Winter's Touch (12 page)

“Hang on,” Carson told her.

Looking around, she realized they were about to climb up out of the canyon. Hunter had already done so and waited for them above on the bald, rocky rim.

They would be exposed up there, clearly visible to anyone in the vicinity, she thought.

Then she did not think at all. As the horse lunged up the steep bank, agony, sharp and deep, sliced through her side. It was all she could do to keep from crying out as her vision grayed.

By the time the pain settled down again, they were a couple of miles from the canyon.

“I’m sorry,” Carson said. As he had the night before, he spoke softly so that his voice wouldn’t carry.

“For what?”

“Your pain.”

“My pain,” she said, feeling her strength ebb rapidly and resenting it, “is no fault of yours.”

“Seeing as how you took that arrow meant for me, I kinda think it is.”

She wanted to argue with him, but she was suddenly so incredibly tired. Arguing took too much energy, so she said merely, “Crooked Oak is responsible, not you.”

“I agree. But that doesn’t make it any easier to see you suffer.”

“You have a good heart, Carson Dulaney.”

“So do you, Winter Fawn MacDougall. Not many people would have risked so much to help a stranger.”

“You have already thanked me,” she told him. “You are more than repaying me now.”

“How so?”

“My brother told me it was you who carried me from camp.”

“That was nothing. You were unconscious.”

“It was everything. My father might have taken me to my grandmother and left me there.”

“She could have cared for you. You would certainly be more comfortable than you are right now.”

“Aye, perhaps. But I would rather be with my father. For that, I thank you.”

Carson shook his head. “You could have done without an arrow in your back.”

“I will survive.”

I hope so,
Carson thought fervently. He hoped they all survived.

He was still hoping that near dusk that evening when they stumbled smack into a Cheyenne dog soldiers’ camp.

Throughout the afternoon they had gradually angled east, deciding to leave the foothills for the plains, where they could make better time, and travel after dark in relative safety if necessary. At dusk, with the light fading fast, they stopped to rest the horses behind a tumble of boulders and juniper at the head of a long narrow valley that disappeared around a bend some two miles ahead.

According to Innes, the valley widened beyond the bend and opened up onto the plains. There, he said, was a better place of concealment where they could camp for a few hours, or the whole night if they chose. Whoever stood watch would be able to see for miles up and down the trail and across the plains, plus back up the valley where they now stood.

Behind them, up in the mountains, thunder rumbled. When Carson glanced west he saw lightning streak from cloud to cloud. He hoped this shelter Innes led them to would keep the girls dry. The storm would catch up with them soon.

The plan was to rest at the end of the valley for a few hours, then hit the trail south again. By this time tomorrow they would be home.

With the animals rested a short time later, they headed out again, keeping to the tree line along the edge of the valley so as not to leave a broad flat trail through the tall grass. Winter Fawn, Carson noted, had long since given in to her pain and weakness. She was asleep, uncomfortably so, he was sure, in his arms.

He was more than ready for a little sleep himself. How the hell had he lived through four years of war, which equated with four years of little food and less sleep, not to mention flying bullets? He was just so damn tired.

He’d thought after the surrender at Appomattox that he wouldn’t have to fight anymore.

With a smirk, he wondered how he had ever come to be so naive. Here he was again, involved in his own private battle.

But no, he acknowledged, it wasn’t private. He was but one small part of the larger conflict between the Indians and all of the Americans coming out to the territories. This, to the ones involved, was nothing less than an all-out war. As he understood the situation, the government was trying to push the Southern Cheyenne and Southern Arapaho completely out of the territory, and the tribes did not want to go. It was a powder keg waiting for a match. And here he was, right smack dab in the middle of it.

For a man who had vowed never to fight again, never to aim his rifle at another human being, he’d picked a hell of a place and time to live.

He just wanted peace. Was that too much to ask?

Not that he was ready to sit in a rocking chair for the rest of his life. That wasn’t the kind of peace he sought. He expected to work. Wanted to work. The constant struggle to wrest a living from the land was a war in and of itself. But that was a war he welcomed. He could pit himself against the land and look forward to good times among the bad that awaited every man.

The peace he sought was of the soul. Maybe the heart. Peace from killing. Peace from having to be constantly on guard from a bullet. Peace to provide a safe place to raise his daughter and watch his sister complete the transition from girl to woman.

But first, he must survive this new war he’d stumbled into. And he was tired. Soul-deep weary of fighting other men.

Then again, he thought wryly, the fighting in the Colorado Territory had been going on long before he’d arrived. Yet he had chosen to come anyway. He wondered what that said about the man named Carson Dulaney. Telling himself he wanted peace, then coming to a land filled with war.

His head, and his heart, hurt just thinking about it. He would be wiser to keep his mind on the here and now.

And here and now, there was a woman in his arms who had placed herself between him and certain death. He’d seen men on the battlefield do the same. He knew he would have taken the bullet that had killed his father if he’d been looking and seen it coming. Yet, while Carson had a fair respect for women and their struggle to civilize the world—aside from those like Julia, who left some men with an overwhelming urge to smash something—it was difficult for him to accept that a woman would do such a thing.

Yes, some men would do it without a thought. Others would run. She had not run.

It felt odd to hold her, he realized. Good odd, despite the ache in his arms from having held her all night and half the day. It had been a long time since he’d felt a woman’s softness against him. A long time since he’d even thought about it. Maybe Julia hadn’t completely soured him on women after all, if he could enjoy the feel of Winter Fawn in his arms.

It was almost dark now, more shadows than light. They rounded the bend in the valley, and from behind, the thunder rolled closer.

Up ahead a horse whinnied.

Carson stiffened. It hadn’t been one of their horses. He didn’t know why, but none of their animals had made a sound louder than a soft blow all day. This had come from ahead of them, in the trees. And that could only mean trouble.

Innes, in the lead, pulled to an abrupt halt, as did Carson, and behind him, Hunter. The muscles across Carson’s shoulder’s tightened. He reached for the rifle in its scabbard.

In his arms, Winter Fawn stirred.

He leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Shh. There’s trouble.”

As quietly as possible, they started backing their horses and turning around.

Then came the murmur of a man’s voice, followed by a shout in a language Carson did not understand.

At the sound, Innes spun his horse around and urged it into a gallop. Carson didn’t wait for an invitation to do the same.

Behind them came more shouts and neighs, the sounds of startled horses, and men mounting to ride.

“Cheyenne,” Winter Fawn cried softly.

The escapees raced back around the bend and up the valley toward the only cover in sight, the stand of juniper and boulders where they had rested the horses only a short time ago. This time they didn’t bother keeping to the tree line but barreled straight up the middle of the valley.

Carson fell back, letting Hunter pass him. Ahead, Megan was protected by Innes’s broad back. Winter Fawn, too, was sheltered in Carson’s arms. But Bess rode behind Hunter, her back exposed to the pursuers. He angled to put himself between her and disaster if shooting started.

He swore silently as he clutched Winter Fawn tightly and urged his horse on. For now his rifle was useless. He couldn’t turn and fire at their pursuers while holding Winter Fawn. He crammed the carbine back into the scabbard and wished futilely for his pistol.

The ground stretched out before them, open and bare of anything to use for cover. Behind them the pursuers, shouting and shooting, were gaining. Ahead, the storm raced to meet them. Finally, in a flash of lightning, the tumble of rocks and juniper appeared out of the shadows. Innes reached the shelter first. Rifle in one hand and Megan tucked beneath his other arm, he scrambled from the horse.

Megan’s shriek of fear cut through Carson like a knife. Damn his hide, why had he brought the girls? Why had he let his father infect him with enthusiasm for a land and way of life Carson was obviously ill suited to deal with?

Why did it seem like everyone in this godforsaken territory was out to kill him?

He reached the dubious shelter of the rocks as Hunter leaped from his horse. The mule thundered in right after him.

The sound of rifle fire split the night as Innes cut loose.

The loudness of it shocked Megan into abrupt silence. Hunter took her from his father and handed her up to Bess, whom he ordered to stay mounted. Quickly the boy led that horse and his father’s, now riderless, deeper into the thick cover of cedars. Then he dashed back to hold Winter Fawn upright while Carson dismounted.

“I’m all right,” Winter Fawn said breathlessly. “Leave me. Do what you must.”

Carson took her at her word, grabbed his rifle and ammunition pouch, and crawled up into the rocks several yards from Innes.

The Cheyenne had scattered at Innes’s first shot, but they were still out there, slightly darker shadows flitting around other shadows.

Carson would have sworn—had sworn—that there was no cover out there for man nor beast, yet somehow the Cheyenne seemed to disappear before his eyes. But they were still there. He could hear them. Feel them.

While Carson and Innes crouched, rifles at the ready to repel an attack, Hunter helped Winter Fawn shift in the saddle until she sat astride. He led her horse back into the trees where he’d left the others.

In the dark shadows there, brother and sister shared a long, silent look. They did not need words to know each others thoughts in that moment. The Cheyenne were friends of Our People. Had always been their friends. The two tribes camped together, hunted buffalo together, fought other tribes and white soldiers together. They married each other, lived with each other, prayed to the same God.

Yet their father, to protect Carson and the girls, would shoot them.

The very foundation of Winter Fawn’s and Hunter’s world was crumbling around them. They had left Our People, and now fought their friends.

But in each other’s eyes they read the truth. They would go where their father led them. Anywhere. Any time. His world would become theirs. Maybe someday they would go back to their mother’s people. But for now, their people would be each other, and their father, Innes Red Beard MacDougall of the clan MacDonald from a place called Scotland that was so far away, they could not even conceive of the distance. Each, in that moment, felt that far away from the very world as they had always known it.

Around them, shadows grew deeper, the gray light darker as night slid down the mountain behind them. Thick clouds rolled in from the west and blocked out the sky overhead. Hunter moved away and whispered into the ear of each horse and the mule. Asking them to be silent, Winter Fawn thought, in awe of her brother’s magical ability to talk to horses.

A good thing, too, she thought. She was so tense she must surely be communicating her fear to the poor horse who had carried her extra weight all night.

Bess and Megan sat their horse in petrified silence. Winter Fawn ached for them. She, too, was afraid, but not for herself. Even if the Cheyenne were foolish enough to rush them, she did not believe that she or Hunter would be deliberately harmed. Bess would hold no such belief for herself or Megan. Winter Fawn ached for them.

And she ached for the way Carson worried over them, the blame he placed upon himself for their current circumstances. He had not admitted these things to her, but she read them in his eyes, in the grim set of his mouth. He seemed a good man, this Carson Dulaney. He must be a good man for her father to befriend him and risk so much for him.

The two of them stood now, rifles in hand, to protect their families. She wondered what Carson was thinking just then.

What he was thinking was that the Cheyenne really had disappeared this time. Maybe they hadn’t expected to be fired on. Maybe it hadn’t seemed worth the risk to cross that open ground and straight into gunfire. Carson didn’t care what their reasons were. He was just damn glad they were gone and hoped they stayed that way.

The small juniper grove, studded with huge boulders and flat rocks, butted up against the side of a high bluff. The trees weren’t thick enough to completely conceal them, but it was the closest thing to real cover unless they backtracked into the mountains. It would have to do.

Innes crawled down from the rocks, then, after a few minutes, returned. “Hunter is rigging up me canvass tarp for a shelter. It’s gonna rain like the great flood any minute. Willna last long, though. It’ll just give us a good soaking.”

“And wipe out our tracks.”

“Aye.” Innes grinned. “There is that. Looks like the Cheyenne decided to go look for easier pickins’.”

“Looks like.”

“We might as well all get some rest while we can. I’ll take the first watch.”

“Only if you promise to wake me for my turn this time.”

“Aye, I’ll do it. I’m thinking that if things stay quiet, we’d be just as well off staying here until morning.”