Winter's Touch (9 page)

But Winter Fawn, held against him as she was, was going to get jostled and bounced, and it was going to hurt her like hell. She—and he himself—would be better off if she sat behind him, although the horse’s kidneys wouldn’t thank them for it. But Winter Fawn was too weak to hold on to him, especially on this steep climb.

Hunter’s horse lunge up a severely steep spot on the hillside to reach a narrow ledge that led up the face to the top. Carson held his breath, praying Bess would hold on tight, and that she and Hunter wouldn’t both slide right off the horse’s back.

The two made it. Then it was Carson’s turn.

“If you feel like passing out again,” he muttered to Winter Fawn, “now would be a good time for it.”

But she didn’t pass out. He knew by the way she tensed in his arms, and by the occasional quiet, pain-filled moan she tried to bite back. After what seemed like an hour, but which Carson knew was less than ten minutes, they crested the hill and were on top.

Here there was wind, and more trees. They were in the pines now, and above them rose the mountains, blocking out the stars.

Once more he hoped to hell Hunter knew where he was leading them.

Hunter hoped so, too. His heart thundered in his chest with the heavy responsibility of leading his father and the others to safety. Never had he had such an important honor, nor a more harrowing one. Everyplace he knew of that would make a good hiding place for them was also known by his uncle, Two Feathers, for it was he who had shown them to Hunter.

If he could not find a place for them to hide, someone might die. If Crooked Oak found them…

Hunter wanted to spit at the thought of Crooked Oak. To attempt to kill the prisoner after giving his word he would not was dishonorable enough. To injure Winter Fawn in the attempt, even by accident, was unforgivable.

Hunter cursed that he did not have a rifle. Because of the girl hugging his back, he wasn’t even able to carry his bow and arrow; it was strapped onto his father’s pack mule.

He wasn’t certain that he wanted to turn the white man and his rifle loose on any of Our People, but what he wouldn’t give to have Crooked Oak in his own sights.

But first he must find shelter for six people, three horses, and a mule, before daylight.

No small feat this close to camp.

He urged his mount faster. He was sorry for the pain the faster gait would cause his sister, but it could not be helped if they were to make good their escape.

When the horse picked up its pace Bess tightened her arms around his waist. She knew she was afraid, but was she supposed to feel excitement, too? Fear was the most prominent emotion just then, but confusion pushed at it. She’d never ridden astride before, nor had she ridden bareback. She’d never had to run for her life, never been afraid for her own safety before today.

Well, she thought honestly, that wasn’t entirely true. She’d been terrified out of her wits when the Yankees shelled Atlanta. But at least she had not seen their faces. They had not leered at her with paint on their faces and knives in their hands.

Yes, she was afraid now. Surely it was terror that made her mouth go dry, her palms sweat, her heart race.

But there was excitement, too, and she couldn’t deny it.

Wait until Aunt Gussie learned of this!

They made it over three more hills without incident, and down into a narrow canyon before the black of night gave way to the gray of predawn. They rode upstream for nearly a mile, then up the opposite bank and out of the canyon into more pines.

Carson cursed again. It would be full light soon, and Winter Fawn needed rest. She needed a new bandage, too. She was bleeding all over his under shirt. He didn’t care about the shirt, but with every drop of blood she lost, her strength ebbed.

Hunter led them south when he could, west and higher into the mountains when he couldn’t. The sky was light but the sun was not yet up when he led them down another stream, going east this time, following the flow of water. In the patches of sand between the occasional rocky outcropping along the banks, thick stands of willows grew, and now and then, a little grass.

After about a half mile they came to a shallow cave carved out of the north rock wall eons ago about ten yards from the water. Scattered boulders that had fallen from the rim above partially shielded the west end of the opening. It was the best—the only—shelter they’d seen.

Carson looked around, noting the way the canyon curved up ahead. If anyone came from that direction they’d hear them long before they saw them. They would be able to see anyone coming from the west a long way off. The boulders would help shield them from anyone on the south rim. From the north they couldn’t be seen at all.

It would do, Carson thought with a nod. It would do well.

Hunter slipped from his horse and helped Bess down.

Innes dismounted, carried a wide-eyed Megan to Bess, then took Winter Fawn from Carson’s arms.

“I can walk,” she protested weakly.

“Aye, and I can carry ye. Humor yer ol’ Da.”

“Is she going to be all right?” Hunter asked anxiously.

“Aye,” Innes said. “She just needs a wee bit of rest. See what ye can do aboot that trail we left back upstream, the one a blind man could be followin’.”

“Carson,” Bess cried softly. “You’re bleeding.”

Carson looked down at himself. “Most of that is Winter Fawn’s. I’m fine. We need a fire. A small one. Can you gather up some twigs for us?”

“Should I take Megan?”

“Okay, but the two of you be quiet, and keep a look out, and don’t get out of sight.”

Bless Bess’s heart, this time yesterday morning she had been in a hotel, in a town, eating a hot meal at a table, and she’d been complaining. If he had told her to do something, she would have whined. Now, here in the wilderness, on the run for their lives, she merely nodded, took Megan by the hand, and walked quietly toward the willows along the stream. He wanted to grab her up in her arms and kiss her in gratitude.

But there wasn’t time. Winter Fawn needed seeing to, as did the horses, and they all needed food and sleep.

He found a buffalo robe on Innes’s pack mule and laid it out on the ground near the back wall of the cave for Winter Fawn. While Innes laid her there, Carson quickly unloaded the pack mule.

Grabbing his rifle, he led the mule and horses to the stream for a drink. Then he took each animal to a different spot among the willows, hiding them as best he could among the scant cover, while making sure they were within sight and smell of each other. A horse was a herd animal. It was not natural for the animal to be alone. If any of them were very domesticated, they might whinny if they couldn’t see each other. He double checked to make certain each was securely tied. They could not afford for one of their mounts to wander off. In this country, being left afoot was tantamount to a death sentence.

By the time he finished, Bess and Megan had gathered a sizable pile of twigs and small, fallen limbs in the center of the cave, where Innes had directed them. Innes was kneeling beside Winter Fawn, drinking from a silver flask, looking at the blood-soaked bandages, and muttering beneath his breath.

“Is she worse?” he asked.

“She’s no better, that’s for certain.”

“You need clean bandages.”

Carson and Innes looked up to find Bess standing beside them.

“Aye. Would ye be lookin’ through yon pack, there,” Innes said to Bess with a nod toward a pack with two brass buckles, “and findin’ me blue shirt, lassie? We’ll tear that into strips to use, I’m thinkin’.”

Bess turned away to do his bidding, and Innes took another pull from his flask. Then he tilted it up to Winter Fawn’s lips. She had closed her eyes, but when the liquid in the flask hit her mouth, her eyes flew open. She swallowed, then wheezed and choked. The motion jarred her wound, and she moaned.

“Sorry, lass, but it’ll ease yer pain. Take another sip.”

When Bess came back a few minutes later she was carrying several rolls of white bandages.

“Where’d ye be findin’ such a thing?” Innes asked with delight.

Bess blushed. “I had on too many petticoats.”

“Ach, and a fine lasie ye be to be tearin’ ‘em up for me daughter. I thank ye kindly.”

“Can I do anything else to help?” she asked with a blush.

Carson didn’t know where all this cooperation was coming from after the way Bess had acted on the stage and in Pueblo, but he wasn’t about to question the new attitude. “See if you can find a pot in one of those packs and fill it with water. But keep—”

“An eye out. I know.”

“A good lass, that,” Innes said.

“Yes.” Carson watched his baby sister pull a small coffee pot from one of Innes’s packs and, after a word to Megan to stay put, she headed for the stream.

He didn’t know her, Carson realized. He didn’t know this sister of his—his only sister—at all. Perhaps he never had. She’d been around eight when the war started. Up until then they had lived in the same house, but Bess had been under Gussie’s wing since their mother had died when Bess was born, while Carson’s time had been taken up with the running of the plantation.

Coming home from the war last year to find a twelve-year-old young lady instead of his tiny little sister had been nearly as big a shock as realizing that the one-year-old daughter he’d kissed good-bye the day he’d marched off with the 12
^th
Georgia was suddenly a precocious five-year-old. Add to that the sight of their once gracious home burned to ashes, and it had been almost more than he could handle.

God, he’d missed so much of their lives.

And after all that time, he had then missed the entire next year as well when he had come out West to see about the ranch. Now Megan was six and Bess was thirteen, and he didn’t know either of them. And he wanted to. Desperately. They were
his
. A part of him in a way no one else would ever be. His only child, and his only sibling. Even if he had other children some day, Megan would always be his firstborn.

Other children, however, would mean a wife, since he didn’t intend to go around siring bastards. But he didn’t know if he would ever marry again. If he did, it would be to provide a mother for Megan, and companionship for himself. Never again would he let lust, a pretty face, and a comely shape blind him to reality. God rest Julia’s conniving soul.

As a fiancée, Julia Covington had been a delightful tease. As a mother, a disinterested failure. As a wife, a disloyal, unfaithful, lying, cheating, manipulating—

Of course, he thought with chagrin, that didn’t say much for the man who allowed himself to be lied to, cheated on, manipulated, and all the rest.

But that was in the past. Julia had more than paid for her behavior. Carson may have wished he’d never married her—except for getting Megan out of the bargain—but he hadn’t wished her dead.

Only Julia would have been egotistical enough to leave her two-year-old daughter with her husband’s aunt, travel from Atlanta to Boston
in the middle of a damn war
, and flaunt her Yankee lover beneath the noses of her blue-blooded Yankee friends, just to prove she could.

Ah, Julia.

Maybe he was to blame, Carson thought, for not finding a way to make her happy.

But no, he wasn’t going to accept the blame for his late wife’s behavior. She had made it clear early in their marriage that she’d only married him to shock her father.

Shock him, she had. United States Senator Thomas Covington had been appalled that the apple of his eye would even speak to a Southerner, much less marry one, and that had been
before
the war.

Carson shook his head, both at Julia and his bitter memories of her, and at himself, for allowing the memories to surface when he needed to be figuring a way out of this current situation.

Whatever happened, he had to make certain Megan and Bess would be safe.

By the time Bess returned with the water, Carson had spread out Innes’s bedroll where Megan was already curled up asleep, and he’d started a fire small enough to fit into his cupped hands. What little smoke it produced hit the ceiling of the cave and dissipated.

While Innes tended Winter Fawn, Bess insisted on cleaning and bandaging his arrow wounds. The offer—more of a demand—floored him. Once again he thought,
Who is this young woman?

When she finished, he borrowed Innes’s knife and cut strips of willow bark to make a tea for Winter Fawn. There was nothing like willow bark tea to ease pain.

Bess crawled into the bedroll with Megan and fell fast asleep. Poor little girls, so tired and afraid.

Carson tried not to watch as Innes helped Winter Fawn sit up, then pulled her doeskin tunic up and bared her ribs, but he couldn’t help himself. That beautiful, honey-colored flesh was torn and bleeding. It was a sacrilege. Her face was gray with pain. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes.

For him. Because of him. Because she’d seen the danger and put herself between that arrow and him. “Why?” he heard himself demand. “Why did she throw herself in front of me that way?”

“She isna sure,” Winter Fawn answered tartly for herself. “But she’s gettin’ a wee bit tired o’ being talked aboot like she was deaf. Or dead.”

She spoke with more energy than Carson would have thought possible, and more of a burr than she’d had the last time she’d spoken. Carson suspected that both were the result of the whiskey. Seeing Innes run a length of thin black thread through the eye of a needle, he realized she was going to need it.

Despite her pain and paleness, there was something regal in the way she held her head and met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Need any help?” Carson asked.

“Aye.” Innes insisted that his daughter lay down on her side. “Find something she can bite on. This is going to hurt like a blue bitch.”

In one of the packs Carson found a wide leather strap. That would do. He carried it to Winter Fawn and held it out.

She looked at it, at the needle in her father’s hand, then swallowed. “Thank you.” With a hand that trembled, she took the strap and placed it between her teeth.

While Innes stitched her flesh together, Carson steadied her with a hand to her shoulder. She barely flinched, but her eyes were squeezed shut. The sight of the single tear that slid from one eye burned into him.