Passage West (13 page)

Of course, conceiving the idea and carrying it out were different matters. Until Carrie had actually stood beside a silent, withdrawn Will Montgomery, she had thought it would be a simple task to be introduced to him. From there, she reasoned, they would talk, ask questions, and get to know one another. In fact, she thought now, standing beneath a darkening sky, stirring a pot of rabbit stew, neither of them had had a thing to say to the other. Oh, how was she going to get that man to talk to her?

“Ma’am.”

Hearing the low, almost whispered word, Carrie whirled, dropping the wooden spoon. “Oh. Mr. Montgomery. You startled me.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Seems like I’m always causing accidents around you.”

“No. It’s nothing. Really.” Wiping the spoon in the grass, then on her apron, she glanced at the pile of clothes balanced in Will’s hand. “I see you’ve brought your mending.”

“It isn’t all mine, ma’am. Just this shirt on top.” He looked embarrassed. “Caught it on a tree limb. Tore it clear across the back.”

Walking closer, Carrie lifted the shirt from the pile and examined it carefully. “I can have that fixed in no time.”

“Really?” She was a little thing, he realized, the top of her head reaching no higher than his chin. “The rest of these things belong to the others. They wanted you and your aunt to know that they weren’t in any rush to have them done. Take your time, ma’am.”

“Carrie,” she said softly.

“Ma’am?” She smelled of biscuit dough and vanilla. And those little wisps of golden hair that tumbled about her cheeks held him fascinated.

“My name is Carrie, not ma’am.”

“Yes ma’am.” He felt his face grow hot. But when she laughed, a clear, musical sound, he forgot to be embarrassed and laughed with her and asked her to call him Will.

“Here. Why don’t I put these in the wagon.” Taking the pile of clothes from him, she turned away.

He watched the way her hips moved. When she turned back to him, he brought his gaze upward to meet hers. He thought he’d never seen bluer eyes or a prettier smile.

“Have you had dinner yet, Will?”

“No ma—” He licked his lips and tried again. “Parker was cooking something that smelled good.”

“We’re having rabbit stew. Would you care to join us?”

“Oh no ma—” He chanced a quick glance and realized she was laughing. He burst out laughing himself. When they were both finished, he said softly, “Carrie. It’s a pretty name. It suits you.”

She felt her cheeks redden. “Thank you. Will’s a nice name too.” To fill in the silence, she added, “Carrie is short for Caroline. But all my life I’ve been Carrie.”

“Will’s short for William. But I’ve been called Will all my life too.”

They stared at each other, wishing they could think of something more to say. Wishing the moment wouldn’t end.

“Well, I better go. Parker will have supper done.”

As he turned away, she said, “I’ll mend your shirt tonight, Will.”

He hung his head. “You don’t have to do it so soon.”

“I want to.”

He turned. For long moments he only looked at her. Then he cleared his throat. “Good night, Carrie.” If he could, he would say her name forever. It was the most beautiful name in the world.

“Good night, Will.”

When he was gone, Carrie stirred the stew, staring deeply into its depths as if all of life’s mysteries were hidden there. When she heard the sound of her family’s voices, she looked up guiltily and began to spoon out their supper.

*  *  *

Flint Barrows pried the floorboard of his wagon loose and reached inside for a jug. When Emmaline had been alive, he’d hidden his liquor here so she wouldn’t find it. Spiteful little bitch would have emptied every one of the jugs along the trail if she had found his hiding place. Just because he’d gotten drunk one night and beaten her. Women were like that, he thought, taking a long pull on the jug. Whined and cried when you hit them, then stood up on their hind legs and roared when you least expected it. How was he to know she was pregnant. Damned witch hadn’t even told him. Him. The kid’s father. He wouldn’t have hit her if he’d known. At least he wouldn’t have punched her in the stomach. But if he’d known it wasn’t going to be a son, he’d have probably beaten her to a pulp. Should have, he thought, taking another long drink. Would have put them all out of their misery a lot sooner. A man had a right to have a son. Especially a man whose brothers were all dead. And a woman had a duty to give him what he wanted.

He smelled the food cooking at the other wagons and frowned. Emmaline had been a good cook when they first got married. After a while she’d stopped trying. He didn’t like to eat when he was drinking. Food got in the way. But later, in the middle of the night, he would wake up ravenous and eat everything she had fixed earlier.

Glancing up, he saw Lavinia Winters heading his way with a towel-covered plate. Stopping at the back of the wagon, she lifted the towel. Steam rose, perfumed with the scent of roasted meat.

“Thank you, Mrs. Winters. That was kind of you.”

She smelled the liquor and backed away. “Be sure to eat all of it, Mr. Barrows. I don’t think you’re eating enough lately. I’ll send Aaron around for the plate later.”

“Yes ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

When she was gone, a scowling Flint shoved the plate away and took another drink. Damned nosy old biddie. Just wanted to see if he was drunk or sober. Now she’d run back and tell the others about the jug she saw.

Stretching out in a more comfortable position, Flint poured a generous amount of whiskey into a tin cup and sipped. James Market hadn’t been around his wagon for over a week. Ever since that night he’d gotten so drunk and rambled on about the damned women in his family. Flint tried to think back to what had been said. He’d complained about the old-maid sister. Then about the lazy young one. And then about the older daughter, Abby. Something about her being a defiant little bastard. Flint chuckled aloud at the look he’d seen on Market’s face when the words spilled out. He’d been angry, but embarrassed as well. As if he’d said more than he ought to. Why had James Market suddenly stopped talking? And why was Market avoiding him since?

Sitting up, Flint stared out at the gathering darkness and thought about the Market daughters. Carrie was rounder in all the right places. Flint’s teeth gleamed as he smiled. High firm breasts and well-rounded hips. Young. Young and tight. He thought of those prim little dresses, buttoned clear to her throat. It would be fun to take her, he thought, remembering how many times lately she’d passed his wagon without even glancing his way.

Abby. She had a different kind of beauty. Despite those dirty shirts and britches, he’d had glimpses of small, firm breasts and slim narrow hips. And though she tried to hide it, her hair hung past her waist and was the color of fire. Probably smelled like horses, he thought, taking another drink. But what a fight she’d put up. Just thinking about it had his excitement growing. All the younger one knew how to do was cry and thrash around a bit. But the older sister would put up a damned good fight. And when he managed to overpower her, he’d have her purring like a kitten.

Corking his jug, he stepped down from the wagon and began walking. From the shadows he watched as Abby Market brushed the horse, cooing softly to it while she worked. In the light of the campfire, her movements were smooth, sensuous, as she brought the brush over the animal’s back, down his flank, along his leg. Flint watched in fascination and felt himself grow hard.

A voice nearby caused him to drop to the ground.

“When you’re finished with the team, I want you to help me with the axle.”

“Yes, Pa.”

Flint turned back to his own wagon. Next time, he told himself, it was going to be Abby Market he took. He’d bide his time and watch, and sooner or later he’d find her alone, without the protection of the others. And when he did, he’d show her what a real man was like.

*  *  *

Abby wiped her dirty hands on an old rag and tucked it into her back pocket. She and her father had worked on the axle until she’d thought her back would break. Satisfied at last, James crawled into his blanket without a word of thanks.

Abby glanced around the camp. Everyone was asleep by now. She was bone-weary, but too keyed up to sleep. Because she spent so much time with the men, she was privy to information that was often kept from the women. Probably thinking their womenfolk too weak to deal with the harsher facts of the perilous journey, the men foolishly caused them to be ill prepared for what lay ahead.

“I’ve heard rumors of an Indian uprising,” Big Jack had remarked that afternoon as he and Abby stalked a deer.

“I haven’t heard a thing about it.” Abby studied the surrounding rocks, then swung her gaze back to him. “Are we in any danger?”

“So far they seem to be fighting among themselves. Mordecai thinks it may be confined to a couple of small tribes.”

“What would happen if they turned on us?”

Big Jack took a long time examining his gun before replying. “We’d have to take measures to protect the people on this train, Miss Abby.”

Now, with the moon just a narrow slice of golden light against a darkened backdrop, Abby walked slowly among the wagons, then climbed a low hill and stared out into the distance, wondering just how many dangers lurked in this strange land.

“It isn’t safe to wander away from the camp.”

At Rourke’s deep voice, Abby whirled. In the darkness, he appeared to be no more than a shadow, until he stepped closer.

“Then why are you out here, Rourke?” She hoped her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

“I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d keep an eye out.”

Damn her. Why did she have to come out here tonight? He’d been fighting thoughts of her all evening.

“Are you expecting trouble?” Abby felt a tremble pulse through her. Was it from fear? Or merely the reaction she always seemed to feel whenever she got too close to this man?

“Let’s just say I like to be cautious.”

“Thompson said there’s been some trouble with Indians.”

“Indians are just one problem.”

“What are some of the others?”

He scratched a match across his boot and held the flame to the tip of a cigar. In the light that flared, she studied his harsh profile. “You mean besides the weather, the mountains, the diseases, and the predators?”

Abby shivered and tried to keep her voice from trembling. “You make it all sound like such fun, Rourke.”

“Nobody said it would be easy.”

“We made it this far, didn’t we?”

He blew out a stream of smoke and watched it dissipate into the night air. “We aren’t even halfway there. A lot can happen between here and California.”

A stray breeze caught a strand of her hair. He curled his hand into a fist and fought the urge to brush it back from her cheek.

“Thanks for cheering me up, Rourke. I needed this before turning in.”

He laughed. “Sorry. I guess I sound pretty morbid.” His voice lowered. “The night does that to me.”

“Afraid of shadows?”

“Maybe I am.” He took a long drag, then tossed the cigar aside. When he caught her roughly by the shoulders, she was so startled she couldn’t move. His thumbs caressed the soft flesh of her upper arms as he drew her closer. She couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness. But his voice sent a thrill racing along her spine. “There aren’t too many things in this world I’m afraid of. But you scare the hell out of me, Abby Market.”

Abby stiffened, pressing her palms against his chest. Rourke was a very strong man. Strong and determined. But she knew how to use her voice with authority. She did it with the team. She did it with her younger sister when all else failed.

“Stop it, Rourke.”

His lips curled in the darkness, revealing white teeth. “Ever try stopping a stampede?”

She tried to pull back but he was quicker and stronger. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her still. His other hand glided to her waist, drawing her firmly against him.

She could feel the pressure of every one of his fingers along her spine. He lowered his head and she watched him as if transfixed.

His mouth was surprisingly soft and warm. She absorbed the first tremors and tried not to react. Patiently he rubbed his lips over hers, teasing, nibbling, until he felt her gradual response. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. And then, without even realizing it, she wrapped her arms around his neck and plunged her fingers into the dark hair that curled at his collar.

He smelled of soap and leather and that distinct male scent that would always remind her of him. She breathed him in as he drew her closer. And then she was tasting him, dark, mysterious tastes that only Rourke had ever shown her. Her body strained against his, no longer stiff and awkward, but eager.

She heard his quiet moan as his lips left hers to roam her temple, her eyelids, her cheek. He took her earlobe between his teeth and nipped, but before she could gasp her surprise, his tongue darted to her ear.

“Rourke.”

His lips covered hers, swallowing her protest. The hands at her hips pulled her closer, tormenting both of them. And then his hands were moving along her sides, until his thumbs encountered the swell of her breasts.

She pulled back, shocked at the contact. Sensing her confusion, he drew her gently to him and kissed the tip of her nose. The gesture was so painfully sweet she could only stare at him. Then, behaving in a way she would have never believed possible, she placed her hands on his arms, lifted herself on tiptoe, and touched her lips to his.

Her offering was his undoing. His arms came around her, pinning her against him. His lips covered hers in a savage kiss as his tongue plundered her mouth.

Abby felt herself tumbling into some wild, dark place that frightened yet exhilarated her. She absorbed the heat of his breath as his mouth roamed her face, then once more covered her lips. Her heart pounded, keeping time with his.

Rourke was stunned by his need for her. Since the day of the hunt, he’d wanted to kiss her again, to feel the rush of desire, to experience the thrill of the challenge. But this. This left him reeling. He knew he had to end it. He knew he had to step away or be consumed by the fire. And yet he allowed himself one more touch, one last taste.