On the other side of the river, further upstream, she spotted a large group of riders heading toward her parents. She started to stand, but the yells filling the air chilled her soul.

Savages!

Not help from the neighboring missions. Instinctively, Emily shrank down low, pulling her shawl more tightly around her. Normally, Indians didn't frighten her. Those who lived near the mission had been friendly. But from the cries filling the air, and the lances held high overhead, she knew these Indians were not friendly.

They splashed through the water, riding in mass toward her parents. Her gaze returned to the stopped wagon and she watched in mounting horror as her father climbed onto the seat and stood tall, his bible held high for the savages to see.

"No! No!" She tried to warn her father but the words seized in the back of her throat.

Horrified, she saw a flurry of arrows fly through the air. Stunned and helpless, she watched her father topple from the wagon amid her mother's screams. The mules bolted, the savages gave chase. Stunned, and helpless, Emily gasped when her mother fell beneath the wagon's wheels.

"Dear God, no," she sobbed, over and over, more scared then she'd ever been. Instinct took over. She slid around the trunk of the tree, further back under the brush and deeper into the shadows, making herself as small as possible. She covered her head with the shawl, the shades of brown on both dress and shawl blending in with her surroundings.

Wild yells continued to echo. Numb with fear, Emily buried her head beneath her arms, afraid, yet feeling guilty for not being able to help her parents. The knowledge that she was helpless to do anything didn't help.

After what seemed hours, the acrid scent of smoke filled the air followed by more loud, victorious cries. Peeking through the brush, she saw the savages riding away, continuing in the direction her parents had been headed. In their arms, they took blankets and bolts of material meant for trade with the very savages who had just murdered her parents.

When the earth's trembling and triumphant yells died away, Emily stumbled to her feet and stared at the burning wagon in the distance. The mules were gone. Cloth from torn clothing fluttered across the land.

"Ma," she whispered. A dark shadow passed overhead. Then another. Emily glanced up then cried out at the sight of the large vultures soaring closer, circling overhead, waiting. Running out into the open, Emily prayed as she'd never prayed before. Reaching her mother, she fell to her knees. Blood from an arrow stained the bodice of her dress and dribbled from her mouth. Her legs lay at awkward angles to her pelvis.

"Ma!" Emily grabbed her mother's hand. The skin felt chilled. Her mother couldn't be dead. "No. Please no," she cried.

"Em?"

Startled at the faint whisper of sound, Emily glanced at her mother. "Ma. Oh God, you're alive. You're going to be fine. I'll take care of you." The rush of words left her mouth as fear shoved back the impossible truth.

"No. Too late. Take..." She broke off as a spasm of coughing hit. Blood bubbled from her mouth.

"Don't talk." Emily glanced around frantically. She had no idea what to do. Should she remove the arrow or wait? "Please," she whispered. "Help me. I don't know what to do." Deep in her heart, Emily knew it was too late but she couldn't give up without a fight. There had to be something she could do. Pressure on her fingers drew her attention back to her mother.

"Locket. Take it. Yours. Have to tell you . . . before I go..."

"No, ma. It's yours."

Beatrice attempted a weak smile. "Father . . . Truth--." Her hand fumbled toward her neckline.

"Wait. I'll do it." Emily didn't want her to exert herself. She knew about her mother's locket, worn pinned to the inside of her chemise. Gently she unpinned the locket and held it in her hands. It felt chilled, like her mother's fingers.

"Sorry, child. My..." Another spasm hit.

Emily gently wiped the blood from her mother's lips. "Mother! Mother!"

. . .fault. Not his. Father--made--me . . ."

Alarmed at her mother's growing weakness and the steady trickle of blood seeping down the side of her mother's mouth, Emily begged, "Don't talk, Ma. Please." Tears streamed down her face. She didn't need anyone to tell her that her mother wouldn't make it.

"--always loved you. Go...Kentucky...where you...born. Matthew Sommers...find--" Beatrice paused, then spoke again, her voice filled with desperate strength as she lifted her head. "Mission...Millicente...knows truth. She was going to take us to him. She knows--where to find... Your father--good man. Go to him..."

Confused, Emily stared down at her mother as she tried to make sense of the jumble of words. But before she could say anything, ask anything, her mother choked on a final gasp.

"Love yo..." Her head rolled to the side, all life gone.

Emily stared at her mother's still body in disbelief. "Ma?" She couldn't be dead. Couldn't have left her. "Ma, please don't leave me," she sobbed. She leaned over her, the locket clutched in one hand, and cried. After what seemed like a long time, she lifted her head. Around her, birds of prey were watching, inching closer, their long wings outstretched as they squabbled for position.

Jumping to her feet, she shouted and chased them away, watched them soar high and circle. Turning, she saw her father sprawled nearby. Going to him, she bent over, called his name. She shook his shoulders, but got no response.

Returning to her mother's side, she sat, her knees drawn to her chest, unable to comprehend that she was truly alone. Opening her fists, she stared at the locket. Inside, twin ovals of her parents stared out at her. Fresh tears welled as she stared at a much younger image of her mother. On the opposite side a sketch of her father stared back.

Hate rose inside her. How could he have done this to them? Her mother had wanted to return to civilization, fearing that the untamed land was no place for her or Emily. Her father refused to listen to her, or to the others who'd tried to warn of the dangers.

Furious that his blind faith and religious zeal had ultimately caused her mother's death, Emily scratched at his likeness, unable to bear looking upon it. Finally, she tore it out. To her surprise, she found another portrait hidden behind her father's image. Peering close, she saw immediately that it wasn't her father, but the face of a stranger.

The young man appeared around the same age as her mother in her picture. He had light hair...much lighter than her mother's. In the picture, it looked nearly white--like Emily's. Recalling her mother's jumbled words, and her father's comments, the inconceivable truth dawned. If she'd understood her mother correctly, this man, a stranger named Matthew Sommers, was her blood father.

Timothy Ambrose had not been her real father.

Stunned, Emily could only stare at the man her mother must have loved a lot in order to risk her husband's fury by carrying around his likeness all these years. Staring out at the smoking remains of their wagon, Emily tried to accept the inconceivable truth.

So much made sense now: her father's hatred...not just toward her...but to them both, his obsession with her behavior, his fury if she so much as talked to a young man.

She'd thought him over protective, or obsessed with his own hatred over his own mother's lack of morals. Only it hadn't been just his mother who'd given him reason not to trust women. It had been her own mother's lack of morals as well. And the scene between her and Father Richard had sent him over the edge.

Though she should have felt sorry for her father...for the man who'd raised her...she couldn't. He'd blamed her for something she couldn't control. She didn't know if he'd known about her before he'd married her mother, but it was obvious he'd known Emily wasn't his. For all his preaching about forgiveness, Timothy Ambrose hadn't been able to forgive her mother...or accept her child into his life. The irony that it had been his hatred of her that had saved her life wasn't lost on her.

Bowing her head, she cried for all that had gone wrong in her parents' lives and hers. For all the hurt and anger and bitterness. She cried until her throat felt raw and her eyes hot and dry. Standing once more, she pinned the locket to the inside of her shift then rummaged through the debris of the wagon until she found the shovel with just a bit of burnt handle left. After spreading the shawl over her mother's body, she piled dirt over her then added rocks and pieces of the wagon to the mound to protect her ma's body from the scavengers.

She did the same for her father, though she had to force herself to do it. Her Christian upbringing wouldn't allow her to just leave him. Though she didn't want to feel sorry for him, she did. Somewhere over the years, he'd gone crazy, turning to the bible to hide his anger. It seemed only fitting to bury the bible with him. When she was done, she poked through the smoldering ashes for the rifle and knives. But the savages had taken everything of value and what was left was useless here in the wilderness.

Emily stood there, smoke and ash swirled around her. Above her, birds of prey formed a dark cloud. The wind whipped her skirts back and her long pale hair streamed out behind her as she stood over the scene of death. Shivering, she finally returned to the concealing safety of the woods.

Fear of the savages kept her on the move, following the river back the way she'd come. Anger and her will to survive gave her the courage to attempt the impossible trip back to the mission. It would take her weeks of walking to return and she had nothing to help in her bid to survive but her own determination. If she were lucky, she'd come across Millicente's husband, Henry, or some other trappers she knew in the area.

And once she returned to the mission, she planned to go to Kentucky to the land of her birth, and find the man who'd ultimately caused her a lifetime of misery.

Bitterness from a life filled with hate demanded she find the answers. She'd let this other man know just what his actions had caused. One thing was clear. If her mother hadn't married Timothy, none of this would have happened.

CHAPTER TWO -- PART ONE

Night shadows stretched across the land. Set against a sky of gleaming onyx, thousands of stars twinkled, welcoming the glow of the moon as it rose high to sit upon its throne and bathe the earth below in silvery splendor. Down below, creatures of the night flew across the sky, ambled through the shadows and skittered through the underbrush.

Alert to each bird call, each buzz and chirp of the insects, Swift-Foot moved lightly, his leather-covered feet making no sound as he followed the glistening river. Around his shoulders, his long, black hair danced and flowed, merging into the depths of the night.

The sudden flurry of a deer leaping from the bushes startled him but he didn't stop. Instead, he quickened his steps so the mother would return quickly to guard her babe from the predators roaming the area.

Stopping, he studied the night sky. The path he took led him further from his people. He yearned to turn around and go back but he couldn't abandon the child he'd been tracking since that afternoon. The cooling breeze at his back pushed, as if urging him onward. Squatting, he spotted the shoe prints and knew the one he followed was tiring; the steps were closer, the toes of the shoes dragging through the soft soil. The trail grew faint and faded near the thick wall of trees lining one side of the river.

Deciding to rest and resume his tracking in the early light, he sat with his back to a tree. He didn't want to risk losing the trail in the dark. Leaning his head back against the rough bark, he stared out into the night, watching the moonlight glitter over the fast-moving river. The breeze off the water was a welcome relief after the scent of death he'd come upon several hours ago.

Wearily, he thought of the two graves he'd come upon. The couple had been killed by the Sioux. His people, but not his tribe. But what concerned him was the presence of a third white in the area, the one who'd survived to mound dirt and bits of the wagon over the bodies. After a brief search of the area, he'd found small prints following the river, heading east.

Worried that a child roamed the vast land, he'd followed. He'd been led to this land. Perhaps this child held the answer to his troubling dreams. He sighed. Whether or not this child held any answers, he could not leave him or her out here alone. Children were gifts from Wakan Tanka and were to be treasured and cared for, whether Sioux or white.

Swift-Foot thought of the couple. In the dirt, dug up by the wolves, he'd found a thick black book that he recognized as a white man's holy book. This meant they were whites who called themselves Missionaries, or Fathers, or Men of God, a most contradictory and confusing group of white men. They called his people heathens, savages and came to teach the Sioux to pray to their God. Yet these men did not seem to understand that man was of the earth. They ignored the spirits of the maka. The Sioux did not trust such men who only listened to one spirit but these men normally posed little threat to the mighty Sioux. In fact, his people studied them, and learned much from them.

Overhead, a huge, winged shadow slid across the sky, wings outstretched as if seeking to touch the glittering night lights. Then, without warning, the owl folded back its wings, and shot silently toward the ground with the speed of a well-made arrow. Swift-Foot watched the bird rise once again with a triumphant cry and soar off with a small creature clutched in its sharp talons.

He admired the bird of prey. Strong. Silent. Built for speed and stealth. Qualities he and all other warriors sought to emulate. Once the bird faded from sight, he closed his eyes. Sounds of the night lulled him into a light sleep: the call of the night birds, the howls and barks of the wolves, the rustle of small mice and other rodents scurrying through the undergrowth, and the ever present buzz and noisy cadence of insects. His breathing slowed, each deep breath he inhaled moist from the river, and tasting of pine. Images flowed across his mind. His body relaxed as sleep claimed him.

Into the recess of his mind, a sharp and sudden cry startled him awake. His eyes flew open; it was the same cry that had haunted his dreams since winter and the reason he'd been sent away from his tribe. His shaman had ordered him to seek answers to this disturbing dream. He was to allow the spirits to led him until he had his answers. For months he'd searched. And nothing. Just the haunting cry which came to him during the darkness with more frequency than before.

He jumped to his feet, unsure whether the cry had been real or an echo in his mind. He listened intently but nothing seemed out of place. Closing his eyes, he stood still and waited. Just when he was convinced it had only been another dream, the cry came again; louder. Shrill. Sharp. Filled with fear. Chills traveled up his arms. With his heart racing, Swift-Foot rushed through the trees.

This was no dream.

His fingers tightened around his bow as he slipped from shadow to shadow, following shrill screams of terror.

Emily stood with her back to the tree, a thick branch in her hands, waving it at two coyotes crouched five feet away. "Go away," she shouted, jabbing the limb at the animals. They jumped back, but then crept forward, each coming toward her from a different direction.

Icy chills skittered up and down her spine at the sound of low growling. The one to her left snarled. She waved the branch at it, then heard the snap of teeth from her right. Oh God, I'm going to die. "Not like this," she prayed, staring in horror at the two animals closing in on her.

Fear made it hard to breathe. Crying wouldn't save her. Maybe nothing would. But she wouldn't give up. Moving fast, she swung the branch first to her left, then right. The coyotes sprung back, startled by her move. She tried to back away, tried to find a tree to climb. But the fierce animals didn't give her enough time, and she didn't dare turn her back on them. With heads down, the fur on their neck standing on end, they stalked her.

Emily struck out with the branch again and again but it didn't take long for the animals to anticipate her move. Hope of making it back to the mission on her own died as anger took hold. How could her father have done this to her? How could anyone treat another in so cold a manner.

He'd judged her then had condemned her to death. Bitterness lodged in her throat. She was tired of being a victim. Facing the vicious attack of the coyotes, she screamed her frustration, shouting at them, trying to frighten them into leave her alone. Yet she knew they would not.

With no warning, a dark figure rushed out of the shadows and lunged forward, startling both the growling coyotes and Emily. Vaguely aware of rocks being hurled at the animals, his voice joined hers as he waved and shouted. The two tannish-gray bodies turned toward the new threat.

Emily didn't wait to see if the animals attacked him. The savage posed more a threat to her than the coyotes. She turned and ran. Once out of sight, knowing she couldn't outrun him, she debated climbing a tree to avoid both the savage and the coyotes. But the trees were either too tall, or too sparse of leaves in the lower branches to hide her.

She found a thick clump of bushes and ducked behind them, drawing her knees up to her chest and burying her head in her arms. She scrunched her eyes closed and waited and prayed. Would the savage win over the coyotes? In the distance, she heard a howl of pain, followed by high-pitched barks. Nausea made her take several deep breaths. To her relief, silence fell. Abruptly. Completely. Time seemed to stand still.

No insects chirped or buzzed near her head. No rustling in the bushes behind her. No owls screeching overhead. The silence unnerved her. The hairs on her arms rose, and she broke out in an icy sweat. She shivered, but not from cold. Something was out there. Near her.

The savage.

Her heart hammered in her ears as she slowly lifted her head and opened her eyes. A slight crunch of leaves warned that something was near.

Please, let it be a racoon. Or a badger. Not a wolf. Not a coyote. Not the savage. Please God, not the savage.

Bile burned the back of her throat, the pain so great, she couldn't swallow. When the shadowy shape of two feet stopped near her place of hiding, her eyes widened in terror.

Feet. Legs. Two of them. They bent at the knees, and hands parted the bushes. In horror, Emily stared at the shadowy face of the savage. She wasn't sure which was worse: being raped and killed by him or torn apart by the coyotes. Both were predators and either way, she was going to die. Tears of helplessness slid from her eyes.

The savage stared at her in wonder. He reached out to touch the wetness on her face, spellbound by the color of her hair and the softness of her skin.

The sound of his harsh, guttural voice and the feel of his fingers skimming over her face released Emily from her frozen stupor. She screamed, scrambled to her feet and ran for her life. If she was to die out here, she'd die fighting. Adrenaline pumped through her as she hurled herself around trees and bushes. The savage shouted. She heard his steps as he ran after her.

"No. No," she gasped, running as fast as she could in the dark. She hadn't survived today's massacre to be killed or worse, taken captive.

Heavy steps behind her spurred her faster. Harsh, painful sobs tore from her. Even knowing she could not outrun the savage chasing her, Emily ran for all she was worth, ignoring the painful slaps of low tree limbs on her face and neck. Any time, she expected to feel the savage's hands on her. Grabbing her. And when something yanked her hair, she screamed. But it wasn't the Indian. A hank of her hair had tangled in a low branch.

Desperately, she pulled but the branch refused to give and she reeled backward, caught. Using both her hands, she tore at the tangled strands.

The savage reached her. His fingers closed over hers.

"Let me go!" Emily shrieked, flailing her fists, tearing her hands from his. She couldn't turn. Couldn't run, so she kicked out with her feet. Her heel made contact with a solid shin bone. The hiss of breath near her ear confirmed she'd hurt him. With all her might, she aimed another heel at him. But her foot swung free, the force sending her falling forward. She'd have fallen if not for the tree's hold on her hair.

"Please," she sobbed, "go away. Leave me alone." Her fingers clawed at his, her skull ached from the pull of her hair. Oh God, was he going to scalp her? Slice the hair from her head? She'd heard of such out here in this wild land filled with savages doomed to an eternity of hell--according to her father.

"Ayustan!"

The order startled her. When she didn't continue to fight him, he gently pushed her hands aside and tugged her hair free strand by strand. Emily's chest heaved with each breath. When she felt the last bit of her hair come free, she tried to sprint forward, but his hands held her hair wrapped around his fist. His other hand clamped down over her shoulder and forced her to turn and face him.

Ready to lash out, Emily lifted her head, then gasped as the faint moonlight revealed the features of the savage. An impossibly handsome face. She'd seen many savages, young and old, but none with the beauty of this one. It didn't seem odd to use the word beauty to describe this man. Shadows hid his eyes, but the moon light illuminated a long, straight nose, full lips, high cheekbones and smooth skin pulled across a strong jaw.

A strong, handsome face was her first impression. He seemed young, a few years older than her, she guessed, her gaze drawn to his dark hair which floated around his face, and streamed over his shoulders. The wind blew a few strands of his black hair to lay over hers. Light and dark. Day and night. White and savage.

He took a small step closer, surrounding her with his heat and the scent of pine and man. Her heart, if possible, beat just a bit faster. But when he brought the hand tangled in her hair to his face, panic at the thought of being raped took hold. She hadn't survived the fate of her parents just to die at the hands of this savage. It didn't matter that he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen. He was a savage, and her desire to live gave her courage to shout, "No!"

The savage froze, his hand stilled in midair. He said something, his voice low and soothing. Slowly, he released a small strand of her hair, letting it fall slowly so it separated like hundreds of gossamer spider webs. He pointed to the moon then let the rest of her hair fall slowly so the fine ribbons of light shimmered and fluttered around her face. With gentle fingers he traced the slim line of her jaw, running his fingers over her cold, wet cheeks.

All hope of escape fled. Though she feared what he'd do, she didn't bother to run. It was no use. She knew it. He knew it.

Was she about to experience the horror of all the stories of captive women that she'd heard about? Friends of her father had warned him against taking his wife and young daughter into the wilderness to do his Godly duty. Members of their last congregation had tried to warn him of the dangers. Even the pastor's wife had begged her father to allow Emily to stay with her and her family, but her father refused. He was heading north and no one could stop him.

She could only hope that the end when it came would come quickly. "Don't hurt me," she begged, staring up into the savage's impassive, dark features.

The Indian lifted his hand. Emily ducked instinctively. He gave her a quizzical look then pointed back the way they'd come. She understood his gesture but her feet refused to move. She felt like a condemned man asked to walk to his death. He grabbed her arm and pulled.

"U wo!"

Emily knew she had no choice but to go with him. She moved slowly, dragging her feet, lagging a step behind him. He stopped in the clearing where he'd found her and let her go. Several pouches and a roll of fur lay on the ground where he'd dropped them.

Noting his bow and a quiver of arrows, she couldn't help but wonder if he'd taken part in the brutal killing of her parents. Did he plan to kill her as well? Biting her lower lip to keep the tears from spilling, Emily glanced away. She grieved for her mother, would always remember the sight of her falling from the wagon and the slow, painful way death had claimed her. But she'd never mourn the loss of the man she'd grown up calling father.

The stroke of fingers down her face brought her back to the present with a jolt. She jumped. The savage watched, the expression in his eyes hidden by the night shadows. Now what? If he grabbed her, she'd fight. If she was going to die, she'd rather it be quick rather than drawn out. She took a step back, relieved when he didn't reach out to stop her. Survival instinct demanded she run but she didn't. There was no way for her to escape. Not in the dark. Not in the day. Not anytime.

He hunkered down and picked up a pouch. He pointed to the ground where a short while ago she'd lay curled up trying to sleep until the arrival of the coyotes. Moving slowly, Emily sat, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. She kept her eyes on the Indian, watching his every move.

He came to her and sat so close that their knees nearly touched. Emily averted her eyes away from the sight of his naked flesh, covered only by a breechclout. The lasts years spent traveling from one mission to another, she'd seen many nearly naked men. Some who even went about with no regard for clothing or those who might see them. But never beneath the stars, and never alone.

Smooth, taut skin rippled as he leaned forward and held something out to her. The savage motioned for her to eat.

Emily took the long strip of dried meat. She and her mother had visited many of the women in their tipis and had seen them making the jerked beef. Though the meat was bland, hunger demanded that take it from him.

Slowly, the sounds of the night returned. When the savage stood, she edged away in fear. But all he did was unroll a large fur and lay down a foot away. It looked like a buffalo robe. He patted the space beside him. Her heart thudded against her chest. Was this it? Did he plan to rape her now? Wide-eyed, Emily shook her head, making no move to go to him. He shrugged and closed his eyes. Emily held her breath and watched him. Hope rose. Maybe while he slept she could escape.

She waited a long while, her heart hammering. Then she slowly edged away. A sharp command proved he was just as aware of what was going on with his eyes closed. He turned his head and indicated she should sleep.

Hesitating, Emily lay down on the ground and curled up, her eyes fixed on the savage so close, she heard the soft intake of each breath. Realizing he didn't plan to attack her--at least not yet, her body, exhausted from the day's events slowly calmed, the numbness fading to allow her to feel the cold seeping into her bones. Her teeth chattered and she clenched her jaw until it ached. Though summer had arrived, the nights were still cold.

Something warm and soft dropped over her. A muffled scream escaped as her first thought was that he'd climbed on top of her. She quickly realized he'd given her his fur. The weight of the thick fur, still warm from his body's heat, took the chill from her bones.

Confused at his actions, Emily stared at him as he lay back down. Why had he given her his fur? Why hadn't he forced himself on her? What would he expect of her on the morrow? Too tired at that moment to care, Emily burrowed into the warmth. She welcomed the oblivion of sleep.