Rexanne Becnel (9 page)

She could tell Tanner noticed, too, for his jaw flexed and his gaze grew sharp. “I worked for one of the railroad companies there, earning the money to buy breeding stock for the horse ranch I plan to build.”

“The railroad.” Robert puffed on his pipe a minute, a rapid, agitated rhythm that warned Abby of his simmering anger. But why should he be so angry?

“Where are you from?” Tanner threw right back at him.

Abby tensed. People seldom went on the offensive with Robert Bliss, for his stern appearance forbade it. But here was Tanner McKnight, jumping right in, unafraid. Nonchalant, even.

“Where am
I
from?” Her father straightened in his chair, glaring from one of them to the other. “Hasn’t Abigail already answered that inquiry for you?”

In all honesty Abby could not recall if she’d told him or not. And if she’d done so, had it been the truth or the fabrication her father had demanded she use? She’d been so unnerved by Tanner.

She looked at him, suddenly afraid. But he was smiling at her, the easy, disarming grin she nonetheless knew was meant to turn her mind to mush. And it was working.

“If she did, I don’t recall. Where did you say you were from, Abby?”

She cleared her throat and knotted her hands in the folds of her apron. What was the point of all this deception? “Arkansas. We had a farm there.”

Tanner nodded, and his smile held firm, but whatever he thought of that was hidden behind the midnight blue of his eyes. “And now you plan to farm in Oregon.”

“Yes.” She nodded, then glanced imploringly at her father. But he was clearly determined not to help in the least, and it infuriated her no end.

All right, then. If he was already angry, she would lose nothing by angering him further. She would simply ignore her father—something she knew he could not bear.

“You know, Tan—Mr. McKnight, since you’ve read the classics, I’d be interested in your opinion of a little project of mine.”

With a curious lift of his brows he turned his attention on her. “A project?” He smiled at her encouragingly.

“Yes. But let’s eat, shall we? I’ll explain it all to you over the meal.”

“It’s like this,” she began as they each settled into a chair with a full plate in hand. “I write children’s stories and I’m hoping someday to have them published.”

“Children’s stories?” Tanner echoed. She ignored her father’s inelegant snort in the background.

“Yes. About this little mouse and all her adventures.”

“What kind of adventures does a mouse have?” he asked as he cut into a generous slice of roasted antelope.

“Oh, all sorts,” Abby replied, warming to her subject. She’d told no one but her father about her hopes to be published, and then only in anger. But Tanner … There was something about him that was unfettered by convention. Somehow she knew he would not be shocked by her unlikely aspirations.

“If you think about all the classics, they were one adventure after another. The Trojan horse with Helen of Troy and Paris. Jason and the Argonauts. And what about Pandora’s Box? And … and Atlas. And Medusa. Why, if you think about it, we’re on our own sort of odyssey right now. Venturing into the unknown, braving whatever might be thrown at us. Well, Tillie—that’s my little mouse—she’s on her own odyssey too. She’s facing danger and making unlikely friends.”

She broke off when a piece of meat flew off the fork she’d been gesturing with and landed with a sizzle in the campfire. “Oh!” Horrified at such undignified behavior, she glanced guiltily at her father. But although he clearly was displeased with her, there was also a glimmer of confusion in his eyes, as if he was only now beginning to really see her. Tanner had a bemused expression on his face, but the grin still remained, and he actually seemed to approve.

“So you plan to rewrite Greek and Roman myth through your little mouse character.”

Abby nodded, then looked down at her plate and cut a new piece of meat. The meat. It was good, she noted vaguely. Thank goodness she hadn’t made a fool of herself with her cooking. But flinging food off her fork …

“You read Greek and Roman mythology?”

Abby and Tanner both looked up at her father’s grudging tone. But at least he’d spoken.

“It’s been many years,” Tanner conceded. “I haven’t had the time recently—nor access to any books.”

“We have books. Don’t we, Father?” she added, prompting him to respond.

“A few,” he replied after a long moment. “But everyone should at the very least keep a Bible at hand. There’s many a stirring tale to be found within the Good Book—and they are all, without a doubt, more moral than the ancient myths,” he added.

The pompous tone he used was not unfamiliar to Abby. Yet on this occasion it irritated her more than usual. Before she could prevent it, she blurted, “There are those biblical passages, however, that some might find almost immoral. The Song of Solomon, for instance. Have you ever read it?” She directed this last at Tanner.

Slowly he shook his head, but his gaze held steady with hers, as if he sensed that she meant to goad her father. “What’s it about?”

That brought Abby to a halt. She knew the passage well, for she’d read it often, fascinated by its references to breasts and bellies and thighs, to desire and nourishing marriage beds. But she was hardly prepared to reveal that to Tanner. She was shocked at her unthinking boldness even to bring it up. And her father … She glanced at his stunned expression, then hastily looked away, swallowing hard and well aware of the hot color that rose in her cheeks.

“It’s … it’s about how he—the bridegroom, that is—loves his bride. He … he—”

“It’s an allegory. An allegory,” her father broke in tersely. “The bride and groom represent God and his chosen people. Do not read more into it than is meant, Abigail.”

He glared at her furiously, and Abby knew she’d gone too far. What other response could she honestly expect from him?

“I don’t recall the passage.” Tanner spoke up, filling the uncomfortable silence. “But then, I haven’t read the Bible in a good while. Perhaps you will allow me to accompany the two of you to Reverend Harrison’s next service.”

“That would be nice,” Abby managed in a meek tone. Then, seizing on an excuse to change the subject, she reached for the pan of corn bread. “Would you like more?”

By some sort of silent agreement Abby and Tanner kept the conversation on safer ground: their expectations of Oregon, what lay ahead on the trail. Her father remained silent, only handing her his empty plate, then accepting his pipe and tobacco pouch from her with a curt nod. The rest of the time he puffed silently, watching her from beneath his bushy brows.

Tanner, too, lit up, though he smoked a cheroot, which he deftly rolled as they spoke.

“What are the towns like?” Abby asked, leaning forward in her chair. Now that the meal was done and his smoke nearly over, her father was sure to stand up, signaling that it was time for Tanner to leave. But she wanted to hang on to every extra minute. “Are they like the towns in the States?”

Tanner blew a stream of smoke up into the night air. “They’re raw places, and lack many of the amenities you may be used to. Churches are rare—although I suppose the good reverend plans to change that.” He tossed the stub of his cheroot into the dying campfire. “Schools are needed too. Especially with so many new families each year.”

Abby smiled at him. She was happy just to be in his presence, to hear his voice, to study the way he moved and the various expressions on his face. To hear now that her profession was in demand in Oregon completed her happiness. How could life be any better than it was this very minute?

He could kiss me.

She averted her face at that unseemly thought, yet it would not go away. If somehow he could kiss her before the night was out, she would truly be the happiest, most grateful girl in the world—no, the most grateful woman. These restless feelings she’d been having—this curiosity—did not belong to a mere girl. And now Tanner had come along and provided the focus for that restlessness. She shifted in her chair, than raised her eyes to meet his unsettling gaze. What had they been speaking of? Oh, yes, Oregon. Schools.

“I … I hope to open a school in Oregon,” she admitted, hoping he hadn’t changed the subject while she’d been daydreaming about him.

His gaze sharpened and his lips lifted a fraction higher in a smile. “Are you a schoolteacher?”

“It’s late.” Her father stood up abruptly, cutting off any response from her.

Abby’s face fell into a disappointed frown. Why did this have to end? But Tanner did not test her father’s limits. He stood as well, but his eyes seemed to search hers with a new intensity, and Abby’s entire being reacted to it. How she wished for just another minute or two with him. Alone.

“Thank you for the delicious meal, Abby. It was the finest I can ever remember eating,” he added with a gallantry even her father would not be able to fault.

But when Tanner left, Abby swiftly learned how wrong she was.

“Stay away from him, Abigail. Do you understand me? Stay away from that man.”

Abby followed her father’s agitated movements around the fire with dismay. “But why?” she demanded as he lifted the chairs into the back of the wagon. “Why do you disapprove of him so?”

“Because he’s not the right sort of man for a young woman like you.”

Abby stiffened at such an implacable pronouncement. “Reverend Harrison is not the right sort of man for me. But Tanner—he may very well be exactly the right sort. Only you—”

“Tanner, is it? Not Mr. McKnight, but Tanner.” He shoved the wagon gate up, then drove the locking pin home. “He’s a coarse man, too familiar when he has no right to be.”

“How can you say that?” Abby pleaded, hardly able to keep her voice low-pitched enough that their neighbors would not hear.

“He was playing a part tonight, daughter. That’s all. He made it his business to say all the right things, and he succeeded in impressing you with his act. But he did not fool me. Not for one minute did he fool me.”

Although Abby knew she should have expected no more from him, she was nonetheless crushed by her father’s disapproval. It took all her effort to suppress her anger at him. “You know, Sarah Lewis told me her father disapproved of Victor at first. But he eventually came around. Now you disapprove of Tanner McKnight, the first man whose interest I have returned—and you’re right, he has succeeded in impressing me. But I don’t believe it’s an act.” She took a shaky breath. “I wonder, though, do all fathers disapprove of their daughter’s choices? Did Mama’s father disapprove of you?”

He recoiled as if she’d struck him fully across the face. Had Abby not already been so upset, she would have wondered at such a reaction from him. But all that registered was the fury that stiffened his features into an unyielding mask, and the righteous thunder in his voice.

“Honor thy father and mother! Honor thy father and mother, Abigail Bliss. The Holy Book says it and it is a commandment of the Lord. Honor what I say, or risk the fires of hell!”

Then, shaking with his rage, he stormed off into the night, leaving her trembling with shame and wallowing in despair.

H
OURS PASSED BEFORE
Abby heard her father return. She’d lain wide awake on her makeshift bed in the wagon after exhausting herself crying. They’d been tears of frustration mostly, but she was dry-eyed now, dry-eyed but heavy-hearted.

She listened as he crawled beneath the wagon onto the pallet she’d laid out for him. His head hit the wagon bed once and he muttered something unintelligible. But then all was quiet save for the gusting of the wind and the distant rumble of thunder.

Rain. How appropriate, she decided grimly. Rain made everything so much harder. Cooking. Packing. Slogging through an endless sea of mud. And the poor oxen. But everything else about this journey was depressingly hard, so why shouldn’t it rain and make it even more so?

She rolled onto her side, seeking some comfort, knowing she needed to get her rest, for the day ahead would undoubtedly demand every bit of her strength. But her mind kept diverting back to her father—and to Tanner.

Thunder crackled again, and from a distance she heard a shout. The men guarding the animals would have a difficult time of it tonight, for foul weather made the animals nervous. Was Tanner among those riding herd?

With a sigh she abandoned any pretense of seeking sleep when all she really wanted was to think about Tanner. Where did he sleep at night—in his small tent? Where did he pitch it? And who would he take his meals with in the future?

She shoved down her quilted coverlet and breathed deeply of the rain-laden night air. Yet even that did not ease the warmth that radiated from the nether reaches of her stomach. She kicked the covers all the way down, baring her legs and feet. But a disturbing heat seemed to have overtaken her, and she knew the source of it. Though the Song of Solomon had often roused a vague and restless warmth in her, Tanner fanned that flame to fiery new proportions. Though she knew she should not, she couldn’t prevent wondering just how Tanner’s marriage bed would flourish—and who it would flourish with.

“Oh, stop it,” she muttered out loud. But at the same time one of her hands moved down to press low against her belly. Thunder rolled across the open plains and it seemed to echo within her body. She burned somewhere deep inside, and yet she perversely did not want this fire to end.

She closed her eyes tightly, remembering how Tanner had lifted her so effortlessly from the mud up onto his lap. He was strong, but he’d also been gentle. He’d been polite, too, but there
was
that spark that he struck in her.

With a muffled curse she rolled over and buried her face against her feather pillow. Oh, dear God, what was wrong with her these days? She veered from exuberant to fearful. She wanted to dance barefoot and bare-legged through the prairie grasses, yet she also wanted to retreat to her old familiar life in Lebanon. She was hot at the thought of Tanner and his long, well-shaped hands touching her. But all the lessons of a lifetime turned her cold with fear at the thought.