Winter's Touch by Janis Reams Hudson Page A

was setting herself up for another ache in her heart by hoping, but she could not stop herself. Knew, too, that she was too old to be clinging to her father. Grandmother was right; it was time she took a husband and had children of her own. But the mere thought of being given to Crooked Oak made her skin crawl.
    He had grabbed her once last fall, in the woods along the creek. She’d never told anyone, too afraid that if her uncle and grandfather knew that Crooked Oak had put his mouth on hers, had put his hands on her breasts, they would force him to take her as wife. So she had kept silent, and kept out of his way as best she could. So far it had worked to keep out of his grasp, but not, apparently, out of his thoughts, for he had spoken to her uncle recently about taking her to wife.
    She knew that if she was forced to mate with him she would become one of those sad-eyed women whose husbands beat them, because she would not be able to tolerate his repulsive touch. She would not, in all likelihood, be able to stop herself from trying to push him away. For that he would beat her. Not being a docile person, she would fight back. Not being very large, she would be beaten that much more severely.
    No, she could not marry Crooked Oak. Now that her father was here, she must talk to him, must convince him to put a stop to any plans in that direction.
    But her father’s mind just now was occupied with saving the life of his friend, the captive.
    Winter Fawn looked to the blanket beside hers. In the dim glow of the dying embers she could just make out the faces of the two young girls, curled into each other and clinging tightly in their sleep. Tears had left clean marks down their dusty faces. Winter Fawn could not begin to imagine their terror.
    Or their pain, she thought, noticing again the raw scrape and dark bruise on the forehead of the older girl, the one her father had called Bess.
    The urge to reach over and touch the wound, place her hand on it and let the heat flow, was overwhelming.
    What would it hurt? The girl was asleep. Grandmother and Grandfather were asleep. There was no one to know.
    Just one touch. Just enough to ease.
    Is if she were watching someone else, Winter Fawn saw her arm reach out, saw her dark hand press gently but firmly against the pale forehead, the raw, red scrape, the black and blue bruise around it.
    Heat flowed instantly from her hand to the girl’s head. Pain, both sharp and dull, struck Winter Fawn in the temple. Enough pain that she had to clamp hard on her jaw to keep from crying out.
    Enough. She forced herself to pull her hand away. If the touch went on too long, someone would notice.
    Suddenly the girl’s eyes opened and stared straight into Winter Fawn’s. A frown line formed between the girl’s eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but Winter Fawn quickly pressed a finger to her own lips and shook her head. The girl closed her mouth, then opened it again and might have spoken, but something thumped against the outside of the lodge.
    “Winter Fawn,” came a low whisper from without.
    Winter Fawn’s eyes widened. Hunter! What was he doing here in the middle of the night, calling to her in English?
    “Winter Fawn, come out. Crooked Oak is going to kill the white man, and I cannot find father. You must help me stop him.”

Chapter Four
    Winter Fawn motioned sharply for Bess to remain where she was. She knew the girl had heard Hunter. His words had been unmistakable in the still, quiet night. But the girl stayed where she was and did not make a sound as Winter Fawn quickly and quietly slipped into her clothes, wrapped her blanket around her shoulders against the night’s chill, and crept silently from the tepee.
    Hunter, appearing as no more than a darker shadow among dark shadows cast by the tepee in the moonlight, touched her arm.
    “What’s happened?” She whispered in English, as he had done, so that if they were overheard they would not be understood.
    Her brother leaned