Winter's Touch (8 page)

He stood still a moment and took stock. There was pain, but not a great deal. Nothing that would slow him down. There was blood, but again, not much. Not enough to worry about.

Not so with the woman at his feet. Innes had her on her side and had pulled her doeskin blouse up so he could inspect her wounds. Both were bleeding.

Knowing his gray flannel under shirt would keep him warm enough, and not really caring if it didn’t, Carson tore off his shirt and handed it to Innes, who ripped it into strips. They made thick pads and pressed them against her wounds hard enough to make her moan even though she was still unconscious. In the moonlight her flesh was paler than his. That such beauty could be so terribly abused appalled him and offended his senses.

“Dammit,” Carson swore while slipping her knife down inside his boot. “Why did she do a fool thing like that? She doesn’t even know me. She saved my life and I don’t even know her name.”

“Her name be Winter Fawn,” Innes supplied.

“She’s your daughter, I take it.”

“Aye. Me firstborn, she be. The very image of her mother, God rest her soul.”

“I’ve got a feeling God’s gonna rest all our souls if we don’t stop this bleeding and get out of here.”

They packed more pads against her entrance and exit wounds and used the last of Carson’s shirt to wrap around her waist to hold the pads in place as tightly as possible.

Innes knew Winter Fawn would be well taken care of by her grandmother, yet he hesitated to carry her to the tepee. Once he left camp it would be obvious to all that he had helped Carson escape. Because Innes was about to disappear with the captive, her uncle and grandfather would no longer honor his instructions that they not give her in marriage without his consent. Two Feathers would see her wed to Crooked Oak before her wound was even healed.

Oh, yes, Innes had heard the talk. Crooked Oak wanted her. But Innes could not stand the thought of his bonnie lass tied for life to that bloody bastard who could think of nothing but war and killing, who took such pleasure in both.

Carson did not know why Innes hesitated, nor did he care. Something compelled him to reach for her and lift her in his arms, ignoring the pain of his own wound. She had saved his life. He still couldn’t get over it.

As Carson took her from his arms without a word, Innes considered it a sign that she was not to be left behind. So be it.

Two Feathers was troubled by Crooked Oak’s vow to kill the white man while everyone slept. Such an act seemed dishonorable to him. Where was the glory in killing a man tied to a tree? Killing him when no one would see?

If Crooked Oak was planning to torture and scalp the captive, that was one thing. Having him tied to the tree then made sense. But that was not what Crooked Oak planned. Torture resulted in screaming, and Crooked Oak did not want to wake the camp. He simply wanted the white man dead by his own hand. He did not care if no one knew he had done it.

Two Feather probably should not care. Crooked Oak was his friend and a strong warrior. They thought alike on the subject of whites and war: they each wanted to use the latter to rid the earth of the former.

But they had given their word before the entire camp that the man would not be harmed during the night. That is what troubled Two Feathers. For not only did such a vow mean that he could not harm the man himself, it also obligated Two Feathers, and every man in camp, to see to it that no harm came to the captive.

He did not want to fight Crooked Oak to save a white man. He, too, wanted to see the man dead. But he preferred to wait and convince the rest of the camp that the man’s death was necessary. He did not like this sneaking around in the dark.

Yet sneaking around in the dark was exactly what he was doing. When he could not find Crooked Oak, he left camp and circled around in the woods to come upon the white man from behind, to see if anything was wrong.

He was still more than a dozen yards beyond the edge of camp when he stepped onto the path that would lead him near the tree where the white man was tied. He was not expecting anything this far into the woods, so when the dark shadow loomed up before him, he stumbled backward.

A shaft of moonlight penetrated the overhead branches. In that instant he saw the white man carrying Winter Fawn, and she was covered in blood. The white man had gotten free and was kidnaping her! She might be the daughter of a white man, but she was also Two Feathers’ own niece, the daughter of his sister, Smiling Woman. No white man was going to hurt her and carry her away!

As he reached for the knife at his side, Two Feathers opened his mouth to shout a warning to rouse the camp.

Carson recognized the man and his intent. He freed one arm from around Winter Fawn and struck him in the jaw. The Indian’s head snapped back and hit the trunk of the tree immediately behind him. He slid to the ground, unconscious.

Ahead of Carson, Innes heard the commotion and turned back. He squatted beside the downed man and grunted.

“Is he dead?” Carson asked.

“Nae, and just as well. I wouldna like to explain to the lass that we killed her uncle.”

Saying nothing, Carson held Winter Fawn against him, putting pressure on her wounds as best he could, and waited while Innes bound and gagged the Indian and dragged him deeper into the woods.

“We dinna want the bastard wakin’ the whole camp and comin’ after us.”

“You didn’t tie the other one.”

“Nae. He’s no’ aboot to admit shooting at you and hitting Winter Fawn. He’ll make his way back to his lodge and wait until morn to be shocked by news of your escape.”

Carson said nothing as he followed Innes down the moonlit path through the trees.

The path ended at a clearing beside a rushing stream. Bess, Megan, and a tall, muscular Indian boy of about fifteen rushed forward.

“What happened?” the Indian boy asked anxiously. “Is she dead?”

“Nae,” Innes told him, “but she’s hurt. ‘Twas Crooked Oak wot done it. We hae ta git oot o’ here in a hurry. Lad…son, I never meant to make ye choose between me and yer mother’s people, but if ye’ve a mind to come away wi’ us, they might not be wantin’ ye back again, so think careful on it, and think fast.”

The boy straightened his shoulders. “I ride with my father. If I be welcome.”

“More than welcome,” Innes said fervently. “Carson Dulaney, my son, Hunter. Now, let’s be gettin’ ourselves oot o’ here afore Two Feathers and Crooked Oak come to and set after us.”

Carson felt the girls moving close to him “Are you two okay?”

Bess nodded.

Megan said, “I’m scared, Daddy.”

Carson’s heart squeezed. Both girls looked so terrified. He wanted to take them into his arms and hold them tight and promise that nothing would ever scare them again. But there wasn’t time, and his arms were full, and the ordeal was far from over. He couldn’t bring himself to make promises he knew he couldn’t keep.

“I know you’re scared, sweetheart,” he told his daughter. “We all are. But we have to be quiet now so we can get away without anyone hearing us. Can you do that? Can you be quiet for us?”

In the moonlight, Megan gripped Bess’s hand and solemnly nodded.

Hunter had prepared well. The boy had brought Carson’s wagon team and Innes’s horse and pack mule, complete with pack, to the clearing.

The pain in the back of Carson’s head was making itself felt sharply, along with the new pain from the arrow. He didn’t want to have to chose whether Bess or Megan would ride with him. The shape he was in, they were safer riding with Innes and Hunter. Hell, he didn’t even have a weapon with which to defend them if the need arose, except for the knife he’d tucked in his boot.

Without waiting, he settled the matter by climbing into the saddle of the nearest horse, with Winter Fawn still in his arms. It wasn’t an easy maneuver on any of them, but with gritted teeth, he managed it.

Then he realized he’d taken the only mount with a saddle. The other two horses were his wagon team, and hadn’t been wearing saddles.

Innes waved away his concern and mounted one of the team, then had Hunter swing Megan up to his arms. Innes seated her before him on the horse’s withers.

Before mounting the remaining horse, Hunter went to each animal, stroked its neck and whispered into its ear. Maybe it was some Arapaho custom, but Carson wished the kid would hurry. The skin along the back of his neck was crawling.

When the boy went to Innes’s horse, Innes leaned down and whispered to his son. A moment later when Hunter whispered into the mule’s ear—when the hell was all this damn nonsense going to stop so they could get on their way?—he started fiddling with the packs on the mule’s back, then turned back toward Carson.

Carson took back his last thought when he realized that Hunter was handing him his rifle and ammunition pouch. A series of emotions crossed the boy’s face. Uncertainty, fear. Pleading. Resignation.

Carson understood. The rifle would be used, if necessary, to kill people Hunter had known all his life, perhaps his friends, perhaps a member of his own family. Yet still, he offered the weapon.

What irony, Carson thought, that an Arapaho boy should have so much in common with hundreds, maybe thousands of men in the recent war, each of whose loyalties had been tested again and again in battle as he faced the horrifying reality that the next enemy he killed might be his best friend, his cousin, his brother. His father. Yet each man stood and fought for what he believed in. As Hunter stood with his father, perhaps against his mother’s people.

Carson shuddered, grateful he had never had to face that particular nightmare. In the scant second between his grasping the rifle and Hunter’s releasing it, during that instant when it was held by both of them, Carson silently vowed to do his best to see that no one had to die in whatever confrontation might come between him and Hunter’s people.

Hunter released the rifle and turned toward his own horse. While he mounted, Carson raised the breech-loading carbine and pulled down on the trigger guard lever. With the hinged barrel now slid forward and tipped down, he inserted a brass cartridge into the barrel, then locked the barrel back into place. He loaded the roll of percussion caps, then slid the rifle into the saddle scabbard.

He looked up in time to see Hunter hold out his hand to Bess. Without a comment about the impropriety of riding astride, God bless her, she swung up behind the youth and held on. Fear, it seemed, was a good motivator.

“How do we avoid the Coyote Men?” Innes asked his son.

“We cut over the hills beyond the stream and head west, into the mountains.”

“Lead the way, then, lad, and be quick about it afore we hae more company than we be wantin’.”

“Aye, Da.”

Hunter, riding double with Bess, nudged his horse across the stream. Innes waited until Carson crossed. The mule followed, and Innes took up the rear. They entered the woods, so thick and dark it seemed impossible for Hunter to know where they were going. Carson had to trust his mount to follow on its own, for he couldn’t see beyond the animal’s ears. Couldn’t even hear the horse in front of him. The thick woods seemed to absorb sound.

He hoped that meant no one in camp could hear them leaving, either.

When they’d gone about a quarter of a mile, the ground started rising. As the way became steep, the angle of ascent pressed Winter Fawn more firmly against Carson’s chest. She moaned and opened her eyes. Seeing him looming above her, and maybe feeling the movement of the horse, undoubtedly startled her. She jerked, then cried out in pain.

Carson leaned down until his mouth was close to her ear. “Easy,” he said quietly. “Don’t move around, or you’ll hurt yourself.”

She stilled, but he felt the tension in her body. “Where are we?” Her voice was weak and tight with pain. “Where’s my father? My brother?”

“They’re here, both of them. Your brother is riding head of us, with my sister. Your father is behind us with my daughter.”

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know.” He kept his lips next to her ear so he could speak low enough that his voice would not carry. “Hunter is leading us over the hills west of camp to avoid the Coyote Men. What are Coyote Men?” Maybe if she talked she wouldn’t think so much about the pain, or about the fact that she was being carried away from camp by a stranger.

“Outlooks. No, lookouts. That is the word. Lookouts.”

The darkness ahead suddenly didn’t seem quite so dark, and a moment later it was lighter still. The trees were thinning, growing farther apart. Then, abruptly, Hunter pulled to a halt. Carson’s horse stopped automatically.

Winter Fawn tensed in his arms, but said nothing as total silence descended on them. Even the horses seemed to be holding their breath.

After a long moment, Hunter must have satisfied himself that the way was clear, for he nudged his horse out into the open. A moment later all three horses and the mule had broken out of the woods into bright moonlight. The ground ahead was broken and rocky, with absolutely no cover as it rose sharply to the top of the hill.

Carson had made many a night march during the war, but his soldering instincts protested being so exposed. The prickling along the back of neck grew sharper. He hoped to hell the kid knew where he was leading them.

At least with the moonlight Carson could see Bess ahead of him. She had her arms wrapped around Hunter and was holding on tightly. From the looks of the trail ahead, she would need to.

He looked behind and saw Megan propped astride the withers of Innes’s mount. She looked snug as a bug, tucked up against the big man’s chest. Innes’s arms appeared to cradle her gently yet firmly. As long as Innes could keep his seat without benefit of saddle on the coming steep trail, Megan would be safe.

As for Carson’s extra passenger, he would just as soon she passed out again, because the ride to the top of the hill was going to be rough. If they had to have only one saddle among them, he was glad to have it, assuming—hoping—that both Hunter and Innes were more used to riding bareback than he was. At least he stood a half-way decent chance of not falling off the damn horse, adding insult to injury and slowing them all down.