White Dawn
Authors: Susan Edwards
White Dawn
By Susan Edwards
Missouri River, 1810
Broken-hearted and abandoned in the wilds of America’s untamed West, sixteen-year-old Emily Ambrose is rescued from certain death by solitary trapper John Cartier. Though she’s learned the hard way not to trust any man, she can’t help but feel safe with the kind stranger.
John can’t imagine anyone willingly letting Emily go. Her strength and beauty call to him, but it is clear her wounded heart needs time to heal, and he won’t settle for just her body. He vows to return Emily to civilization—and to resist the desire growing between them, unless she turns to him out of love.
Emily is drawn to her rugged but gentle rescuer, and begins to feel the passion that a woman can feel for a man. But she can’t embrace a future with John as long as she’s haunted by secrets of the past…
Book 1 of 12.
Previously published.
90,000 words
Dear Readers,
I am so excited to see my White Series available in digital format and once again available to you, my readers. This series is so close to my heart—each character became my brother, sister, best friend, etc., and to see them republished makes it seem like a long-awaited family reunion. I can’t wait to become reacquainted with each character! Even the villains, for there is nothing like seeing justice served.
I started the first book,
White Wind,
way back in the ’80s. These two characters just popped into my head one day. I met them at a stream in the wilderness where my honorable (and very virile) hero, Golden Eagle, was determined to rescue a very stubborn heroine named Sarah. It just seemed as though the action stopped as they turned to me and said, “Well? What now?”
Huh? Did they think I was a writer? Not me. Never did any writing at all and had never had any desire to do so. Well, Sarah and Golden Eagle just shook their heads and let me know that despite never having written before, it didn’t matter because I was a storyteller! A vivid imagination, a love of romance and the Native American historical genre were all that were required. Okay, not quite but I got the message.
So I thought, why not? I could write a nice scene or two. Or three. Hey, how about even just a love scene in this wonderful setting that I could see so clearly in my mind? But then I ran into the first problem. What had brought my two willful characters to this stream at the same time? What connected them? Why would this mighty warrior want to claim this white girl? What made him fall in love with her and risk everything for her?
I found that I couldn’t go on until I had answers and that meant, yep, I had to start at the beginning. I learned who they were, what their problems were, and when we once again met at that stream in the wilderness, I just sat back and gave directions, and this time, my characters knew their lines and away we went!
And that, dear readers, was how my writing career began. Once I started, I could not stop. I loved writing about this family. Sarah and Golden Eagle had four children and it just seemed natural to continue the series. I had so many letters begging and, yes, even demanding Jeremy and White Dove’s story in
White Dove.
And honestly, I was right there with each and every reader, for that was one story that just called to me. So from two people, who met by chance, eleven books were born.
Over the years, I valued each and every reader comment: from the mother who read the books to her dying daughter, to the lonely women who found companionship, and to women who appreciated the bravery and willingness of the heroines and heroes to do whatever it took to overcome adversity.
Each of the White books has a story that means something to me. Jessie in
White Wolf
is a lot like I was in my youth. I couldn’t accept “no” back then without a good reason, always looking for a chance to rebel
. I could go on and on but then I’d be writing a book instead of a letter!
Just writing this letter makes me all teary and homesick, but just as these books will be available once more to my readers, I will become reacquainted with each book and each character. Thinking of reunions, I might just have to plan a White reunion! But for now, I am just so grateful to Carina Press and my editor, Angela James, for once again making this series available.
Sincerely yours,
Susan Edwards
For my agent, Pam Hopkins, who is there when I need her.
Thanks, Pam.
And a special thanks goes to Sue Grant for the additions to our household known by many
names, The Dynamite Duo, The Terrors, The Terrible Twos, and more affectionately known as
The Purr-Purrs.
Missouri River, 1810
Early spring
A chill wind swept across the muddy river, racing over the ground and tearing through treetops. Gleeful as a small child bent on mischief, it sent leaves and other debris spiraling around a man the size of a small mountain.
The trapper wore his long black hair in a single tail, the ends brushing the row of fringe stretched across his broad, muscular back. His arms bulged, his thighs bunched as he lifted a bale of beaver pelts from the ground and smoothly set it in a dugout canoe. The soft beaver furs caressed his fingers. Fox, squirrel and mink followed. Working quickly, John Cartier lashed and covered the mound of pelts with a square of canvas.
Satisfied that the furs were secure, he strode over to a second canoe and repeated the process. Overhead, the sun rose above the horizon. Excitement danced in him. After he’d endured the harsh winter elements—weeks at a time spent checking traplines, bedding down on the cold ground with only a piece of canvas to shield him from the driving rain and snow—it was time to take the furs to St. Louis, sell his family’s cache and purchase supplies for next year’s season.
For the past two years, he, his cousin and his grandfather had taken their furs to one of many trading posts along the Missouri. This year his grandfather had business in the city and had decided they should haul their furs there to sell. John grinned. Nothing could dampen his spirts, not even the bitter spring cold seeping through his buckskin shirt and breeches. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d been to St. Louis, not three years.
“What shall we do first?” he asked Fang, his three-legged wolf. The animal lifted its ears and barked, then wagged its tail. John chuckled. Often he went weeks or months without hearing the sound of a human voice, and talking to Fang or the animals he was always nursing back to health was his only relief. Unfortunately, the habit was hard to break—even when his grandfather and cousin were around, as they were now.
He grinned, anticipation of the trip spurring him to work faster. There was so much he wanted to do in the few weeks he’d have in the city: heated baths, a soft feather bed, real food, and the opportunity to be around crowds of people. Trappers from all over would converge on St. Louis, same as him. And if he was lucky, he’d find a woman who’d offer some companionship—and maybe share his bed as well. There would be no shortage of possibilities.
“I’d get me a woman first,” a sulky voice intruded. Willy, John’s cousin, hunched his shoulders and complained, “Don’t see why we can’t all go!”
John glanced at him, noting the sullen pull to his cousin’s mouth. “There’s work to be done here. Traps need repairing, knives sharpening, and someone has to stay with the shack or else we’ll lose it.” The shack, a crude log building, was their base, a place they returned to with their fur goods.
“How ’bout I pay you half a’ my share to stay? I’m sick of this place.” John wasn’t surprised. Because Willy didn’t like to do hand labor, it fell to him to stay at the shack and guard the furs when John and their grandfather went out to lay and check traps. Sometimes John and his grandfather would be gone for weeks at a time, leaving Willy alone here, depending on how far out they had to go.
Shaking his head, John knelt to check the contents of his heavy backpack. “Not a chance, cuz. I won the draw fair ’n’ square.” He glanced up at his scowling relative. “Besides, you’ll spend your share in town before you return.”
Willy narrowed his eyes but didn’t protest. “Come on, cuz. You’re better at takin’ care of all this stuff. I ain’t got the patience for it. ’Sides, what about that hawk you found yesterday?”
John bit back a nasty retort at his cousin’s whining tone. “I’ll take the bird with me.” Willy acted more like a boy of fourteen than a man of twenty-four. Though only two years separated them, John felt as if it were many more.
When he didn’t respond, Willy kicked a rock, not caring that it nearly hit him. “I hate this godforsaken place.”
Folding his arms across his chest, John felt the urge to tell Willy it was past time for him to accept his share of responsibility. But he didn’t. From past experience, he knew that speaking up wouldn’t accomplish anything except to put his cousin in a fouler mood. He gave Willy a hard stare. “You don’t have to stay. Gramps would understand if you left to make your own way.” Actually, John knew he’d be happy. Willy was often more trouble than help.
The other man narrowed his dark brown eyes, his gaze calculating. “Yeah, bet you’d like that, huh, cuz? Then when the old man goes, you’ll git it all.”
Disgust filled John. He stood. “Knock it off, Will. You know there’s not much. The shack isn’t worth anything, and by the time we split the cost of new equipment, supplies, and trade goods for next year, there won’t be anything much left. And you know I’ll share that with you.” He struggled to keep the impatience from his voice. After all their grandfather had done for them, it made him sad to know that Willy stuck around only to be sure he got his share.
His cousin rocked back on his heels. His bushy, unkempt hair was the shade of the muddy river, and the wind tossed it, tangling it beyond hope. “Don’t forget the money in the bank from the sale of the house.” His tone dared John to deny it.
The two cousins glared at one another. John hadn’t forgotten about the house. After the death of Willy’s mother, the boy had come to live with John’s parents. Their grandfather, who had left to trap in the wilderness, had sold his house, land and business to John’s father. After John’s parents died, their grandpa had come back, sold the house and taken John and Willy off to the woods. Willy assumed that since their grandpa had sold it, he himself was entitled to a share.
John drew in a deep breath. He’d learned the truth only a few years ago—during his last trip to St. Louis. The proceeds of the house and everything from it belonged to him. He was a wealthy man. His grandfather had left it all to him. John had asked his grandfather why he hadn’t told him of his wealth before. His grandfather had said he’d wanted to make a man of John before turning him loose with such a sizable inheritance. Remembering how he and Willy had pretty much done as they pleased when they were younger, spent what they’d wanted, John appreciated his grandfather’s wisdom. If John had been left to himself, that money wouldn’t have lasted. But he was a different man now. He’d grown up.
Willy still hadn’t, though. And he didn’t know about the house. If he knew about the money, he’d be bitter and angry, and John didn’t want to listen to his endless tirades of how unfair life was. Nor did he want to be constantly hounded for money. He had no illusions about that. His cousin wouldn’t give him a moment of peace if he knew that money belonged to John, and that John had free access to it. Willy would expect him to feel sorry for him and support him while he did nothing. The only reason Willy was even here now was because he thought their grandfather would cut him out of his will if he left.
More than ready to escape to St. Louis, John faced his cousin. “There’s more to life than a bit of coin,” he said.
“Only ’cause you’ve always had some.” Willy’s voice was bitter. “You always had everything. But not no more. Ain’t no one takin’ what’s mine.”
John didn’t see a point in arguing. He’d had this discussion before—a thousand times—and the result was always the same: him feeling frustrated, and Willy angry. Troubled by his cousin’s bitterness, John picked up his Springfield musket and bag of ammunition, and turned away.
Willy grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn back. “I’ll give ya my new hunting knife
and
half my share,” he said. He pulled a knife from a leather sheath hanging on his belt and held it up. “Pract’ly brand new.”
Staring hard at Willy, John waited until the man released him and stepped back. He was about to refuse when he spotted his grandfather walking toward them. The old man’s face bore the leathery lines of too many years in the harsh outdoors. And this year, he looked older. Worn out and tired. The winter had been especially harsh, and Gascon Cartier looked as though he’d aged ten years over the past few months.
Willy eyed his grandfather, then smirked at John. “Come on, cuz.” He spoke loudly, deliberately allowing their grandfather to overhear.
John saw his grandfather’s mouth tighten. He tried to keep his anger in check, but he knew by the glint of determination in Willy’s eyes that his cousin wouldn’t let up. He’d keep hounding John until there was another scene like last night’s, when John had finally stormed out of the shack, unable anymore to put up with Willy’s bitter accusations. It was the last thing John wanted his grandfather to have to endure.
With a sigh of defeat, he gave in. “All right. I’ll take the knife
and
half your share.” He jabbed his finger at his cousin. “But this is the last time I give in to you. If you don’t want to trap, then do us all a favor and stay in St. Louis.”
Willy grinned widely and rubbed his hands together. “Can’t wait to git outta here.” He slapped John on the back. “Gonna gits me a woman when we git to town. Women, some honest-to-God whiskey and mebbe a few games of cards.” Willy started to rush off.
John called his name. When his cousin stopped and looked at him, John held out his hand. “I’ll take the knife now.”
Willy stared at the gleaming blade still in his hand. “Figured I’d give it to you after I got back. Might need it on the trip.”
“Not a chance,
cuz.
You can take my old one with you.” John unsheathed and handed his own knife to Willy, knowing his cousin was likely to lose it in the same manner he’d won the other—in a game of cards.
Grudgingly, Willy handed over his blade. Then he hurried off to get ready to go.
Gascon Cartier frowned at John from beneath bushy white eyebrows. “Fell for his line of crap again, did you, son?”
John grimaced. “No. Just figured I’d have to work twice as hard when we returned. A few weeks in St. Louis don’t seem worth it.” Without anyone around to make him work, Willy would spend his days drinking rotgut and lazing about.
John turned back to the shack.
“Lazy and no good. Just like his pa.”
Glancing over his shoulder at his grandfather, John sighed. “Your attitude doesn’t help, Gramps.”
The old man snorted. “Bah! Only thing Willy’s ever cared about is himself. Maybe if your mother had taken him in earlier, he’d have turned out differently. But that bastard he had for a father refused to give him up—used the boy to get money out of me. And I gave it to him—wanted to help support that boy.” He sighed in disgust. “No-good drunkard used it to buy drink and women, and let Willy run wild. Forced me to cut him off. By the time the bastard dumped your cousin onto your parents, it was too late—the damage was done.” Gascon slung his rifle over his shoulder. “Truth to tell, son, I’ll worry a lot less with you here, but I didn’t want to deprive you of the trip. God knows you deserve a break.”
“There’ll be other trips.” John swallowed his disappointment. He’d really been looking forward to this. But his grandfather was right: he would be the only one who could get everything accomplished. Aside from equipment repairs, the shack needed major work, and while the abode wasn’t much, it was better than a dugout or a lean-to made of canvas, like most trappers used.
Gascon cleared his throat, his voice gruff. “Your father would have been proud had he lived to see you grown into a man.” He paused, then said, “Give me one more year. If left to myself, I’d probably stay out here till I die, but you’re young and need to settle down.” He stretched out an arm, then rubbed his elbow. Then he looked at John. “Hell, I’m getting old. Can’t move as well anymore. I need you to help me. I’m not ready to move back just yet.”
The last of John’s resentment died. He loved his grandfather and would sacrifice whatever was needed to give the man peace of mind. “Go. Sun’s up. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, boy.” And with that, John’s grandfather walked away.
Left standing in the dappled sunshine, John watched Gascon and Willy leave, paddling their canoes around a bend where the swift current took them from sight. Staring around, he tried to remind himself that he preferred to be by himself, that he enjoyed the solitude. Once that had been true. Now all he felt was the chill of loneliness. And the dread of many dark nights to come. “Let’s go, Fang. We’ve got work to do,” he called.
Striding from the light into the deep shadows of the trees, he felt as though darkness had moved into his heart, stealing away the light and the joy he’d once felt walking this wild land. Returning to the tidy yard in front of the cabin, he whistled softly as he placed a leather hood over the head of the injured hawk he’d found a few days ago. While he checked its broken wing, Fang sat at the base of the tree. John talked to both the wolf and the hawk, trying to recapture the wonder and love of his first years in the wilds.
But by late afternoon, depression had settled around his shoulders. “One more year,” he reminded himself while setting a pan of bear fat over the fire. When the fat sizzled, he added kernels of washed and dried corn to it along with some strips of raw rabbit. After eating his supper, John bedded down beneath the trees, bathed in absolute darkness with the sounds of insects buzzing, owls hooting and Fang, his three-legged friend, snoring at his side. Staring up into the sky, he waited for the arrival of Lady Dawn to bring light into his life to chase away the shadows of the night.
