Passage West (15 page)

During his nightly prowls, looking for a chance to get Abby alone, Flint had begun to observe certain things about the others on the train.

Will Montgomery, Flint noted, avoided all contact with Rourke. Will’s Confederate army shirt was in sharp contrast to Rourke’s Union cap and gun.

Flint decided it might be fun to prod those two into a confrontation. If he was lucky, it might even erupt into an all-out fight. Nothing excited Flint more than a good fight. Except maybe a woman.

He bided his time, waiting for the perfect moment.

It wouldn’t be much fun to goad them into a fight in private. What Flint wanted was as many witnesses as possible. That way he might even be able to divide the entire wagon train into two camps, Yankee and Confederate. And if Rourke was forced to pull his gun, Flint would have the perfect excuse to shoot him.

His opportunity came one Sunday morning.

Reverend Coulter had persuaded Mordecai to allow him to hold a prayer service every Sunday before the wagons started out for the day. Though the wagon master was constantly keeping an eye on the weather, hoping to reach their destination before the winter snows, he realized that these people needed the comfort their religion brought them. One hour on Sunday mornings was set aside for prayer.

When she was alive, Emmaline Barrows had insisted her husband attend these services with her. Since her death Flint hadn’t bothered to attend. But this Sunday, seeing the Market women parade past his wagon in their dresses and bonnets, he decided to go just so he could stare at them.

James Market, at his sister’s insistence, wore his stiff-collared shirt and dark jacket. It wouldn’t occur to him to miss a church service, even though he hated it. It always reminded him of his father, and the stern sermons he’d been given through the years. Even after he’d married, James had had to endure his father’s lectures on everything from treasuring his marriage vows to raising his children in the ways of the Lord. But though he hated the service, and resented the father of whom it reminded him, he thought of himself as a righteous man.

Violet carried a hymnal and a book of prayers from the Methodist church back home. Though the Reverend Coulter was a Baptist, many of the hymns were the same. And, she consoled herself, they were all praying to the same God.

She kept an arm around her younger niece. She was worried about Carrie. For days now she had been silent and withdrawn. Though Violet had tried to talk to her, the child had refused to say what was wrong. In fact, she rarely spoke to any of them. Just went about doing her chores, and spending her nights staring into the flames of the fire.

As they walked, Violet felt her niece stiffen. Turning her head, she saw Carrie staring at the young man who had recently joined the wagon train. Will Montgomery. That was his name. He was studying Carrie as if he wanted to memorize every feature. Violet felt a quickening of her own pulse. So that’s what was wrong with her niece. Puppy love, she thought with a smile. Poor little Carrie was smitten. And from the looks of him, Will Montgomery was every bit as strung up as Carrie.

Releasing her grip on Carrie’s waist, Violet whispered, “I believe I’ll just take your father up closer, child, where we can hear Reverend Coulter better. Why don’t you and Abby stay back here?”

Carrie shot her aunt a puzzled glance, then gave a shaky laugh. “All right, Aunt Vi. If you insist.”

Violet lifted the hymnal to her lips to cover the smile that quivered there. Then, taking James’s arm, she nudged him through the crowd before he could look around and see what was happening.

As the crowd began to draw together, Carrie found herself separated from her sister. Feeling someone’s hand brush her shoulder, she looked up to find herself standing beside Will. They glanced at each other, then down at the ground. He was so tall, Carrie thought, noting that her head barely reached his shoulder. When the Reverend Coulter called out a song, Carrie turned slightly, offering to share her hymnal with Will. They stood, almost touching, each holding a side of the song book, and lifted their voices to the heavens. For the first time in a week, Carrie felt the heaviness lift from her heart. As long as she could stand beside Will, she felt like singing. She only wished they could go on like this forever.

Abby smiled a greeting as the Garners passed and pressed forward. Though Nancy Garner had washed her little son and dressed him in clean clothes, her own dress appeared rumpled. And her hair, usually pulled into a perfect knot, was disheveled, with little wisps falling into her eyes. Jed’s eyes were downcast, and the corners of his lips were tightly drawn. The perfect couple seemed to have developed a few imperfections.

Keeping to the back of the crowd, Abby watched as more families pushed their way toward the Coulter wagon, where Reverend Coulter waited for the hymn to end. Then, lifting his arms heavenward, he began to pray aloud.

Abby’s gaze skimmed the crowd until she found Rourke, standing some distance away. She knew he never attended the prayer services and she found herself wondering why. Did he think their prayers foolish? Or had something happened in the past to harden his heart? He was the only man in camp who had never attended the service. All the others, including Brand, made it a point to attend. Even Flint Barrows, she noted, had managed to leave his jug long enough to pray and sing. She saw Flint glance her way and felt a shiver along her spine. The man made her so uncomfortable she took several steps backward, to block her view of him.

Rourke lounged against the tree, trying not to stare at Abby. Whenever she wore a dress, it was hard to imagine her in those men’s britches and faded shirt. Yet later today, when she changed back into her workclothes, it would be harder still to picture her in a dress. Since that night on the hill, he’d worked overtime to avoid her. But in a wagon train as small as this, it was impossible not to see her. Worse yet, she was there in his mind. At night, when he tried to sleep, she flitted through his dreams, leaving him half awake and always hungry.

As the crowd broke into another hymn, he felt the bittersweet pain of remembrance. He would always think of Katherine whenever he heard this hymn. It was the one the congregation had sung at her burial. Without realizing it, his hands curled into fists. His jaw tightened, causing a little muscle to begin working.

As the crowd began to disperse, Flint Barrows called out in a loud voice, “I noticed that our esteemed gunman never bothers to attend prayer service. Could it be he doesn’t think he needs to pray? Or maybe it’s because he knows he’s too much of a sinner to ever be heard.”

Heads swiveled to stare at Rourke as families hurried past. Will Montgomery was so caught up in the beautiful girl walking beside him, he failed to even notice Flint’s words until they were directed at him.

“I guess I can speak for our Confederate soldier here, as well as myself, when I say I consider anyone who fought on the side of the Yankees to be traitors to this land.”

Will felt the stares of the entire crowd directed at him. He looked up and found himself staring into Rourke’s narrowed eyes. Glancing uneasily at Carrie, Will said softly, “You’d better get out of here, Carrie.”

“Why?”

“Just go. Get on back to your wagon.”

“But I… “

“Go. Now.”

Carrie had a glimpse of the soldier he must have been. There was a hardness, a determination she’d never seen before. With a quick, frightened glance at Rourke, she hurried away. Most of the other women left also, sensing a fight. The men, some merely curious, others watchful, stayed behind. Abby, nearly hidden in the crowd of men, stayed.

Will had gone very still. What Flint said, he had often thought. But now that the words were spoken aloud, he found them lacking in conviction. The truth was, he and Rourke had chosen separate sides in the war. But each of them, he was convinced, thought he was fighting for the good of his country.

He glanced at Rourke. Though he hadn’t moved a muscle and was still lounging against the tree, Will had the distinct impression that the man was coiled as tightly as a spring. One move, one wrong word, and Rourke would draw. Will was a good shot. Maybe even an excellent one. But he had no desire to shoot Rourke, even in a fair fight. In fact, he had no stomach for killing. Not ever again.

For his part, Rourke tensed and waited for Will’s reaction. He instantly recognized that Flint was itching to start a fight. Since he was too much of a coward to do it himself, he’d decided to sucker this poor kid into doing the job for him. Trouble was, Rourke knew he might be forced to fight Will before he could deal with Flint Barrows. The choice would be up to Will.

“Well, Reb. Are you going to just stand there? Tell him what you think,” Flint yelled.

The others shifted uneasily. Everyone in this train had chosen sides in the war. And if this erupted into a fight, they would all be forced to choose again. What most of them wanted was to put the war behind them.

“A traitor?” Will asked. His voice quivered slightly, but it carried far enough to be heard by the crowd. “There were no traitors, only soldiers. No matter which side you died for, you were just as dead. The war is over,” Will said softly. “And I’d like it to stay that way.”

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. One by one the men began drifting back toward their wagons. Will glanced at Rourke, hoping the man didn’t bear a grudge. Rourke didn’t move.

Flint’s hand hovered over his gun. He was losing the crowd. And with them, the hoped-for fight. In desperation he cried, “Well, I think we should have kicked their asses all the way back to Washington. But at least we gave ’em hell, Reb.”

Will stared directly at Rourke. In a soft voice he said, “These people don’t have any idea what the war was really like. They’ve never been to hell.”

Rourke studied the figure before him. No more than a boy really. But the war had changed him into a man. And a damned fine one at that.

Stepping forward, Rourke extended his hand. For a moment Will could only stare at it. Then, extending his own, he let out a long breath.

“We’ve both been there, Will,” Rourke said, accepting the younger man’s handshake. “To hell and back.”

As the two men walked away, Rourke dropped an arm around Will’s shoulders. Maybe Flint Barrows had just done something good. Maybe, after all, an old hatred could end.

Behind them, Abby let her breath out slowly and turned toward her wagon. To her way of thinking, Rourke never needed to attend a single prayer service. She’d just witnessed something better than prayer. There had been some healing today. Some might even call it a miracle.

Chapter Twelve

The wagon train had been following the Oregon Trail from the Missouri River. At South Pass, the route would branch out to follow the California Trail to the Great Salt Lake, then on to the Humboldt River lifeline.

The summer weather was a furnace—dry, with unbelievable blasts of heat that rose up from the dusty plains to choke the breath from straining lungs.

As they passed Plume Rocks, the travelers counted dozens of carcasses of dead oxen and mules. After twelve hundred miles, the people on the wagon train prayed that the worst of the journey was behind them. But the worst had just begun. None of the travelers would be prepared for the sizzling heat of the desert. Or for the freezing cold of the Sierra Nevada yet to come, the last barrier between them and the promised land.

The sky was overcast, with dark clouds far to the west. Everyone prayed for rain. The summer had been unseasonably dry, and the meager supplies of water were being rationed.

As Rourke was pulling out of camp, Mordecai stopped him. “Hold it, Rourke. I promised Miss Abby she could ride along with you today.”

Rourke swung his horse around to face the cook wagon. Beside it, Abby sat her horse, her rifle balanced across her lap. Inwardly Rourke groaned. He didn’t think he could take another day in her company, playing the role of impersonal guide.

“Maybe she ought to wait for a clearer day.” Turning toward Abby, he added, “Nothing personal, Miss Market.” Like hell it’s nothing personal, he berated himself. It’s about as personal as a man can get. One more day of watching her crouch behind rocks, and bend over streams, and he’d do something foolish and find himself on the wrong end of Mordecai’s rifle. “But it looks like rain. Maybe tomorrow you could ride out with Brand.”

“Brand might be gone for several days,” Mordecai called. He turned to the girl. “What do you think, Miss Abby? Want to take your chances with the rain, or wait for another day?”

“We have no meat left,” Abby said. She’d heard the edge in Rourke’s tone and wished there was someone else she could ride with. But if she waited until tomorrow, her father would be impossible to live with tonight. “I’d better take my chances on the rain holding off.”

“All right then.” Calling out to Rourke, Mordecai added, “We’ll catch up with you before day’s end.”

Sunset would be too late, Rourke thought. Sweet Jesus, by sundown, he’d be stark raving mad.

He wheeled his mount, leaving Abby in a cloud of dust. The best way to control his feelings for her, he decided, was to be as cold and distant as possible.

Abby let her horse have its head, knowing the mare would do everything short of breaking a leg to keep up with Rourke’s stallion. When she rode up beside him, she noted the tight set of his jaw and decided to keep her own counsel. Something was bothering him. Probably the fact that he was stuck with her again. She wished he wasn’t so moody. But she’d grown up with a moody father. The best way to handle these spells was to ignore him until he worked it out of his system.

They covered the miles in strained silence. When the lack of communication between them grew uncomfortable, Rourke pushed his horse to the limit. It gave him a perverse pleasure to know that the skinny girl who had cost him so much anguish was forced to keep up the relentless pace.

Dust rose up around them, and eventually Rourke tied his handkerchief across his nose and mouth to keep from choking. Several miles further on, he paused to look back. Abby’s mare doggedly followed his route, horse and rider eating a cloud of sand that seemed to engulf them.