White Dawn: Book One of Susan Edwards' White Series [NOOK Book]

Read an Excerpt

Early spring

A chill wind swept across the muddy river, racing over the ground and tearing through treetops. 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. His arms bulged, his thighs bunched as he lifted a bale of beaver pelts from the ground and smoothly set it in a dugout canoe. The soft beaver furs caressed his fingers. Fox, squirrel and mink followed. Working quickly, John Cartier lashed and covered the mound of pelts with a square of canvas.

Satisfied that the furs were secure, he strode over to a second canoe and repeated the process. Overhead, the sun rose above the horizon. Excitement danced in him. After he’ d endured the harsh winter elements—weeks at a time spent checking traplines, 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 his family’ s cache and purchase supplies for next year’ s season.

For the past two years, he, his cousin and his grandfather had 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 spring 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 its ears and barked, then wagged its tail. John chuckled. Often he went weeks or months without hearing the sound of a human voice, and talking to Fang or the animals he was always nursing back to health was his only relief. Unfortunately, the habit was hard to break—even when his grandfather and cousin were around, as they were now.

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 in the city: heated baths, a soft feather bed, real food, and the opportunity to be around crowds of people. Trappers from all over would converge on St. 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 possibilities.

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

John glanced at him, noting the sullen pull to his cousin’ s mouth. "There’ s work to be done here. Traps need repairing, knives sharpening, and someone has to stay with the shack or 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 half a’ my share to stay? I’ m sick of this place." John wasn’ t surprised. Because Willy didn’ t like to do hand labor, it fell to him to stay at the shack and guard the furs when John and their grandfather went out to lay and check traps. Sometimes John and his grandfather would be gone for weeks at a time, leaving Willy alone here, depending on how far out they had to go.

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