Winter's Touch (10 page)

The sun was full up by the time Innes finished his task and Winter Fawn rested quietly on the buffalo robe. When the willow bark tea was ready, Carson poured a cupful and took it to her. “Drink this.”

Winter Fawn had seen him shave the willow bark, so she knew what he was handing her and was grateful. “Thank you.”

“No need.”

She tried to sit up. She probably could have managed it, eventually, but this stranger whose eyes fascinated her slipped an arm behind her back and eased her up as gently as a mother tending her sick child.

“I’m the one who owes you thanks,” he said quietly, holding the steaming tin cup to her lips. “I’d be dead now if not for you.”

Winter Fawn’s mind was still stuck on the comparison between him and a mother tending a child, and her lips twitched. She had never seen a man more…manly. More masculine. To imagine that he reminded her of a woman was ludicrous.

The tea was hot and bitter, but she knew it would ease her pain, so she drank it as quickly as she could.

By the time Hunter returned from concealing their tracks, she could barely keep her eyes open.

“Sleep,” Carson told her softly.

As if she had been waiting for his permission, her eyes drifted shut and sleep overtook her.

Carson watched her breathing slow and deepen as she fell asleep. Her color looked a little better now that she was more comfortable.

God, he still couldn’t get over—would never get over—how she had thrown herself in front of him and taken that arrow.

Innes nudged him. “You get some sleep, too. We canna be stayin’ here long. I’ll take first watch. And drink some of that tea yourself, lad. That head wound, not to mention that newest hole in yer hide, must be painin’ ye.”

Carson smiled wryly. The wound in his side didn’t bother him much unless he moved wrong and pulled it, but his head was a different story. It felt like someone was back there pounding away with a hammer. Maybe a sledgehammer. He followed Innes’s advice and drank the rest of the tea before stretching out on the ground beside Bess and Megan. “Wake me in a few hours and I’ll spell you.”

“Aye, lad. Don’t fash yerself.” But Innes knew he wouldn’t wake Carson. The man was twice wounded and needed time to recover. Hunter would help him keep watch.

Innes’s chest swelled with pride when he looked upon his son, and his daughter. What they had done this past night humbled him, for he knew they had done it mainly for him. Because Carson was his friend. They had also done it as a matter of honor. That, too, filled him with pride. Little Raven had declared the captive would be safe. That made it the responsibility of everyone in the band to make certain no harm came to Carson. The honor of the band, the honor of Our People, had been at stake. Hunter and Winter Fawn had given much to uphold that honor.

Guilt assailed him. Guilt for having left them so many years ago. Guilt for deliberately keeping distance between himself and the children he loved more than life.

Ah, damn me hide, I’m a bloody worthless bastard, that I am.
He pulled the cork on his flask and settled himself where he could watch the stream. It was going to be a long day.

It was mid morning before anyone found Two Feathers and cut him free.

Crooked Oak had forced himself to remain in his tepee until the cry went out that the white captive had escaped. Only then would he allow himself to emerge.

He assumed that it had been Red Beard who had hit him over the head the night before. When he had come to it had still been hours before dawn and the white man and Winter Fawn were both gone from the tree where they had been.

Fear had nearly strangled him when Winter Fawn had thrown herself in front of the white man. Never,
never
, had he intended to harm her!

But harm her he had.

He hadn’t seen her when he first approached. She had been wrapped in a dark blanket and kneeling in the shadows at the white man’s feet. Obviously she had been cutting him free, but when he got her back he would teach her a harsh lesson—she would kneel before no man, except
him
.

He had aimed his arrow—unmarked, so it could not be blamed on him—at the white man’s heart. Upon seeing Winter Fawn rise up from the shadows, Crooked Oak had tried to pull his shot, but he was already in the process of firing. The only thing he had been able to do was jerk his aim off slightly at the last instant. If he hadn’t, the arrow would have struck Winter Fawn in the middle of her back and killed her. Instead, the arrow meant for the white man had pierced her side.

Shock had deafened him to the approach of someone from behind. All he had heard was the sound of Winter Fawn’s soft grunt of pain as his arrow struck her.

She was
his
, and he had shot her!

It was all he’d been able to do to keep from roaring in rage and rushing forward to rip out the white man’s liver with his bare hands. This was his fault—the captive’s. It was Red Beard’s fault. It was Little Raven’s fault. Damn them all!

Then pain had exploded in his head and everything went black. He woke sometime later to find the white man and Winter Fawn gone. He dared not go after them. No one must ever learn that he had done this thing, or he would be shunned by his own people.

When he came to, he did not dare go near the tree to study the ground for a sign that might tell him if Winter Fawn yet lived, for he could not afford to have his tracks involved if there was blood on the ground. He could not let it be known that he had been anywhere near the captive during the night.

Man-Above, was Winter Fawn still alive?

She had to be. All his dreams of glory depended upon her becoming his woman. She
must
be alive.

Rage boiled in his blood. Fists clenched, he paced back and forth within the confines of his lodge. It was the white man’s fault that Winter Fawn was hurt, possibly dead. Both white men—the captive, and Red Beard.

Winter Fawn had been cutting the white man loose. She would never have done such a thing had not her father told her to. She was a good and sweet young woman, biddable—although she could be headstrong, he thought, remembering with fondness the way she had rebuffed his attempt to get her alone in the woods last fall. But she would never have gone against Little Raven’s wishes by freeing the captive. That was her father’s doing. She was far too loyal to Red Beard. It was unhealthy for a woman to show such loyalty to her father. Such gifts belonged to a woman’s husband.

That Winter Fawn was not already Crooked Oak’s wife was also the fault of Red Beard. Imagine a man not trusting his wife’s family to arrange a good marriage for his daughter. Why, such a thing was preposterous!

Crooked Oak had thought that by refusing to give up his captive he could show Red Beard his strength and honor, thereby winning the man’s consent for Winter Fawn to become his wife. Now he saw that such a thing was not possible. He would have to take her without her father’s permission. Once she was his, everything else would happen as it should, as he had seen in his vision.

But where was she? Was she even still alive? Fear threatened to strangle him. He had to have her! His destiny—his greatness—would not be recognized without her!

By the time he heard the cry go up that the white captive was gone, Crooked Oak had mastered his rage and fear and was able to rush from his tepee to appear properly shocked.

He would go after them, of course, Winter Fawn, her father, and the other white man. Car-son. That was the name Red Beard had called the captive. Crooked Oak would be as shocked and surprised as everyone else that the captive was gone. As disappointed that Red Beard had obviously helped him.

While he wanted—needed—to rage that Red Beard had involved Winter Fawn in his dishonorable act, he knew he could not, for he could not admit that he knew she was involved.

Crooked Oak did not consider that his own act of attempting to kill the white man, after giving his word he would not, was dishonorable. He should have killed the man out on the trail and never listened to Red Beard. The blood of their fallen hunters cried out for revenge!

To Crooked Oak’s furious amazement, most of the camp was merely relieved that the white man was gone. What was the matter with them? Where was their pride? Their honor? Whites had killed their people. Their deaths must be avenged! White men must die!

Little Raven took the news of the captive’s escape with a grim countenance, but Crooked Oak suspected the leader was more relieved than any to have the issue over with.

But it was not over, not for Crooked Oak. He had to get Winter Fawn back, and he had to kill two white men.

The excuse he needed to ride after them fell into his hands like a sand plum overripe and knocked loose by a simple breeze. It was a sign from Man-Above when Two Feathers came running from the woods crying that the captive had escaped and had kidnapped Winter Fawn.

“Kidnapped?” Crooked Oak managed.

“Surely not,” Winter Fawn’s grandmother confirmed with worry lining her face. “But it is true that she is not to be found this day. The two white girls are gone also.”

Two Feathers nodded. “He would take his women and children with him. But Winter Fawn! I do not know if she was alive.”

“What do you mean?” Crooked Oak demanded.

“She was unconscious. He carried her in his arms, and there was blood.”

“He took her?” her grandmother cried to Two Feathers, who was her son. “She was bleeding?”

Crooked Oak placed a hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “Do not worry, Night Bird” he told her solemnly. “Be she dead or alive, I will find her. Who rides with me?” he cried out. “Who rides with me to rescue one of our own who has been wrested from us against her will by a hated enemy?”

Little Raven urged caution. “We must smoke. We must consider what is best to be done.”

“Consider,
pah
. This is your fault,” Crooked Oak said heatedly.

A murmur of shock and disapproval rose from those nearby at Crooked Oak’s blatant disrespect of their leader.

Crooked Oak did not care. Damn them for revering and following a man who spoke always of peace, when war was the only answer. “It is on your head if Winter Fawn is dead. We should have killed the white man yesterday. But no, you wanted to smoke, you wanted to
consider
.” He whirled to face the warriors who had gathered. “I go after Winter Fawn. Do I ride alone?”

“No,” Two Feather’s said vehemently. “I ride with you. We will get her back, my mother. We will not rest until we find her.”

“But if her father is gone too,” said Deer Stalker, Winter Fawn’s grandfather, “she may have gone willingly.”

“No.” Two Feathers shook his head. “She was unconscious and bloody. She was limp in the white man’s arms. Red Beard would never have hurt her, nor would he allow anyone else to hurt her. You know how fond he is of the girl.”

Deer Stalker nodded gravely. “You speak the truth, my son. Maybe Red Beard woke in the night and discovered them gone. Perhaps even now he and Hunter—for he is gone, too—are trailing the white man to get Winter Fawn back.”

Let them think that, Crooked Oak thought. When he caught them, there would be no one left alive to say differently. No one but Winter Fawn, but he knew how to guarantee her silence.

“Let us ride,” he cried. “We will catch up with Red Beard and help him find his daughter.”

“Let us ride,” shouted Long Chin.

“Let us avenge this deed,” cried Spotted Calf.

The cry went up, and dog soldiers gathered their weapons. The same six who had ridden out for revenge only the previous morning thundered out of camp within the hour. Crooked Oak led them, as he always did. The others, Two Feathers, Talks Loud, Long Chin, Red Bull, and Spotted Calf, would do his bidding. They would find Winter Fawn. They would kill the white man called Car-son. When Red Beard was accidentally killed in the process, it would be considered a tragedy by some. Crooked Oak would secretly celebrate.

He would have to keep his intentions about Red Beard to himself, however. Two Feathers did not like the man, but would never countenance harming him. He was foolish that way, Two Feathers was, letting such a hindrance as honor get in the way of what needed to be done. But Crooked Oak had been getting around his friend’s inconvenient streak of honor for years. This time would be no different.

Carson woke to realize that sleep in no way mitigated the pain in the back of his head. If anything, it was worse. Innes’s snoring nearby did not help. Good God, the man was so loud, he might as well be shouting from the rim of the canyon to announce their presence.

Before Carson could roll to his feet, intent on getting to Innes to nudge him awake, Hunter rushed in from outside and rolled his father onto his side. The snoring stopped instantly.

“He was supposed to wake me to stand watch,” Carson said.

“There was no need.”

“You took my turn?”

“Aye, and I’d best be gettin’ back to it.”

When Carson rose, the wound in his side reminded him painfully of its presence. Refusing to favor it, he followed Hunter out of the cave. It was just past noon, with a cool breeze stirring the air. Birds chirped and flitted, darting back and forth from tree to tree. The only other sound was the rush and tumble of water over rock.

They should leave soon. They couldn’t afford to lay low until dark. The trail last night had been bad enough, and they were still in the foothills. If they had to head higher, the mountains would be suicide in the dark.

“Will you ever be able to go back?” Carson asked Hunter.

The boy looked away toward the far rim. “I don’t know. Probably. One day.”

“I’m sorry.” Carson said.

“There is no need. I do not do this for you. I do it because it is important to my father.”

Carson noted that the boy’s Scottish burr was absent now. “And your father is important to you.”

Hunter cocked his head and looked at Carson. “Was your father not important to you?”

“He was the most important person in my life. I would have done anything for him.”

The boy turned back to watch the rim. “We will need to leave soon. You should wake the others.”