Passage West (8 page)

Abby felt her heart sink. Not Rourke. Anyone but Rourke. How could she endure an entire day in his company? He had to be feeling just as reluctant as she. She’d heard the edge in his voice. She felt her cheeks redden and blamed the heat of the fire. “I don’t want to be any trouble. I’d …”

“Nonsense. Everybody on the train, man and woman, should be able to handle a rifle. Never know when you’ll need it.”

Trapped, she thought, wishing there were some place to hide. She was as trapped as a rabbit in a snare.

She glanced in Rourke’s direction. Except for the gleam of the tin cup in his hands and the gunbelt at his waist, he was invisible. And yet she knew that he was watching her. She could feel his look, as physical as any touch.

Mordecai leaned back against his saddle and cradled the tin cup in his hands. “I’ve known a few women in my time who could handle a gun better’n a man. I remember the time a girl no more’n ten or twelve shot my hat clear off my head. What a shot. Parted my hair without drawing a drop of blood. It was back in fifty-eight,” he said, his voice warm with the memory. “I was a rider for the Butterfield Overland Mail.”

At his tone, Abby unconsciously relaxed, hugging her arms around her drawn-up knees, tilting her head to one side to watch the older man as he reminisced.

In the shadows Rourke studied the slender figure in the dirty men’s clothes and found himself remembering the woman he had seen in the river. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t forget the milk-white flesh, the soft, womanly curves she tried so hard to hide. Never again would he be able to think of her as simply James Market’s daughter. Every time he looked at her he saw the real beauty she tried to disguise. Noting the way the firelight touched her cheeks and put a glow in her eyes, he decided to stop fighting it and just enjoy watching her. It gave him real pleasure. Despite the hat, tiny wisps of fiery hair broke free from the fat braid to kiss her brow. He glanced at the hands locked around her knees. The fingers were long and tapered. Her hands were meant to hold a fragile teacup. Or a cooing baby, he thought, the muscles of his stomach suddenly tightening. Dismissing such alarming thoughts, he forced himself to face the facts. Abby Market’s hands were rough and callused from handling the reins of an unruly team. And the only thing she’d hold for the next thousand miles was a rifle and a team of mules.

Rourke forced himself out of his reverie to concentrate on Mordecai’s musings.

“That was the year we began twice-weekly runs between the Mississippi River and California. Twenty-eight hundred miles in twenty-five days. I ate so much dust, I figure I got more sand in me than blood.”

The others laughed.

“What about the girl?” Abby asked.

“Rode up to my usual stop along the route. A young fellow, his wife, and three little kids were trying to carve a ranch out of some god-awful wilderness. This day, just as I get within sight of the sod shack, a shot rings out. I holler that I dunna’ mean anybody any harm. I start up again and a second shot rings out. Takes my hat, parts my hair, and leaves me shaking in my boots. Then this little mite of a lass steps out from behind a tree and says in a squeaky little voice, ‘Your name Stump?’ When I say yes, she says, ‘You ride for the Butterfield Overland Mail?’ Again I say yes. She drops the rifle and says, ‘My pa said I could trust you. You have to take me with you.’ In the house I find her mama, papa, and two younger sisters all dead. Pawnee.

“How did she manage to survive?” Abby had become so caught up in his narrative, she forgot about Rourke.

“That’s the most amazing part of it. There had been a party of six. All six lay dead around the house. The little girl admitted that her father managed to kill the first three before he died. But she killed the other three after they’d slit the throats of her mother and little sisters.”

“Whatever happened to her?” Abby asked.

“I took her with me as far as St. Louis. I heard she went east to live with her mother’s people.” Mordecai chuckled. “Lord help the man who expects her to be a docile little wife.”

“If he tried something funny with that one, he’d probably find his throat slit or his hands chopped off before he could blink,” Parker intoned.

The others chuckled, and Abby realized with a twinge of discomfort that she didn’t belong here. These were men, eager to relax with man’s talk. For these few minutes, she had felt a companionship she had rarely known. If she could have picked any man in the world to be her father, Abby thought, it would have been Mordecai Stump. He could be as mean and frightening as a rampaging bull with anyone who questioned his authority. Yet in her presence he was always respectful, even gentle. It was comfortable to sit with these men, listening to their easy conversation. It was something she had never shared with her father.

When she stood, Mordecai and the others stood, making her once again feel awkward. They treated her like a lady, but she didn’t know how to act like one. She wanted to be one of them, but their private jokes and knowing smiles warned her that she could never completely fit in. Yet they tried to make her feel special. All except Rourke. With him, she simply felt … clumsy.

She offered her hand to Mordecai. “Good night, Mr. Stump.”

“Night, Miss Abby. Be sure to look for Rourke tomorrow morning.”

As she turned away, she couldn’t see Rourke’s face. It was still hidden in shadow. But from the prickly feeling along her spine, she was certain he was still watching her, as she’d sensed he’d watched her all the while she was there.

*  *  *

Morning dawned dry and hot. No morning mist shrouded the ground. No cooling breezes ruffled the leaves of the poplars. Each footstep brought a cloud of dust that clung like powder to clothing, clogging lungs and throats and eyes.

Abby watched as her aunt carefully wound strips of soft cotton around her arch and instep, then pulled on heavy knit stockings before lacing up her high shoes. Though she never complained, Abby had seen Violet soaking her feet after her first day on the trail. Still, her aunt insisted, walking was good for a body, made the heart pump, the lungs expand. Dear Aunt Vi, Abby thought with a gentle smile. She would always make the best of any situation.

Carrie wasn’t nearly as flexible. Though her young body could adapt more easily to the rigors of this trek, she complained loudly at night about the blisters on her feet, until James reminded her that she wasn’t too old to have a few blisters inflicted on her backside as well. This morning she maintained a sullen silence as she dressed and ate.

While Abby drained her coffee, she fought to calm the nervous flutters in her stomach. An entire day with the moody, mysterious Rourke. When the train was ready to roll, she saddled her father’s horse, lifted the rifle across her lap, and headed toward the lead wagon. As she drew abreast, Mordecai waved a cheery greeting, then called, “Rourke’s up ahead, Miss Abby. You can’t miss him.”

Far ahead, she could see a lone rider. Gritting her teeth, she dug her heels into the sides of the mare and moved out at a faster pace.

Though he heard her approaching, Rourke never slowed his pace or looked back. When her horse galloped up beside him, spewing dust, he angled his head, tipped his hat, and continued at an easy lope. Within minutes her mount altered his gait to keep pace. They rode that way, without speaking, for miles.

At first Abby was tense, waiting for Rourke to grumble about having to put up with a female companion. When he continued to say nothing, she began to relax and take the time to look around her.

Since leaving Independence, the landscape had been gradually changing. But here the changes were abrupt. Thick turf had given way to bunch grasses. The earth’s colors had gone from green to brown and tan. Even the sky had gone from deep blue, awash with fluffy clouds, to a blinding white light that made distances deceptive. Could she reach out and touch that boulder, or was it a mile away? And that mountain range. Would they reach it by nightfall? Or would they need several more days to even draw near?

They passed unfamiliar animals. Bison, pronghorn, jackrabbits, prairie dogs.

Without realizing it, Abby began to enjoy the view. When she had been forced to drive the team, she had felt a responsibility for Carrie and Violet and all their worldly goods. There had been no time to watch the passing parade. Now, unhampered by responsibility, she was free to simply enjoy.

“Oh, aren’t they magnificent.” At the top of a rise, Abby reined in her horse to watch a herd of bison.

Rourke drew up beside her. Lifting his hat, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, then replaced the hat, leaving the upper part of his face in shadow.

“The way they’re being slaughtered, there’ll soon be none left.”

“Oh, Rourke. There must be a hundred of them. It wouldn’t be possible to kill all of them.”

“Wouldn’t it?” His voice was chilling. “You haven’t seen some of the kills I’ve seen. I’ve watched half a dozen men sit on their horses and bring down an entire herd in a matter of hours.”

“How can they butcher that many animals?”

“They don’t. They just leave them to rot in the sun.”

“But why?” Without thinking, she reached out a hand to his arm and felt his muscles flex at her touch.

Rourke turned to her. Sunlight played across her face, accentuating her high cheekbones, touching her lips with color. He felt a sudden sexual pull that left him dazed.

Abby saw his eyes darken from slate to molten lead. Confused, she withdrew her hand and turned her head away, pretending to watch the herd.

He fought to keep his tone even. “For the thrill of the hunt. There are men like that in this world. Their only concern is their own pleasure, their own sense of power. They give no thought to the beautiful creatures they destroy in the process.”

Abby heard the underlying pain in his voice and wondered about it. Was Rourke still talking about the bison? Or had there been something—or someone—else to cause such intense feeling?

The tone of his voice changed. “There should be a river in about a mile or so. We’ll stop there for lunch.” He wheeled his horse.

Abby gave a last look at the magnificent herd, then turned her horse and followed his lead.

Lunch was dried meat, hard biscuits, and some precious coffee and chicory boiled over the fire until it was the consistency of molasses. Abby thought it tasted better than some of the meals her aunt and sister had prepared.

While they ate, Rourke pointed out landmarks. A cluster of rocks. A deformed tree, bent and gnarled from wind and sand. Ruts worn deeply into the sandstone from hundreds of wagon wheels.

“Notice where you’re heading. Mark where you’ve been. Watch the sky for wisps of smoke. They could be signals from Indian scouts.”

“What would the signals tell?”

Rourke pulled his hat lower on his forehead to block the sun overhead. “In your case they’d tell of a woman traveling alone. They’d give your location and probable destination. They’d say if you were on foot or riding. Carrying a weapon or unarmed. Within safe distance of a wagon train, or too far away to reach safety.”

Abby shivered despite the heat. “An Indian could tell all that from smoke?”

“It appears so. If they choose to, they can pretty much know everything going on in their territory.”

She peered around, wondering what might be hidden behind the rocks and trees. “Is this hostile Indian territory?”

Rourke grinned. “We’re the hostiles. They’re just trying to defend what is theirs.”

“But we don’t mean them any harm.”

“Don’t we?” Rourke doused the fire, scattering the ashes, then covering them with dirt until no trace remained of their presence. “A few bison can feed a small tribe for an entire winter. How do you think the Indians feel when they see white men destroying entire herds just for the fun of killing?”

Abby’s gaze swept the plain. For the first time she began to see this land as someone’s home. To the people who were born here, it was as cozy and familiar as the old springhouse at her family farm. The thought of the farm brought a twinge of homesickness she hadn’t felt in days.

Seeing her frown, Rourke paused. “Something wrong?”

“No.” She pulled herself into the saddle, then waited until he mounted. “Where are you from, Rourke?”

“Maryland.”

“What’s it like?”

He flicked the reins, and she moved her mount into position beside him. “Green,” he murmured. “Everything so green.” His eyes took on a faraway look. All his features relaxed, until she thought he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. “Gentle rolling hills, clear bubbling streams, and a climate perfect for growing crops.”

“Why’d you leave?”

His smile fled. “Beyond those rocks I spotted a deer. Let’s see how well you can handle that rifle.”

As he urged his horse forward, Abby watched him with a puzzled frown. She wished she hadn’t spoiled the moment. Rourke was obviously a man who didn’t care to answer too many questions. She’d remember that next time.

At the top of a ridge, he halted and waited for her to reach his side. Climbing down, they left their horses and proceeded on foot. Scrambling through rocks, Rourke suddenly paused and pointed. Standing quietly, his head lifted to the slight breeze, stood a young buck. Watching him, Abby felt her heart hammering against her ribs. How could she kill something so magnificent? Rourke motioned for her to shoot. Lifting her rifle to her shoulder, she studied the animal and felt her hands tremble. Taking careful aim, she fired. The rifle’s report sent her tumbling backward. As she sat up, she saw the deer begin to run. Her heart fell.

“I missed him.”

The animal ran several steps, stumbled, then dropped to the ground.

Pulling her to her feet, Rourke gave her a smile. It was the first real smile she’d ever seen on his lips.

“You did it, Abby. Bagged your first game.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Her smile was radiant.

“Come on. Let’s take a closer look.”

Leading the way, Rourke clambered over rocks and loose pebbles, then offered his hand when-she paused. As soon as Abby allowed her hand to be engulfed in his, she felt the jolt of his touch. A jolt as shocking as ice water. She told herself it was just a nervous reaction from the kill. But for one stunning moment he stared into her eyes, and she could sense that he’d felt it too. Instantly he released her hand as if he’d been burned.