battered at his determination to remain impassive. Like a deer tearing through the fragile spiderwebs between trees, this woman’s fear and sorrow broke through his resolve.

Again a voice came to him:
Save her. Return her to her people. Prove your worth.

Then it dawned on him. The Great Spirit sought to test his worth and his devotion to his people before granting him the position of chief of his tribe. And what better way than with a beautiful white woman? His father had taken a white woman for wife and brought dishonor on their tribe, an act that had started a vicious circle of war and death. He knew the Great Spirit was displeased by his tribe. Hadn’t the harsh winter and the poor buffalo hunt last summer been proof that the Great One sought to make his people pay for their foolishness?

During his last vision quest, Swift Foot had vowed to make things right when he became chief. And now the spirits demanded proof that he could repair the damage of the past and bring peace to his people. They’d sent him a white woman. They sought to tempt him in the same manner as his own father had been tempted.

Closing his eyes, he thanked the Great Spirit for sending him this woman. He vowed to be strong, to make his people proud of him. Where his father had failed, Swift Foot would not. He would regain the honor his father had squandered.

Save her.
The command came once more from
Tate,
whispered in his ear as the wind whirled around him. Swift Foot closed his eyes, drawing strength from the belief that this would be the first step in righting the many wrongs of the past. He’d take her to one of the many trading posts along the big muddy river.

Yet his decision didn’t make it easier to ignore the woman’s mourning. He realized again that she’d lost her family. Her mother and father. The girl desperately needed comforting. Unable to help himself, he turned to face her. Her eyes were still wide open, filled with grief and fear as she stared into his eyes.

Reaching out, he coaxed her head to rest in the cradle of his shoulder. Speaking, he began to tell her about the pranks and tricks of Coyote and
Iktomi,
a spiderlike spirit who enjoyed causing trouble and took malicious glee in complicating the lives of the Sioux. In his haste, he found himself mixing Lakota and English—a prank of
Iktomi,
he was sure.

The woman’s sobs subsided and her breathing slowed. Still, he continued to offer comfort. Her fists relaxed until her fingers rested lightly on his chest. Carefully pulling her body even closer so he could keep her warm, Swift Foot once again found his fingers tangled in her hair.

Yes, he’d save her, take her to safety. Otherwise she’d surely die at the hands of the elements or animals—or worse, end up the captive of either another Sioux tribe or Ojibwa or Mandan, all of whom roamed this land. And in saving her, he’d take the first step to proving himself to the spirits who even now watched and waited. An answering caress of his hair, a brief touch to his shoulders from
Tate,
told him Wind was pleased.

He closed his eyes, giving himself over to the fragile softness of the woman in his arms. Come morning, he’d devise a way to keep distance between them. But for tonight, he’d give in, victim to
Iktomi
—son of
In-yan,
the rock.
Iktomi
had the power to work magic over persons and things, and for tonight, Swift Foot was unable to resist holding the white girl in his arms and murmuring softly to her.

Emily woke to the scent of roasting meat. Her stomach rumbled at the delicious aroma teasing her from her sleep. Heat radiated toward her, making the cocoon she slept in too warm. She held on to the lingering traces of sleep, though, shoving away the horrible nightmares of savages and wolves. It all had been a dream. She’d open her eyes and find her mother cooking. Even a scolding for being lazy sounded like heaven to Emily, for it meant her mother was still alive.

She stretched and opened her eyes, then blinked rapidly. A few feet away, a fire blazed. But it wasn’t her mother cooking the morning meal. Instead, an Indian sat before the flames, holding a stick with chunks of meat speared upon it.

With sudden and stark clarity, the night came back to her sleeping nestled in the savage’s arms, his soothing voice in her ears, his hands tunneling through her hair. The events scrolled backward: the wolves, the deaths of her parents, her mother’s deathbed confession. None of it had been a dream.

She blanked out all the horror and focused on the here and now—the Indian before her, and the immediate danger he represented. She stared at his body clad in only a breechclout. In the daylight, she saw that her first impression of him had not been wrong. He was young, and had dark, handsome looks, and a body honed to the perfection of a god. The Greek god Apollo came to mind. She’d read about him in a book Millicente had allowed her to read at the mission; her father had refused to allow Emily anything but the Bible.