Winter's Touch

by Hudson, Janis Reams

  Now someone was sneaking toward him through the dark, and here he sat, trussed up like a pig waiting for slaughter. The only thing missing was the goddamn apple for his mouth.

  The night was so quiet he knew the Indian could probably hear him breathing. When the person stepped from the shadow of the closest tepee into the moonlight, the first thing Carson noticed was the gleam of moonlight along the knife held tightly in a fist.

  Carson’s heart pounded like a drum inside his chest. He had a choice, it seemed. He might be able to kick with his bound feet if the Indian was stupid enough to get in front of him, but he doubted it would do him much good. There wasn’t a thing he could do about that knife. Killing him was going to be disgustingly easy for the sneaking bastard.

  He could yell, but he would certainly be dead before anyone heard him.

  Okay. This was it, then. He was going to die. He would fight if he got the chance, but as long as he was tied to the tree, the outcome was inevitable. The only question would be how he chose to meet it—cringing, begging for mercy, or with whatever dignity he could muster.

  Regrets swamped him, but the largest, the one that nearly choked him, was that he had brought Megan and Bess to Colorado. Please, God, keep them safe. Help Innes get them out of here alive. Help them find their way back home to Gussie.

  That brief prayer steadied him and slowed his heart. It was all he had time for before the Indian was on him. Only then did he realize…it was a woman! He hadn’t been able to see her shape because she was wrapped in a blanket.

  She bent down and leaned toward his head. In a quiet whisper, she said in English, “I’ve come to cut you loose.”

  Carson recognized the voice with it’s soft Scottish burr. It was Innes’s daughter.

  “My brother has horses ready, and the girls are with him. I will take you there.” Then she slipped behind the tree.

  After a slight tug on the rawhide around his wrists, his hands were free. His shoulders screamed with pain as he pulled his arms forward for the first time in more hours than he cared to think about. The blood flowing back into his hands made them throb with agony.

  “Where’s your father?” he asked in a low, urgent whisper.

  “I do not know, but we must hurry.” She crept to his feet to sever the last of his bonds. “Hunter overheard Crooked Oak say he planned to kill you this night.” Her knife sliced through the rawhide around his ankles. “Quickly. We must go.”

  To Carson’s chagrin, she had to help him to his feet. It took him a minute of leaning against the tree before he could feel anything below his ankles, and the pain of returning circulation had him grinding his teeth.

  As she bent down and retrieved the strips of rawhide, Carson heard a noise. An indrawn breath, the shuffle of moccasins along the ground. A quiet word that to Carson sounded like a curse, although it was not spoken in English.

  Beside the nearest tepee, twenty yards away, the shadow of a man loomed. A man drawing an arrow back to fire. An arrow aimed at Carson’s chest.

  Winter Fawn stood and looked toward the shadow. “Crooked Oak, no!”

  With a curse of his own, Carson tried to shove her away. “Get down,” he warned harshly.

  But she didn’t get down, didn’t duck out of the line of fire. Instead, just as the man loosed the arrow, she committed one of the bravest, most foolhardy acts Carson had ever witnessed. Dropping her blanket, she turned and threw herself at his chest, shielding him from the arrow.

  She slammed into him hard. Her breath left her in an abrupt umph. In reflex, his arms came around her to hold her. He felt a stab of pain in his side. He stared down at her, and in the moonlight he saw shock, bewilderment, and pain in her eyes.

  Another rustle of sound had him clasping her close and looking sharply toward the shadows where the man stood. A second man, big and burly—Innes—rushed toward the first, and with a grunt, struck him in the head with the butt of a rifle.

  The Indian fell to the ground.

  Innes rushed to them. “Damn the bloody bastard,” came his harsh whisper. “He’s shot me lassie!”

  It was then that Carson realized the cause of the sharp pain in his side. “He’s shot both of us, but she took the worst of it.”

  “Both?” Innes demanded.

  “Da?” the woman whispered. “Crooked Oak…was going to kill him.”

  “Aye, I saw. You saved Carson’s life, lassie. Are ye bad hurt?”

  “Aye, I be thinking I am. Hunter and…the girls are…waiting with…the horses. We couldna…find ye.”

  “I’m here, now, lassie. Dinna talk. Dinna be movin’.” Innes’s brogue was thicker than usual. “We’ll take care of ye. Shot you both?” he asked Carson again, his voice quiet but tense. “The arrow went clean through her?”

  Carson glanced down and even that slight movement drew a hiss from between his teeth. “Clean through both of us. She’s pinned to me, and I’m pinned to the tree. But she’s got the worst of it. For me I think it’s just under the skin.”

  In the act of pulling the big knife from the scabbard at his belt, Innes paused and cursed under his breath. At least, it sounded like a curse to Carson. It could have been a prayer.

  “Lass,” Innes said, his voice taut, “if you’ve a mind to pass out, now be the time for it. I’m going to cut the arrow off back here, then pull you off of it. I willna hurt you more than I have to, but it’ll still be bad.”

  Looking down into her eyes, Carson could not fathom why she was still conscious, but she was. She leaned her head against his chest and raised to her eyes to his as she answered her father. “Be gettin’ it done, then, Da.”

  “Aye. Carson, can you hold the shaft steady from your side?”

  With another hissed breath, Carson reached a hand between his side and hers. The arrow that pinned her to him left barely enough room for him to grasp it between their bodies. He was relieved to realize he’d been right. While it hurt like a blue bitch, the arrow had skimmed along the outside of his ribs and lay just beneath his skin. That meant his wound wasn’t serious. But it also meant the arrow would be less stable when Innes started to work. He grasped it as tightly as he could.

  His grip made the shaft move slightly, and the woman pinned to him moaned.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He could feel now where the arrow exited her body. It must have entered her back at her waist, a couple of inches from her side, for it came out just below her ribs. “God, I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

  “Ready?” Innes asked.

  “All right,” he whispered. “Do it.”

  With a soft curse, Innes snapped the arrow off, leaving about two inches protruding from his daughter’s back.

  The girl grunted in pain.

  “All right, lass, here we go.”

  Carson held the arrow as steady as possible while Innes pulled her slowly off the shaft. It seemed to Carson that it took forever. Throughout the ordeal, she never took her eyes from his. Something passed between them in those eternal seconds. A communication, wordless, indefinable. She had been pinned to his chest. They had been joined. Connected. A new connection formed now even as she was being separated from him.

  And he thought, I don’t even know her name.

  As the broken end of the shaft slipped free of her flesh, she let out a soft moan and passed out, falling limp in her father’s arms.

  Innes had his hands full, but Carson had a burning need to unpin himself from the tree before anything else happened. He would have to literally walk himself off of the shaft, but he didn’t relish walking himself off the extra six or eight inches that was sticking out of him. He needed to cut it off. “Pass me your knife,” he said tightly.

  Innes looked up sharply. “Give me a minute and I’ll be gettin’ ye unstuck there, lad.”

  “I’ll do it.” He didn’t want to, but he’d dug a bullet out of his own leg once. This couldn’t be nearly that bad. “She dropped her knife there by your knee. Hand it to me.”

  Innes
might have argued, but just then his daughter moaned. He handed Carson the knife and gave the girl his attention.

  Carson gritted his teeth and, using the knife, snapped the arrow off as close to his body as possible. The arrow jerked and sent searing pain through his side. Before he could think about how bad this was going to hurt, he forced himself to step away from the tree.

  It was just a big splinter, he told himself. Nothing more.

  During the few seconds it took him to ease himself forward and off the shaft, his stomach rolled, his vision blurred, and cold sweat broke out across his face and down his back. Then, with a final hiss of pain, he was free.

  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.