by Stephy Smith
He stopped the sled in front of the cabin. His hand reached out to unlatch the door and he pulled the sled inside. He sent a prayer to the spirits, asking for their guidance.
With wood piled near the stove, Kale filled it for warmth and carried the woman to the single bed near a fireplace. Removing the fur wrap from his fingers, he lit the lantern and placed it near the bed on a chair seat. From the woodpile, he placed wood in the fire and brought a blaze to light up the three-room cabin.
The thought of removing the soaked dress sent flames across his cheeks. With shaky hands, he held the material and cut. He fought to control his eyes, careful not to let them linger on the exposed flesh. A gasp escaped his lips. Her skin was so blue he worried if it would return to its original hue.
Flames roared in the fireplace. The cabin heated and Kale removed his thick winter coat and placed it across the naked body of the woman. He rummaged in the trunk at the end of the bed and placed excess blankets across her legs. Improperly clothed, Kale thought about how long she would have lasted in the cabin of Morgan. His anger and hatred for the vicious man pushed its way to the front of his mind once again.
Morgan abducted many women from the fort and the nearby Indian villages. Every time the man brought one of his captives to the mountain, it ended in death or some kind of permanent damage to the lives of those who survived his brutal torture.
The unfamiliar face of the woman caught him by surprise. Whoever she was, she’d fought hard to keep her life. As far as he could tell, she was still fighting for it. Other than the holes in her chest and bruises across her cheeks from the brutal beating, there were no signs of fight except on her face. He shook his head as his body shuddered at the thought of this small woman fighting against the giant man who’d walloped her.
The air in the cabin warmed with the blaze. He watched the scraped and bruised face regain a pinkish glow. Her skin warmed, but remained cool to the touch. An intense chill shook his body as he pulled the long, wet hair from beneath her back. With a tanned hide, he rubbed her hair to remove the moisture.
His nimble fingers picked the broken branches and debris from the thickness of her hair. He worked it into a long braid, tied it off with a strip of leather, and laid the end to hang from the edge of the bed.
Teeth now chattering, the woman shivered, and he pulled back the coat. With a soaked rag and turpentine, he cleansed the wounds. Although the woman flinched, she never opened her eyes or protested. His heart wrenched at the thought of the burn on her soft skin. With a shake of his head, he covered her.
Kale moved to the stove, his mind on the woman. He set the cold pot of stew to warm. He sent a prayer to the spirits. It was dangerous for an Indian to be in possession of a white woman, injured or not. The whites would place the blame on him.
His body tensed at the reminder of the Sand Creek Massacre in 1864. He had been nineteen at the time. As a young warrior, he had been out with the hunting party when Chivington and his blue coats had hit the camp. He shook the devastation from his mind and glanced at the woman lying in his bed.
With a slight movement of her arm beneath the heavy coat, he ran to her side. The softness of her warmed skin sent a new kind of lightning through his fingertips. He pulled his hand back. Her eyes formed tiny slits and a gasp of pain muffled from her throat. The rise and fall of her chest was steady but shallow.
He pulled back the coat to inspect the wound in her chest. In an instant, he crossed the room to the poultice his mother had left on her last visit. Ready for what lay ahead, he set a pile of clean rags on the corner of the chair. With a long breath, Kale dipped his hand in the poultice, spread it across the open wounds, and placed the coat back across her bare skin.
Kale hurried back to the stove and filled a crude wooden bowl. He carried it to the mat on the floor near the bed. On a grass mat, he sat cross-legged and ate. His eyes glanced at the white woman. There had been no talk of her absence at the fort a few weeks ago, nor talk from his mother’s village. A thing such as a white woman missing would radiate many stories in the village. His mother’s people would send a runner to bring him the news.
There was a loud pop and sparks flew in the fireplace. Kale’s attention twisted to the log burned in half. Mesmerized, he watched as the flames danced to form a figure of the woman in his bed. His heart clenched as many children of different sizes gathered at her skirt. Her smile was as bright as the sun and her eyes twinkled like the stars. He shook the vision loose from his mind. Her beauty took to his soul, even as she lay bashed and battered in his bed.
A rustle from the bed pulled his awareness from the fire. Water pooled over the clear green eyes staring at him. Her lips quivered and her chest labored with each breath. She thrust her head from side to side. Failed attempts to catch her breath brought pain to dull the intenseness of her eyes, and the tears slid down her cheeks.
Kale reached out to motion she should not move.
“You are injured. Lie still. Are you hungry?” He kept his voice soft and soothing. Confusion and fright showed in her eyes. He didn’t blame her for being afraid. His fear was almost as great as hers was. He’d never met a woman that sent lightning to scorch his fingers as she did.
“A little hungry. Pain in my chest. What happened?” Her eyes squeezed shut.
“You were shot by the mountain man named Morgan.” Kale shook with pure hatred for the man.
“I remember I was in a cabin,” she said. “I don’t know him or where he took me, but it was cold and filthy.”
Kale moved from the side of the bed to fetch a bowl of stew for the woman. He held her head steady with one hand and the bowl with the other.
“Not too much at first. If you get sick, you will hurt more.” He lowered her head back to the mattress. He tried to keep his touch gentle when he repeated the action two more times until she refused to drink more.
He stared at her eyes until thick black lashes hid them from his view. A strange sensation startled him when his body started talking and he tried to put the visions from his mind. Heaviness rested beneath his breast. His steady hand went to touch the eagle claw suspended from the leather strip around his neck. “One day you will wear the eagle claw.”
The rhythm of her chest fell in even beats. He pulled back the coat to check for fresh blood and was relieved when there wasn’t any. The whiteness of her skin fascinated him. Although his father was white, he was not as white as this woman. She could not have been in the area for long. People who were in this area for six months developed a weathered look. Her skin was too soft and fresh to have been here any amount of time.
Kale scolded himself for not asking her name. He would have time to ask later. For now, he opted to call her Bright Eyes. Chuckling to himself, he thought, I should call her Stirs My Soul, for that is exactly what she does to me. He gave her one quick glance, then he sauntered away from the bed to collect his thoughts before he returned to apply more poultice and clean bandages.
A few minutes later, he pulled the coat back. Redness around the small holes spotted across her chest. His heart twisted. He heated some water and dipped a rag in it. With extra precaution, he laid it across her wounds, cooing softly to her so as not to startle her with the warmth.
“I’m putting a warm rag on your wounds. They seem to be angry and I need to pull out the fire.” His hands trembled. He prayed she would not fight the warmth. With a deep breath and wince, he laid the coat back across to hold in the heat.
Pausing at the door, he opened it. His eyes went to the ground at the first step in the snow. The cold blast hit him in the face, and he peered at the cloud-covered moon. The bitter cold bit through his moccasins. It didn’t take long before he stepped back into his cabin to shake off the blistering cold.
Chapter Three
A horrid, sour smell wafted under Emma’s nose. The light from the lantern was dim and her chest burned hotter than the fire lighting the room. With a twist of her head, she stifled a gasp when her eyes rested on the man nea
r the cook stove. The silhouette of the man caught her breath.
Does he expect me to eat that nasty stuff? She closed her eyes and fell asleep for the rest of the night.
Pain seared her chest. She raised her hand to her breast bone. A loud huff escaped at the discovery she was bare under the thick coat. Her eyes darted to the man on the floor, and then she glanced around the cabin again. There was no one here except the two of them. Dread filled her. A flush rose to her cheeks. He was the one who had seen her naked body. She closed her eyes until she heard the rustle from the man.
He stirred on the floor. He shifted to his back. Emma thought she was in heaven as she stared at the perfect face. It held strong, prominent features. His eyes had been so tender and full of care when he fed her supper. The searing touch of his hand had been gentle. A fire lit in her heart and consumed the deep depths of her soul. She vowed to carry the man’s image with her to her grave because of the kindness he had shown by saving her life.
She gazed at his sleeping body until her own eyes grew heavy and dreams of him floated into her mind. An overpowering feel that she owed him for helping her caught her off guard. However, her heart told her no. He was a trapper like the man who’d abducted her and shot the gun. Even if he wasn’t the same man who’d pushed her down the incline into the river, she refused to allow herself to trust his intentions.
Horror drummed in her heart; her eyes flew open. She glanced around for some clothes to wear. Where was her dress? Her hand lifted to her brow. The pain burned with the anger of a prairie fire. Weakness dropped her arm to the bed. Tears filled her eyes. She prayed no harm would come from this man.
The logs burned down and the cabin grew cold. The ache in her arms brought moisture to her eyes when she reached to pull the coat close to her chin. She winced and brought her head to the man. A gasp faded in her throat. His dark eyes peered at her and sent a heat through her weakened body.
A need to escape snapped her mind from the man. He was a mountain man. They were mean, ruthless and stank to high heaven. Yet, somehow, this one was different. The neat and orderly cabin held no foul stench of old furs. There was no smell of rotten blood, or signs of chains and shackles hooked to the wall, and he was kind and caring. The sled heaped with pelts stood in the corner.
The man’s lean body stood and disappeared out the door. He returned in a few minutes. Emma supposed he walked out to relieve himself. Never before had she seen a man of his stature. The buckskin he wore showed every ripple of his muscles. Without guilt or remorse, she openly stared at the man. Her breath caught when he whirled about to catch her outward stares.
Unable to trust the man, Emma shrunk into the mattress when he neared. The quiet, confident walk mesmerized her. With breath held, she awaited his approach, and her fingers clenched around the coat to hold it steady under her chin.
“I need to look at the wound.” His eyes held to hers. Heat rose to her face and she shook her head.
“I...can take care of it.” Her voice wavered and she held tight to the bulky buffalo robe. Her body refused to roll away from his reach.
“Bright Eyes, I need to look at the wound.” Emma gazed at the man as his hand tugged on the coat. Kind eyes sparkled at her and white teeth showed in his smile.
“Who is Bright Eyes?” She scanned the room again.
“You.” His smile continued to glisten in the dim light of the cabin. He straightened his shoulders.
“My name is Emma. Emma Donley.” Her voice held a challenge to the puffed up pride of the man.
“I’m Kale Tucker.” She watched the mischievous stars dance in his eyes. “Now, Bright Eyes, I need to check your wound.”
“That would not be proper, Mr. Tucker.” She held fast to the coat.
“What is more important? Life, or what is proper, Bright Eyes?” His stoic eyes burned holes in her heart. His words were not harsh and confused her. He was right and she could feel it.
“Stop calling me Bright Eyes,” she said in her schoolteacher voice.
Growing tired of his steady pull on the coat, she glared at him a moment and released her hold. A loud sigh escaped her lungs and she leaned her head to the side. His gentle fingers pressed on her skin. Sweet scorches of delight ran through her. Embarrassment colored her cheeks. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something besides his touch.
Brilliant flames danced in their enclosure and she focused on the fire. The warm, putrid poultice he applied tossed her stomach, but his touch lingered on her skin. Shameless desire cried out for more as his fingers pressed on the skin around the holes of the wounds. The gentle pressure of his hands restored her with a foreign luxury. A sensation she’d never felt before and needed to know more about.
With a little pressure, he dipped a clean cloth to the poultice. She gazed into his eyes as he concentrated on his healing. His muscular arms held the strength to crush her, and yet, he was so careful she thought she could float on air.
He covered her up with the coat.
“Was that so bad?” His voice was soothing to her ears.
Another round of heat rose across her face and she shook her head. “Mr. Tucker, where am I?”
“We are a few miles from the fort. When you are healed, I will take you back.”
Emma thought she saw sadness in his eyes. Her chest tightened. “Thank you for helping me. I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble.” She lowered her eyes. A tinge of guilt crept over her from keeping him from his work. After all, it was probably his primary trapping season she was interrupting.
“No trouble. I need to check my traps. You are safe here as long as you stay in bed.” Kale strolled to the door. “Uh, Bright Eyes? I’m going to need my coat.”
Panic stricken, Emma glanced down at the coat covering her. Kale held up a bearskin. With shaky hands, she removed the coat, latched onto the skin, and pulled it over her exposed chest. Kale slipped into the coat, walked out the door, and shut it.
For a moment, she lay still. The fire had died down and she tried to push herself up on her elbows. She clamped her eyes shut and swallowed a moan. Pain stabbed across her chest. Her mind circled until she dropped back to the mattress.
The pull in her chest brought tears to her eyes. A wince escaped her lips and she didn’t have to look when she felt the warm liquid flow across her skin. She pressed the cloth tighter and withdrew a bright red, blood-covered hand. A sense of panic flooded over her. The only one to help was Kale and he’d left to check his traps. That left her all alone. Her only hope was to call out for him and pray he was close.
Kale never answered her calls. The rags sat on the chair and she reached for one. Her body rolled to the edge of the bed and she screamed out in pain. Darkness threatened her. Her hand jerked in front of her to break the fall. Stars whirled in her mind and she barely heard the thud of her head before her mind went blank.
Chapter Four
Kale shivered in the cold. The hunger for the woman caused his mind to drift to his Bright Eyes. He could never tell her of his mixed blood, for she wouldn’t understand. Even if she was from the east, a refined woman with her status could never accept him. Pain etched his heart when he had seen the fear in her eyes. Her innocence was caught in a wild, untamed world she didn’t belong in. He reached for the sled and walked down the snow-covered mountainside to the fort.
Outside of the trading post, Kale paused for a few minutes and walked in. He dropped his elbow on the counter and watched his mother, Woman With Small Voice. She waited on the customers. Kale hefted the pelts to a cart so the other trappers could be on their way and he would have his mother’s full attention without interruptions.
“Something wrong, Kale?” His mother’s voice was soft and low. She tilted her head up to him.
He took a quick glance around to ensure they were alone before he spoke. “I need your healing hands.”
“Are you hurt? Where? How?” Her brow furrowed and she ran around the corner of the counter. Her eyes were wide and a fear sett
led in them.
“It’s not me, Mother. Will you come to the cabin with me?” He kept his voice low. She nodded hello as another trapper entered the store with his furs. Kale helped his mother settle the furs on the cart and wheeled them to the back for her.
“Kale, how are you son?” His father appeared in the back of the room. “I knew those were your pelts. It’s nice to see you and your clean pelts again.”
Kale learned from experience of working in the trading post how to grade the pelts. Every trapper had his own style and left his own marks. A worried thought crossed his mind. He stretched out his hand to his father as he walked to him for a handshake.
“You still bring in the cleanest cut pelts I ever seen. Darned if I know where you learned it.” His father’s eyes drifted to his mother working the front of the trading post.
It was true; his mother had taught him how to trap and skin the animal with a clean cut. She had taught him how to clean the hides and make them pliable to turn them into clothing. Although it was woman’s work, he used his skills on the mountain for his own.
