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Small Bird was the perfect choice, especially as Swift Foot had saved her life years before. Their future had been decided by their past. But for their people to survive the coming darkness, the two would have to win each others hearts. On the sleeping mat or wrapped in furs, on riverbank or dusty plain, passion must somehow blaze to life between the half-breed chieftain and his new wife...and they had to start the fire soon, for dusk had already fallen.

Excerpt:

Missouri River, Early Spring, 1810

A chill wind swept across the muddy river, racing over the ground and tearing through tree tops. Gleeful as a small child bent on mischief, it sent leaves and other debris spiraling around a man the size of a small mountain.

The trapper wore his long, black hair in a single tail, the ends brushing the row of fringe stretched across his broad, muscular back. Arms bulged, thighs bunched as he lifted a bale of beaver pelts from the ground and smoothly set them in the dugout canoe. The soft brush of beaver caressed his fingers. Fox, squirrel and mink followed. Working quickly, John Cartier lashed and covered the mound with a square of canvas.

Satisfied that the furs were secure, he strode over to the other canoe and repeated the process. Overhead, the sun rose over the horizon. Excitement danced in his whiskey-colored eyes. After enduring the harsh winter elements' weeks at a time spent checking trap lines, bedding down on the cold ground with only a piece of canvas to shield him from the driving rain and snow--it was time to take the furs to St. Louis, sell their cache and purchase supplies for next year's season.

For the last two years, they'd just taken their furs to one of many trading posts along the Missouri. This year, his grandfather had business in the city and had decided they should haul their furs there to sell. John grinned. Nothing could dampen his spirts, not even the bitter bite of cold seeping through his buckskin shirt and breeches. It seemed like a lifetime since he'd been to St. Louis, not three years.

"What shall we do first?" he asked Fang, his three-legged wolf. The animal lifted his ears and barked then wagged his tail. John chuckled. Often, he went weeks or months without hearing the sound of a human voice and talking to his animals kept him from losing his mind. Unfortunately, the habit was hard to break when his grandfather and cousin were around.

He grinned, anticipation of the trip spurring him to work faster. There was so much he wanted to do in the few weeks he'd have: heated baths, a soft feather bed, real food and the opportunity to be around crowds of people. Trappers from all over would converge on Saint Louis, same as him. And if he was lucky, he'd find a woman who'd offer some companionship--and maybe share his bed as well. There would be no shortage of eager and willing women.

"I'd get me a woman first," a sulky voice intruded. Willy, John's cousin hunched his shoulders. "Don't see why we can't all go!"

John glanced at Willy, noting the sullen pull to his mouth. "There's work to be done here. Traps need repairing, knives sharpening and someone has to stay with the shack else we'll lose it." The shack, a crude log building, was their base, a place they returned to with their fur goods.

"How 'bout I pay you ha'f a my share to stay? I'm sick of this place." It fell to Willy to stay at the shack and guard their furs when John and his grandfather went out to lay and check traps. Sometimes they'd each be gone weeks at a time depending on how far out they had to go in search of the rich pelts.

Shaking his head, John knelt to check the contents of his heavy back pack. "Not a chance, cuz. I won the draw fair 'n square." He glanced up at his scowling cousin. "Besides, you'll spend your money in town before you return."

Willy narrowed his eyes but didn't protest. "Come on, cuz. Yer better at takin' care of all this stuff. I ain't got the patience for it."

John cringed at the whining tone. Willy acted more like a boy of fourteen rather than a man of twenty-four. Though only two years separated them, he felt as if it were many more years.

When John didn't respond, Willy kicked a rock, not caring that it nearly hit his cousin. "I hate this godforsaken place."

Folding his arms across his chest, John resisted the urge to tell Willy it was past time for him to accept his share of responsibility. But he didn't. From past experiences, he knew it wouldn't accomplish anything except put his cousin in a foul mood. He gave Willy a hard stare. " You don't have to stay. Gramps would understand if you left to make your own way." Actually, John knew he'd be happy. Willy was often more trouble than help.

Willy narrowed his dark brown eyes, his gaze calculating. "Yeah, bet you'd like that, huh cuz? Then, when the old man goes, you'll git it all."

Impatience lined John's voice. He stood. "Knock it off, Will. You know there's not much. The shack isn't worth anything, and by the time we split the cost for new equipment, supplies and trade goods for the next year, there won't be much left over for any of us." He struggled to keep the impatience from his voice. After all their grandfather had done for them, it disgusted John to know that Willy stuck around only to be sure he got his share.

Willy rocked back on his heels. The wind tossed his bushy, unkempt hair the shade of the muddy river, tangling it beyond hope. "Don't forget the money in the bank from the sale of the house." His tone dared John to deny it.

The two cousins glared at one another. John hadn't forgotten about the house. After the death of Willy's mother, their grandfather had left city life behind for the wilderness. He'd sold the house, land and business to John's father. Willy still thought it belonged to their grandfather, and that he was entitled to a share.

John drew in a deep breath. He'd only learned the truth a few years ago, during his last trip to St. Louis. The proceeds of the house and everything in it belonged to him. He was a wealthy man. John had asked his grandfather why he hadn't told him of his wealthy status before. His grandfather had said he'd wanted to make a man of John before turning him loose with a sizable inheritance.

Remembering how he and Willy had pretty much done as they pleased, spent what they'd wanted, John appreciated his grandfather's wisdom. Left to themselves, the money wouldn't have lasted.

Willy still didn't know. If he knew about the money, he'd be bitter and angry and John didn't want to listen to his endless tirades of how unfair life was, nor did he want to be constantly hounded for money. He had no illusions about his cousin. The man wouldn't give him a moment of peace if he knew that the money belonged to him, and that he had free access to it. Willy would expect John to feel sorry for him and support his habits while he did nothing. The only reason Willy was even here with them was because he thought the old man would cut him out if he left.

Ready to leave, John faced his cousin. "There's more to life than a bit of coin."

"Only cause you've always had some." Willy's voice turned bitter. "You always got it all. But not no more. Ain't no one takin' what's mine."

John didn't know why he even bothered to continue this discussion. The result was always the same: him feeling frustrated, and Willy angry. Troubled by his cousin's bitterness, John picked up his Springfield musket and bag of ammo, ignoring Willy's continual tirade.

Willy grabbed his arm, forcing John to acknowledge his presence. "I'll give ya my new hunting knife and half my share." He pulled a knife from a leather sheath hanging on his belt and held it up. "Prac'tly brand new."

Staring hard at Willy, John waited until his cousin released him and stepped back. He was about to refuse when he spotted his grandfather walking toward them. The old man's face bore the leathery lines of too many years in the harsh outdoors. But this year, he looked older. Worn out and tired. The winter had been especially harsh and he looked as though he'd aged ten years over the last few months.

Willy eyed his grandfather, then smirked at John. "Come on, cuz." He spoke loudly, deliberately allowing their grandfather to overhear.

John saw his grandfather's mouth tightened. He tried to keep his anger in check but knew by the glint of determination in Willy's eyes, that his cousin wouldn't let up until they shoved off. Sighing with defeat, John gave in. The last thing John wanted his grandfather to have to deal with was another scene like last night's. He'd finally stormed out of the shack, unable to put up with Willy's bitter accusations.

"All right. I'll take the knife and half your share." He jabbed his finger at his cousin. "This is the last time I give in to you. If you don't want to trap, then do us all a favor and stay in St. Louis."

Willy grinned widely and rubbed his hands together. "Can't wait to git outta here." He slapped John on the back. "Gonna gits me a woman when we git to town. Women, some honest to God whiskey, and mebe a few games of cards." Willy started to rush off.

"Willy!" When his cousin stopped and looked at him, John held out his hand. "I'll take the knife now."

Willy stared at the gleaming knife in his hand. "Figured I'd give it to you after I got back. Might need it on the trip."

"Not a chance, cuz. You can take my old one with you." John tossed his old knife to Willy, knowing Willy was more likely to lose the new knife in the same manner he'd won it, in a game of cards.

Grudgingly, Willy handed over the knife then hurried off to get ready to go.

Gascon Cartier frowned at John beneath bushy white eyebrows. "Fell for his line of crap again, didn't you, son."

John grimaced. "No. Just figured I'd have to work twice as hard when we returned. A few weeks in St. Louis doesn't seem worth it." Without their grandfather or John around to make him work, Willy would spend his days drinking rotgut and lazing around.

"Lazy and no good. Just like his pa."

Glancing over his shoulder at his grandfather, John sighed. "Your attitude doesn't help, gramps."

The old man snorted. "Bah! Only thing he's ever cared about is himself. Maybe if your mother had taken him in earlier, he'd have turned out differently. But that bastard he had for a father refused to give him up, used the boy to get money out of me. And I gave it to him--wanted to help support the boy."

He sighed in disgust. "No good drunkard used it to buy drink and women and let his son run wild. Forced me to cut him off and by the time he dumped your cousin onto your parents at ten, it was too late. The damage was done." Gascon slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Truth to tell, son, I'll worry a lot less with you here but I didn't want to deprive you of the trip. God knows you deserve it."

"There's other trips." John swallowed his disappointment. He'd really looked forward to the trip. But his grandfather was right. Aside from equipment repairs, the shack needed major work, and while not much, it was better than a dugout or a lean-to made of canvas like most trappers used.

Gascon cleared his throat, his voice gruff. "Your father would have been proud had he lived to see you grown into a man. Give me one more year. If left to me, I'd probably die out here, but you're young and need to settle down." He stretched out an arm, then rubbed the elbow. "Hell, I'm getting old. Can't move as good anymore. Maybe it's time for me to call it quits."

The last of John's resentment died. He loved his grandfather and would sacrifice whatever needed to give him peace of mind. "Go. Sun's up. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

"Then we've said all that's to be said." Gascon walked away. Moments later, John was left standing alone in the dappled sunshine.

"One more year," John reminded himself while setting a pan of bear fat over the fire. When the fat sizzled, he added kernels of washed and dried corn to it along with some strips of raw rabbit he'd snared earlier. After eating his supper, John bedded down beneath the trees, bathed in absolute darkness with the sounds of insects buzzing, owls hooting and Fang, his three-legged wolf snoring at his side. Staring up into the sky, he waited for the arrival of Lady Dawn to bring light into his life to chase away the shadows of the night.

CHAPTER ONE -- PART ONE

Late Spring, 1810 Territory of Michigan

"Satan's spawn!"

The harsh bellow shattered the early afternoon peace, startling Emily Ambrose. Her hands froze in mid-wring as her gaze flew from the pile of laundry to her father, a tall, rail-thin man, with a wild mane of ash-brown hair. The tails of his overcoat flapped angrily behind him as he marched down the bank with a bible in one hand and a whip-thin switch tucked beneath his arm. He stopped less than a foot away from where she knelt in the shallow water.

"Get up!"

Rushing to gain her feet, she nearly fell when she stepped on the sodden hem of her dress. She gained her balance and stared up at her father with wary eyes. "Father?" Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

She shivered, not from the cold of the river, but from the icy contempt of the man who'd sired her. Emily cringed and took an involuntary step back at the fury snapping in her father's eyes. Since the disaster at the mission, he'd given her the silent treatment and she'd stayed out of his way. Until now. Those horrid words were the first he'd spoken to her in weeks.

She trembled, unable to bear the terse silence and the torturous wait. "Father?" she repeated, her voice a mere whisper. She didn't know what had caused him to break his silence. The fact that his fury had kept him silent for so long boded ill for her. Her fingers bunched in her skirts, and water lapped at the soaked hem, tugging at the fabric, as if trying to pull her out of her father's reach.

His eyes narrowed to furious slits, his sharp chin jutted out as he clenched his jaw. His face turned a mottled hue of red and purple. "Devil's daughter!" he exploded, leaning over to deliver a stinging blow to her face with his open palm.

Her cheek stinging, Emily bit back her cry of pain.

"Have you no shame? No decency," he spat, his voice rising then ending abruptly as he ran out of breath.

Fear kept Emily as still as a deer scenting danger in the air but unlike that wild animal, she had no place to run. Biting her lower lip to still the trembling, she wondered what had set her father off!not that it took much on her part to anger or upset him.

Timothy glared down at her, his gaze raking over her, his hand shaking as he pointed a long, bony finger at her. "You're no better than the whore who gave birth to me."

Emily glanced down at herself and gasped when she caught sight of the bodice of her mother's old wash-day dress. To her horror, the swells of her ample bosom had escaped the too small confines of both her dress and the long shift she wore beneath it. The shift was low cut, the dress several sizes too small and far too tight in the bodice. It had inched down without her being aware of it. A frantic glance behind her revealed the shawl she'd worn earlier laying on the bank.

"Please, father," she begged, "I meant no disrespect. My dress is hanging to dry and Ma's dresses don't fit. I don't have any others." Her voice shook. Watching her father's mouth tighten, Emily knew it didn't matter. He wouldn't care that she only had one dress. He'd view her lack of decency as another act of rebellion, against not only himself, but against God. In his eyes, there was no greater sin.

With crazed eyes, he grabbed the switch with his right hand. "Whore!" Down came the switch.

Emily ducked to avoid a blow to the face, crying out against the sting of pain burning across the back of her shoulders.

"No good!" A second blow seared across her back, the thin material proving no barrier to the slashing force of the switch.

"Sinner!" Another followed, and another.

"Father, please," she begged, falling to her knees on the muddy bank, hunching over, using her arms to protect her face.

"Daughter of the Devil!" He shoved her with his booted foot then kicked her in the ribs.

Emily whimpered and curled into a tight ball. Her apparent disregard for modesty had destroyed the cold control her father had worn since he'd taken them from the mission. With one little innocent action, she'd unleashed the storm. Emily feared his wrath as never before.

She cried out with the sting of another lash, this time on her thigh. Sobbing, she cowered on the ground, helpless to stop the wrath raining down on her.

"Timothy!" Her mother rushed over, but Emily didn't look to her for help. No one stood against her father when he was in one of his righteous rages.

He speared his wife with eyes gone mad. "You bore the seed of Satan." He lifted his arm.

Beatrice grabbed his arm. "No! Leave her be, Timothy. In the name of Jesus Christ, leave her be," she begged, risking his wrath.

He tossed her aside. "Look at her. Clad like a whore."

"Timothy, be reasonable. It's wash day. There's no one else around. Tonight, I'll sew her a new dress."

Her mother's interference earned her a slap. "You're no better, wife, encouraging her sinful behavior. And I won't waste good material on the likes of her. It's her own fault she ruined her last dress."

Emily knew better than to protest. The bodice of her dress had been ripped beyond repair during her struggle with Father Richard

"Please, Timothy. For the love of God!"

"Do not use the name of our Lord when talking about her. She led a Jesuit into temptation." His voice rose. "A man of God! She has no regard for my work. She has destroyed me."

Emily lifted her head and brushed the muddy water and strands of wet hair from her face, tired of being blamed. "I didn't do anything wrong, father," she sobbed. How many times had she tried to convince him? Yet he still refused to listen to her. "Father Richard tried to rape me. You saw it! You were there!" Her voice broke.

"Spawn of Satan," he shrieked with unrestrained and unholy fury. He stepped back.

Emily gasped, her father's cruel words piercing her heart, causing more pain than his beating. But Timothy, mired in his own narrow beliefs, stared down at her as if he'd never seen her before, as if she were some condemned heathen instead of his only child. Then he shot his wife a look of loathing.

"This is your fault."

His eyes went blank. His voice reverted to the cold, flat unemotional tone he'd adopted since their exile. "No more lies. No more living with the shame. We're leaving. Now." Timothy spun around and stalked off.

Emily shivered. Water lapped at her skirts, but she shook too much to stand. Her father had gone crazy. The eerie light in his eyes frightened her more than feeling the lash of his anger. Her hair whipped across her face and she hugged her arms tight around her body.

Beatrice, white with fear, bent down and stroked her daughter's face and smoothed the pale strands from her face. "I'm so sorry, Emily." Sorrow edged her words.

"It's not your fault, Ma," Emily tried to comfort her mother who was as much a victim as she when it came to Timothy Ambrose and his strict, religious beliefs.

Her mother laughed bitterly. "It is my fault, daughter. And I'm more sorry than you will ever know." She stood, her shoulders bent as if under a great weight. She sent Emily a pleading look. "Stay out of his way this eve, Emily."

Emily stared at her mother, seeing a downtrodden woman who blended with her surroundings, devoted her life to serving God and tried to be the perfect missionary's wife. She set her jaw, forcing the tears back. "Why won't he listen to me? He was there. He saw it. Why won't he admit the truth?"

Emily fought the memory but like a nightmare, it haunted her. Father Richard had shown up at their small one-room house after her parents had left to take food, medicine and the word of God to a nearby Indian village. The Jesuit often asked her to help with his correspondence. But that day had been different. He'd leaned close, his breath fanning her cheek. Uncomfortable, she'd tried to shift away but he'd laughed, and held her in place while kissing her on the lips.

She'd told him to stop but he'd refused. When she struggled, she fell off her chair. He'd pinned her beneath him on the floor and had his hand up her skirts when her father walked in unexpectedly and found her crying and fighting off the priest.

Emily shuddered. "Father saw me fighting him, saw me trying to get away but Father Richard said I'd invited him in, and had teased him until he gave in to temptation." She stared up into her mother's eyes, needing reassurance. "You believe me, don't you, ma?"

Beatrice closed her eyes. "Yes, Emily. I do."

A loud thunk from the wagon drew their gazes. Timothy was tossing food boxes and equipment haphazardly into the back of the farm wagon he'd purchased years ago!when they'd made their living going town to town so he could preach. They'd never stayed long in one place though.

Bitterness welled deep inside her, seeking release. "He hates me." She waited for her mother to defend Timothy, to tell her that she was wrong. But she didn't. Her silence said it all. Deep inside, Emily hurt. All her life she'd tried to live up to her father's expectations, tried hard to prove herself worthy of his love. But no matter how hard she tried, she'd never gained his love or even a kind word. He hated his own flesh and blood.

"I'm so sorry," Beatrice repeated. "This is my fault. If only!"

Emily waited for her mother to finish. But she seemed lost in another world. "If only what?" she prompted. But she knew. If only she'd been born a boy. Her father made no secret of his contempt toward women.

Shaking her head, her mother looked old, sad and guilt ridden. "Just stay out of his way Emily. Millicente said as soon as her husband returned, she'd have him organize a party to come after us. When they do, I'll send you to a friend in Kentucky."

"I hope so," Emily said, her gaze following her father's angry movements. Millicente Dufour was their only chance. The woman also lived at the mission, staying there when her trapper husband left. She helped school some of the native children and she'd befriended her mother. Sometimes, Emily snuck over there to help her, but mostly to be around cheerful and loving woman.

"Wife!"

Beatrice jumped at the harsh bellow. Seeing her father watching them, Emily got to her feet. After years of traveling from church to mission, going further and further away from civilization, her mother had finally tried to put her foot down. She'd refused to leave the mission for the wilds of an unknown and untamed land. Her parents had fought and Timothy had told Beatrice she could stay, but Emily had to stay with him.

Emily tried to smile. It came out a weak grimace. "You had no choice," she said, "now go." She didn't want her father to turn his anger onto her mother.

Timothy believed women, all women, needed to be sternly governed as they were the daughters of Eve. That it was a man's responsibility to keep them subservient and firmly under control. And if prayer or lectures didn't give him the desired result, then he resorted to physical punishment. Timothy had not spared the rod on his only child.

"Stay here until we're ready to leave," her mother whispered, gathering up the basket of laundry and hurrying toward the wagon.

Emily planned to stay as far from her father as she could. Biting back moans of pain, she stared out across the flowing river, finding no peace in the sparkle of sunlight on the water, or the gentle sway of trees lining the banks.

Picking up her shawl, she wrung the excess water from it and draped it over her shoulders. She shivered from both the cold and the pain of the water on her open welts. Pacing along the bank, she knew she had to find a way for both of them to get away from Timothy Ambrose. His fanatical devotion to the Bible, and to all things holy, had gotten out of hand as had his treatment of both her and her mother. More and more he compared her to his own mother, who'd been forced to use her body in a brothel to survive.

Emily thought of the grandmother she'd never met. Her father had never gone back to see his mother after he'd run away from the brothel with a visiting Methodist preacher at the age of twelve. The man had taken him in, and later, her father had married the preacher's daughter!Beatrice. But his hatred of his mother ran deep and affected his ability to deal with women, even those in his own household.

For as long as Emily could remember, her father had been a cold distant man. The older she'd gotten, the worse he'd become, as if the simple act of her body maturing from child to woman made her evil. It didn't help that she attracted the attention of men wherever she went. It just made him even more unreasonable, insane even with regard to her looks.

"It's not fair," she whispered. She hadn't asked God for the extra curves and flesh on her short figure. In fact, her looks!both her generous bust and her white-blonde hair and blue eyes--had brought her nothing but trouble. It didn't matter if men were married, young or old. They looked.

A few brave men had even tried to court her, but her father refused to let anyone near her. The more persistent a suitor, the more hours her father forced her to spend on her knees in prayer, begging forgiveness. If he caught lust in the eyes of a married man, he'd take a belt or switch to her, accusing her of using her body to entice them into committing adultery. But the final blow had been Father Richard's downfall. Tempting a man of God had made her the daughter of the devil in her father's eyes.

In short order, the wagon was loaded, the mules hitched. When Emily spotted her father heading toward her, holding the well-worn Bible in both hands, she clutched the ends of the shawl tightly around her, swallowing a moan of pain as her arms and shoulders burned with every movement.

"Kneel, daughter of Satan." He closed his eyes and clutched the bible to his chest, as if drawing strength from the Lord's words as most drew in air.

Emily bit back a cry of protest at the abominable name he called her. Gingerly, she knelt, wincing as she assumed the expected pose: clasped hands, the picture of a sinner begging forgiveness, though she prayed not for forgiveness, but for her father to be brief. She'd done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn't her fault that he refused to part with any of the cloth reserved for trading with savages so she could sew a second dress for herself. Sometimes it seemed that her greatest sin lay in being born a female eighteen years ago.

Timothy lifted his voice in prayer. "Hear me, Father in Heaven. I have tried to instill virtue and humility in this child entrusted to my care. But I can do no more. She refuses to act in a manner befitting a humble servant of God. She has forsaken the church; she lures men of God down the path to hell."

He paused. Emily risked an upward peek. Her father's eyes were wide open, staring heavenward. His voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes closed as if in pain. "The day I left my mother's life of sin behind, I promised my life to you to atone for her sins. I can do no more here. Take this child and do with her what you will."

Timothy stepped back and stared down at her with eyes chillingly empty. "I have no daughter."

Emily stared up at her father, in confusion. Instead of anger in his eyes, she saw nothing. No emotion. It was as if she no longer existed. An ache settled in her chest. His outright rejection left her breathless. "Father?" Her voice choked.

"The Lord has spoken. This is His will." Taking another step away, he stared down at her. "You, daughter of Satan, are at the mercy of our Lord and God. You live or die by his hand. Come, wife, we are leaving. We have His work to do."

Her mother rushed forward and put her arms around Emily. "Timothy! No. You've lost your mind. We can't leave her. I won't leave my daughter!"

Emily clutched her mother's arm when it sank in that her father planned to leave without her, that he planned to abandon her in the wilderness--in the name of God. "You can't do this," she whispered, numb with disbelief, stunned to know that he hated her that much.

Timothy backtracked and yanked her mother away. He dragged her sobbing and pleading figure toward the wagon without a backward glance. "You too will pay for your sins," he told her.

Sobbing, Beatrice fought to return to Emily, but her husband knocked her to the ground with his fist. Then he reached down, grabbed her and tossed her up onto the wagon bench.

"No!" Emily jumped to her feet and ran after her parents. Fear as she'd never known left her shaking so hard, her teeth chattered. He wouldn't do this. He couldn't. She was his daughter, no matter what he'd said.

"No! You can't leave me. Ma! Don't let him do this. Don't leave me! Father! Please!"

Her father whirled around. "You are no daughter of mine. Begone!" He picked up the reins and urged the mules forward. Her mother screamed until another blow silenced her.

Emily ran after the wagon. "How can you do this? This is not the will of God. What about forgiveness? What about love?" She grabbed hold of the back of the wagon as it left the shadows of the tall cottonwoods.

The wagon stopped. Relieved, she tried to still her frantic breathing. Her father would take her back if she begged. If she promised to be good. She'd pray on her knees all day if that's what it took. "Please, Father!"

She froze at the sight of the shot gun in her father's hands, her heart springing up into her throat. Sitting beside him, her mother sobbed brokenly.

Timothy pointed the gun at her. "Get away from the wagon. I have no daughter." The harsh words were cold and devoid of emotion. At his side, her mother had her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

Fearing that he'd actually shoot her in the name of the Lord, Emily stood in horrified shock as her father snapped the reins and continued onward without her. Her breath came in short gasps. Hysteria threatened to choke her. Backing up in disbelief, the hard trunk of the cottonwood stopped her retreat.

Numb with fear and shock, she stood there, watching, unable to believe he'd truly meant what he'd said. He'd disowned her. He'd abandoned her. He hated her so much, he wanted her to die.

Surely her mother would stop him. But the wagon rocked and swayed across the uneven ground. It didn't stop. Her mother didn't jump down and run back to her. Instinct urged her to follow. But she didn't. She had no doubt her father would kill her if she tried to follow!and justify it because he believed her to be the Devil's daughter.

She had to do something but she couldn't move. She felt like the tree at her back, rooted to the spot. What was she going to do? How could she survive out here alone? She had no food. No blankets. No weapons. No family. She'd die out here, and no one would ever know.

"What am I supposed to do?" Panic clawed at her insides. She'd never been so afraid in her life. Each breath came in short gasps. "Please, tell me what to do." She wasn't sure if she was praying or if she even believed in God anymore. Closing her eyes, Emily leaned her head against the tree, her fingernails digging into the rough bark as she tried to stop her world from spinning out of control. She had to gain control. Had to think.

But her mind had gone blank, her heart numb. She slid down, and wrapped her arms around her knees, unable to accept the fact that she'd just been abandoned. Surely her father would change his mind and turn around. And her mother? She couldn't just ride away and leave her. She was their only child. This had to be part of her punishment. Her mother knew he'd stop and fetch her. Or if he didn't, she'd come back. Together, they'd head back to the mission and let Timothy Ambrose go on his way.

Glancing up, seeing the wagon lumbering along without her, reality set in. He'd meant it. And there wasn't anything her mother could do. Fear overshadowed any lingering thoughts of hope.

"Oh God, what am I going to do? I don't want to die," she sobbed, resting her forehead against her up-drawn knees as she fought the nausea welling inside her. Her body trembled and shook so hard, her sides ached. She clasped her hands together, ragged nails digging into her flesh. The trembling increased. Turned to a rumble, as if the earth beneath her was angry at the injustice.

Read the next chapter of WHITE DAWN

Reviews:

** Perfect 10 ***
WHITE DAWN is a truly amazing story of friendship, love, trust, family and the struggles of life in the wilderness. The characters are likable and well developed leaving nothing to the readers imagination. Emily must learn that love doesn''t mean hurt and abandonment, it can be more so much more. Swift Foot struggles with his love for a white woman and his devotion to his tribe. John is the kind of man every woman would love to have in their lives, he is devoted, listens, is a true friend, and wants nothing more than to make the woman in his life happy after all she is the other half of his heart. This story held me in its grasp as Emily went from a hurt young woman to one that believes in love and happily ever after. The descriptive narrative vividly brought to life the wilderness in all its glory.

Susan Edwards has delivered a well-written, heartwarming story with a strong message about what love is all about. This book kept me burning the midnight oil. I heartily recommend WHITE DAWN for an unforgettable read!

— Carol Durfee, Romance Reviews Today

**** 4 Stars
". . .This entire series ROCKS! Don't miss out!"

— HUNTRESS BOOK REVIEWS (Reviewed by Detra Fitch)

WHITE DAWN is an excellent installment in Susan Edwards ""White Series"". The characterization and rich narrative are both superb, and the plot flows seamlessly and smoothly. Both John and Swift-Foot are wonderful heroes, each loving Emily in their own way. Emily is also a very strong character and handles all of the obstacles thrown in her path intelligently. The supporting characters are fully realized and several beg to be brought back in subsequent stories. Readers who have been following this series will savor WHITE DAWN and look forward to the next story.

— Betty Cox, Member Reviewers International Organization (RIO) (to be posted at Reader to Reader)

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