Passage West (34 page)

“She’ll sleep until morning,” he told Mordecai as he walked away.

From her position inside the wagon, Abby saw Mordecai, Thompson, Parker, and Rourke with rifles in their hands, patrolling the camp.

“I didn’t like the looks of those men from town,” Violet said, glancing up from her mending.

“Apparently, neither did Mr. Stump. He and the others have been walking the perimeter of the camp since dusk.”

“That makes me feel safer,” Aunt Vi said softly. “I believe I’ll turn in. You should do the same. This has been a hard day.”

“In a little while,” Abby said, watching Rourke’s silhouette as he leaned against a tree, blending into the shadows.

“Good night, child.”

“Night, Aunt Vi.”

Abby sat up in the wagon, watching as lanterns went dark around the camp. She found her thoughts drifting to Timmy Garner. If he had been mine, she thought, I would have been free to lavish all the love I have inside me for a child. If only he had been mine.

“Abby. Abby Market.”

Abby glanced up at the sound of Nancy Garner’s voice.

“What is it?”

“I just woke up and I can’t find Jed.”

“He went with some of the men. There’s a saloon in town.”

“I should have known.”

“He ought to be back soon, Nancy. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

“How can I sleep when I know he’s drinking? His son fresh in the grave and he’s out there getting drunk.”

Abby found she was tired of the woman’s whining tone. Lowering the canvas, she said, “It doesn’t look like there’s much you can do about it. Good night, Nancy.”

“Oh, there’s something I can do. I’m going into town to find Jed.”

Abby turned and lifted the flap of canvas. “Don’t go there, Nancy. Mordecai thinks the men of that town may be dangerous.”

But her words fell into the empty darkness. Nancy Garner was already hurrying away.

Dear God, what was the woman thinking of? Abby knew she would never be able to sleep worrying about Nancy Garner in that town alone. Grabbing up her rifle, she climbed down from her wagon and began running in the direction Nancy had gone. From the darkness, a hand caught her, stopping her in mid- stride. The breath was knocked from her.

“What the hell are you doing out tonight? You were warned to stay inside.” Rourke’s voice was deep with anger.

“Nancy Garner has gone off to look for Jed. I couldn’t stop her.”

“Damned fool. I’ll go after her.”

“I’m going too,” Abby said firmly.

“No. You’re staying here.”

“It’s my fault she went, Rourke. I was the one who told her Jed was there. I have to make certain she’s safe.”

He studied her a moment, then nodded. “You stay close.”

As they approached the shacks, the sound of raised voices could be heard from a lean-to at the end of the row. Walking closer, Abby and Rourke peered inside through a crack in the boards. Seeing Nancy Garner in the center of the room, her hands on her hips, shouting at her husband, they opened the door and stepped inside. The room smelled of cheap whiskey and unwashed bodies. Jed, surrounded by a group of men, ordered his wife to leave. Suddenly, as the crowd parted, Nancy spotted a piano against the back wall. Her voice died in her throat. The words she’d been about to shout faded. Walking slowly across the room, she lifted the lid and ran her fingers across the keys. The piano, warped and dirty, gave out a tinny sound. A smile spread across Nancy’s usually dour features. Pulling up a lopsided stool, she spread her dirty skirts and began to play.

No one spoke. No one moved. Bewhiskered men stared in wonder at the woman who could coax music from a few chipped keys. Gradually, gnarled hands began to clap. Feet, encased in heavy, worn boots, began to tap on the earthen floor. An old man grabbed his son and began to dance a jig. The old woman behind the makeshift bar smiled, showing a gaping mouth where teeth should have been.

The crowd moved closer, smiling, nodding, occasionally singing along.

Abby stared at Nancy’s rapt expression, then at the look on her husband’s face. Jed Garner emptied his glass in one swallow, then turned and stormed from the bar.

Rourke touched Nancy’s arm. “Your husband’s gone, Mrs. Garner. We’ll escort you back to your wagon.”

She yanked her arm away. “I’m not going back there.”

“It isn’t safe for you to stay alone in a place like this, ma’am.”

She barely glanced at Rourke or Abby. “This is the first place I’ve felt at home since I left Independence. I’m staying.”

“For how long?” Rourke was already eager to return to the wagon train. He didn’t relish having to hang around here for another hour or more.

“I’m staying for good, Mr. Rourke,” Nancy said, flexing her fingers before starting another tune. “Don’t you see? This piano was put here by God for me to play. I’ve found my promised land.”

As Abby and Rourke stared at each other in consternation, Nancy began playing “Amazing Grace.” When they reached the door to the makeshift saloon, an old man was wiping tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand.

Late into the night, as Abby drifted off to sleep, the strains of a tinny piano filtered on the night air.

And in the morning, when the wagon train pulled away, a pleading Jed Garner rode alone in his empty wagon. Nancy Garner stayed behind, to make music on a broken piano, in a town that was hardly more than a row of rough shacks.

Chapter Twenty-five

The travelers had been lulled by the lush grass and clear sparkling streams that greeted them at the foothills of the Sierras. Now, as the valley narrowed out and they began to climb, they realized for the first time the enormity of the task before them. If they had thought the Rockies difficult, the Sierra Nevadas seemed impenetrable. The abrupt mountain barrier loomed like a fortress. As they inched along, a cleft appeared, a rock-clogged canyon cut through the mountains by eons of ice and snow. Through that narrow pass, they found even more peaks, reaching higher than the clouds and mist that blotted out the sun.

In order to get the wagons across these mountains, it was necessary to unhitch the teams and join them together. At least fourteen mules or oxen were hitched to a wagon, then pulled straight up and over each jagged peak. While this oversized team strained, the men and women pushed from behind, chocking the wheels each time the team slowed.

Most days, the wagon train was lucky to make a mile or two. Though the days remained warm, the nights were growing increasingly cooler. Mordecai kept watch on the sky, fearing anything that even faintly resembled storm clouds. Every wagon master knew the dreaded word Donner. It was absolutely essential to get these people across the Sierras before the first snowfall.

By nighttime, most of the travelers were too exhausted to do anything more than eat and tumble into their blankets. Some of the women no longer bothered to cook, but fed their families dried meats and corn meal. There was no energy left over for baking biscuits or simmering pots of stew. Their hands were bloody and blistered, often wrapped with layers of rag to absorb the shock as they pushed and strained against the heavy wagons. Their feet too had to be wrapped, and Violet found herself passing out meager portions of her special balm. Most of the men used axle grease to cover their cracked, bleeding hands.

On the fourth day the last of the wagons was hauled to the top of a ridge overlooking a clear blue lake. It seemed incongruous that such a lake could exist at the very top of a mountain range.

“Tahoe,” Mordecai said, staring down at the glistening water, completely surrounded by towering pine. “We’ll stop here and rest, and take on supplies. The water is clear and drinkable, and there should be fish. These woods should be teeming with deer and rabbits, if anyone has the energy to hunt.”

While the men picked up their rifles and headed toward the forest, the women and children made for the lake.

As Abby turned from the wagon, Rourke stepped forward. Noting the rifle in her hands, he said, “I’ll be hunting game for the cook wagon. May as well bag a few for you and Violet while I’m at it.”

“That isn’t necessary, Rourke. I can …”

He pulled her roughly against him and kissed her, hard and quick. Caught off guard, she could only stare at him as the words she was saying were forgotten.

“What was that for?”

He grinned. “It’s the best way I know to keep you from arguing. Now go take a bath, and do whatever it is you women do when we take a break from the trail.”

She laughed, and he saw the faint flush that colored her cheeks.

As he started to walk away, he turned. “I wouldn’t mind if you’d make some of those biscuits, too. They’re just about the best I’ve ever tasted. And I’ll bring the rabbit.”

With a light heart, Abby followed her aunt to the river.

*  *  *

By late afternoon, the weary band of travelers could hardly be called festive, but at least their spirits had lifted considerably. The women had bathed tired, aching bodies. Fresh clothes dried in the warm sun. The children had tied string to tree branches, and a bucket of fish was their reward. The men returned with deer and rabbits, and the scent of meat roasting over fires soon permeated the camp.

Violet rummaged through her trunk and donned a pale blue gown that nearly matched the color of her eyes. Her freshly washed hair gleamed silver in the sunlight. She added a bonnet with little blue ribbons, and, adding a drop of lilac water to her balm before rubbing it over her hands and feet, she stepped from the wagon.

At Violet’s insistence, Abby was wearing a dress. Pale ivory, it was the perfect background for a cloud of freshly washed hair that spilled down her back in soft waves.

Rourke was leaning against a tree, drawing on a cigar. The rich aroma of tobacco swirled around him, causing Violet to smile. As she glanced at him, she realized that he hadn’t yet noticed her. He had eyes only for Abby.

What a picture she made, he thought. The pristine gown suited her. It was buttoned clear to her throat, with only a hint of the soft, womanly curves beneath.

Her hair was the sort women would kill for. And men would die for.

“Oh.” She dropped the kettle, sending water hissing among the flames, then lifted her burned hand to her mouth.

Instantly Rourke was at her side. He turned her palm up to examine the burn. “My God. Your hand is raw.”

“That isn’t from the fire. I did it pushing the wagons.”

“You should have wrapped it.” Turning, he called, “Violet, do you have some of that ointment?”

She nodded and hurried inside the wagon. A minute later, she emerged with the precious salve.

Rourke rubbed it into the raw, blistered flesh, then gently twisted a clean cloth around her palm, tying it at the wrist. When he was finished, he lifted her bandaged hand to his lips.

Abby felt the jolt as his lips touched her palm. Flustered, she tried to pull her hand away, but he continued holding it.

“You’ll stay to supper, won’t you, Mr. Rourke?” Violet didn’t bother to hide her smile at her niece’s confusion.

“He’s already invited himself, Aunt Vi.”

“Had to,” Rourke said easily, still holding Abby’s hand. “If I waited for Abby to invite me, I’d starve to death.”

“Maybe that’s what I had in mind,” she said sweetly, pulling away.

“She doesn’t mean that,” Violet chirped happily, refilling the kettle with a dipper of water. “Abby isn’t the kind of girl who could ever see anyone starve.”

“Maybe in your case,” Abby put in quickly, “I could make an exception.”

Rourke winked at Violet as Abby twirled away and lifted a pan of biscuits. “I think you’re right, ma’am. I don’t think even a hardhearted woman like Abby could stand by and watch me starve.”

“Just watch …

Her words faded as Mordecai, accompanied by several strangers, approached their wagon.

“Miss Abby, Miss Violet, Rourke,” Mordecai said, pulling his hat from his head. “I’d like you to meet Andrew McClelland. This is his land we’re camped on.

Rourke and the stranger shook hands. As the man turned, Abby and Violet found themselves staring at a ruggedly handsome man, whose white hair was in sharp contrast to his deeply tanned face. Well over six and a half feet, he even towered over Rourke.

“These are my three sons, Frank, who is fifteen, Ian, who is seventeen, and Andy Junior, who is eighteen.”

The three young men, all as tall as their father, promptly removed their hats and shook hands.

“And this is my daughter, Mary Rose, who is eleven.”

Like her brothers, the girl was dressed in buckskins. Taller than Abby, she was nearly eye level with Violet. Pale yellow hair was pulled back beneath a broad- brimmed hat. Her eyes, like those of her father and brothers, were as blue as a summer sky. Her smile was at once shy and sweet. Her face had an open, honest quality about it.

“Mary Rose. What a beautiful name,” Violet said, taking the girl’s hand. “I had a sister named Rose. And another sister, Abby’s mother, named Lily.”

Rourke cocked an eyebrow at the surprising statement, then chanced a quick look at Abby. Except for a slight reddening of her cheeks, she gave no sign that Violet had revealed anything unusual. He made a mental note to be patient. Someday, if she trusted him enough, Abby would tell him what Violet meant. He had no right to intrude on her secrets.

“Mr. McClelland and his family have invited all of us to their ranch for supper,” Mordecai explained.

“All of us?” Violet’s eyes widened. “Mr. McClelland, we are too many to feed.”

“When I saw the wagon train in the distance,” he said casually, “I had the boys slaughter a calf. There’s more than enough for everyone.”

“Where is your ranch, Mr. McClelland?” Violet asked.

He moved beside her, and she felt dwarfed by his size. Touching her shoulder, he pointed and she followed his gaze. “Just over that ridge, there’s a clearing. The ranch house is that first building.”

“And the others?”

“Barn, bunkhouse, storage sheds.”

Violet wondered if he knew what his touch was doing to her nerves. That big hand, so gentle on her shoulder, was causing the most uncomfortable feelings to stir inside her. She glanced up, and he gave her the most charming smile she had ever seen.