Passage West (18 page)

Why didn’t Rourke’s touch repel her the way Barrows’s had? What was it about this man that set him apart from all the others? Abby wondered if anyone’s touch had ever been so gentle. For long moments she held her breath, afraid to breathe, afraid to move. Then, ever so slowly, she turned her face until Rourke’s lips brushed the corner of her mouth. Still he made her wait while he teased the edge of her lower lip, tracing its fullness with his tongue, nibbling it lightly, until she thought she would go mad wanting his kiss.

At last his mouth covered hers, and she felt a wild sweep of passion. Ever since that night on the hill, she’d dreamed of his kisses, and worried that she had magnified everything in her mind. It couldn’t have been as wonderful as she’d remembered. But this. This was better than anything she ever could have imagined.

In an instant, Rourke’s weariness vanished. All his senses sharpened and focused on the woman in his arms. She tasted far sweeter than any woman had a right to. He drew her close and felt the blanket slip from her shoulders. His hands sought the warmth of her flesh.

Abby’s hands wound around his neck and her fingertips brushed the dark hair at his nape. How could a man be so strong and yet so tender? How could his simplest touch arouse such passion?

He took the kiss deeper and all her thoughts shattered into tiny fragments.

Rourke’s hands spanned her tiny waist, then traveled across her rib cage to the swell of her breasts. She was small and perfectly formed. His thumb grazed her nipple and she gasped and tried to pull away.

“Rourke, I…”

His mouth swallowed her protest and she found herself engulfed in waves of sensation.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought of you?” He dropped soft kisses on her eyelid, the tip of her nose, her chin. “How long I’ve dreamed of holding you like this?” He brought his mouth lower, to her throat, where he ran openmouthed kisses across her shoulder, along her collarbone. “How desperately I’ve wanted you?” His thumbs teased her nipples until they were erect, and then he lowered his mouth to nibble, to suckle.

Abby had never known such needs. Her body had become a mass of nerve endings, eager for his touch.

Lightning tore a jagged slash across the darkened sky, and thunder reverberated across the heavens. But it couldn’t match the storm that raged through both of them.

“Tell me you want me, Abby. Tell me,” he commanded. His eyes glittered with a fierceness that frightened her.

“Rourke.” His name was torn from her depths. How could she deny what she wanted, what they both wanted so desperately? How could she not have known until this moment that Rourke was different from any other? That he was the only man who could ever make her respond like this?

The wind whipped up the dust in little eddies, cooling their heated flesh. And then the heavens seemed to open, sending a torrent of rain pouring down on them.

Rourke swore and drew her against him, vainly trying to shield her from the rain. Staring up at him, she blinked her eyes, then wiped the dripping strands of hair from his face.

“Maybe this was a blessing in disguise,” she whispered.

“The storm? Why?”

“I can’t think, Rourke. When you’re holding me like this, I’m not able to sort things out. Maybe the rain will bring us both to our senses.”

“We don’t need to think, only to feel. I want you, Abby. And you want me.” He drew her close against him and brought his lips to hers.

“No.” She shrank back.

He let out a slow, angry curse. “If I had any sense at all,” he muttered against her lips, “I’d take you now, storm or no.”

She shivered and wasn’t certain whether it was from the cold rain that pelted them or from the intensity of his words.

He swore again, more harshly. “Come on,” he said, lifting her, still partially wrapped in the blanket. “We’ll be dry beneath these rocks.”

He settled her in a patch of dried grass, beneath a shelf of rock. Then, running through the rain, he brought their rifles and other supplies.

Forcing himself not to look at her, he dropped her britches and one of his shirts at her feet.

“Get dressed.” His voice was low and commanding.

Keeping her head averted, Abby shrugged into the clothes he offered her, then pulled on her boots. When she turned, Rourke was staring bleakly at the sputtering ashes of their once-roaring fire. Within minutes the rain had extinguished the flame. And within minutes, their passion had returned once more to cool indifference.

Huddling beside him, she wrapped the blanket around herself and peered into the stormy darkness.

“We needed this rain,” Abby muttered, to fill the awkward silence.

“Yeah.” Maybe more than she knew, Rourke thought. He had nearly taken her here on the cold, hard ground. And if he had, he’d have never known if she truly wanted him, or if she was merely too weak to resist.

They would make love. Of that he was certain. It was no longer a question in his mind. Her reaction to his touch left him convinced of her feelings as well. But when first they came together in passion, he decided, reaching for a cigar, it would be because she wanted it as much as he did. The decision would have to be hers. And once made, there’d be no backing down.

Chapter Fourteen

Abby awoke to the sound of water trickling past rocks as it slid from higher elevations. She sat up and felt a moment of panic when she saw that Rourke was missing. The moment passed as she spotted him coming toward her from behind towering rocks, buttoning his shirt. Beads of water glistened in his dark hair. Seeing her, his fingers fumbled for a second. He tucked the shirt into the waistband of his pants and bent to pour coffee from a blackened pot.

“How are you feeling?” His voice was slightly muffled. He kept his back to her.

“Fine. A little stiff and sore.” She was relieved that he didn’t look at her. She felt as awkward and uncomfortable as ever in his presence. Despite those few moments of passion last night, things were the same between them. Maybe worse.

“If you’d like to bathe, there’s a rock basin brimming with water. Just behind this boulder.” He turned, and she avoided his eyes.

“Thanks.” Carefully rolling the blanket, she limped away.

Clear rainwater pooled in the basin. Removing her clothes, Abby enjoyed the luxury of bathing away the remaining blood and grime. Before she again dressed, she examined her cuts and bruises. They would heal. And when they did, she hoped she would be able to put away forever the memory of Flint Barrows. The wind sighed and she found herself casting a furtive glance over her shoulder. True, the wounds would heal. But they would leave scars. Scars no one would ever see.

Rourke tried not to watch as Abby brushed the tangles from her hair and tucked it beneath the old hat. Maybe, he thought, it was better that she dressed in men’s clothes and hid her beauty. If other men saw what he saw, she wouldn’t be safe anywhere.

Cursing himself for his thoughts, he doused the fire and saddled the horses. After filling their canteens, he secured his bedroll. Before he could assist Abby, she had managed to pull herself into the saddle. He saw her wince and draw her broken hand close to her chest.

“Here.” Removing the handkerchief from around his neck, he handed it up to her. “Tie this around your neck and use it for a sling. It’ll ease the throbbing.”

Abby gave him a grateful smile and kept her silence. She’d been enough trouble. If it killed her, she would resist the temptation to ask his help for the rest of the trip.

As he mounted he saw her struggling to tie the handkerchief around her neck. With one hand out of commission, it was an impossible task.

“Hold still.” Bringing his horse close to hers, he reached over and tied the cloth.

As his fingers brushed the back of her neck, Abby felt the familiar jolt. There was no denying the fact that his simple touch tied her in knots.

“Thanks.” She stared at a spot just beyond his collar, avoiding his eyes.

“Tell me when it gets too uncomfortable. We’ll take a break from the trail.” Rourke studied the flush that colored her cheeks, then moved his horse into the lead.

It was an easy matter to catch up to a slow, plodding wagon train that averaged fifteen miles a day. Despite the dry riverbeds and furnacelike heat of the land, despite the slower pace Rourke insisted on because of Abby’s injuries, they caught up to the wagons just as they were making camp that evening.

“Rourke.” Abby’s voice held a note of panic. On a little rise, she reined in her horse, her gaze scanning the wagons below.

He waited, seeing the look of uncertainty on her face.

“If Flint has left the wagon train, I don’t see why I should have to tell anyone what he did.”

His eyes narrowed. “We’ve been over all this before. You can’t let him get away with it. If you do, he’ll just find another helpless woman to attack.”

“But they’ll all think that I let… that I’m …”

He saw the pain and forced himself to ignore it. “Sometimes you can’t worry about what others will think.” Seeing her quick frown, he said more gently, “You don’t have to tell everyone on the train. But Mordecai has to know why Barrows can no longer travel with us.”

She swallowed. “All right. We’ll tell Mordecai. But no one else needs to know.”

“What about your family? Don’t you think you owe it to them to explain why you’re carrying around those cuts and bruises?”

“Yes. Of course I’ll tell them. But I’d like to do it alone, in my own way.” When he made a move to protest, she said quickly, “I know them better than you, Rourke.”

When she avoided his gaze, Rourke grabbed her reins, forcing her to look at him. “What are you really afraid of Abby?” He was fairly certain he knew the answer to that. It was her father who frightened her, almost as much as Flint Barrows. Maybe more.

“I’m not afraid. I just want to handle this in my own way.”

She looked close to tears. Rourke felt his determination dissolving. She’d been through enough. If he could ease her through this ordeal, he would. “All right, Abby. We’ll do this your way.”

He heard her expel a little sigh as they urged their horses forward.

Mordecai was stretched out in front of the cook fire, his leg resting atop his saddle. He looked up over the rim of his cup to watch the two riders approaching. As they drew into the circle of light, he pointed to the swollen game bag hanging from Rourke’s saddle. “I see you had some luck.”

“Some good.” Rourke slid from the saddle, then reached up and helped Abby down. “Some not so good.”

When Abby faced Mordecai, his gaze swung to her hand in the sling. “Accident, Miss Abby?”

Rourke glanced around. “Where are the others?”

Mordecai lifted an eyebrow. “Parker and Thompson are attending to some chores. Brand is riding with Flint Barrows to Fort Bridger.”

“Did Barrows say why he was leaving?”

Mordecai blew into his coffee and took a drink. “Said he was getting restless since his wife’s death. Wanted to hunt and sell the game at the fort.”

“Did he say if he was intending to rejoin the wagon train when we reached the fort?”

“Didn’t say.” Mordecai set down his cup and poured one for Abby and Rourke. “Why the questions, Rourke?”

“I ordered Flint Barrows to leave the train,” Rourke said, accepting a cup of steaming coffee from the wagon master.

Abby, wishing there was some place to hide, sat beside the old man and set the tin cup down so they wouldn’t notice her hand was shaking.

“I think you’d better explain yourself,” Mordecai said, his Scottish burr thickening in agitation. “I wouldna like to think ye’ve taken it upon yourself to do my job, Rourke.”

“Flint Barrows attacked Abby up in the foothills.”

The old man’s head swiveled toward her. “Did he… hurt you, lass?” He saw the slight trembling of her hand and felt a wave of sympathy. Without thinking he closed his hand over hers. God, she was as cold as ice.

The tenderness in Mordecai’s tone was genuine. Abby shook her head, feeling the sudden sting of tears.

“He would have, if Rourke hadn’t come along in time.”

“I’m surprised you didna kill him,” Mordecai said in a voice low with anger.

“I wanted to. Probably should have.” Rourke shrugged. “I was more concerned with Abby than I was with Barrows.”

The wagon master’s eyes narrowed. “I should have wondered about a lazy bastard like Barrows, begging your pardon, Miss Abby,” he said, turning toward her, “suddenly getting ambition. We’ll tell the commander at the fort. He’ll know how to deal with Barrows.” Slowly, painfully, Mordecai got to his feet and, leaning heavily on the cane, walked to the back of the cook wagon. When he returned, he handed Abby a small handgun.

“I want you to carry this at all times, lass. Even when you’re asleep, keep it with you. Rourke here will teach you what you need to know about the care and use of it.”

Abby stared at the gun in his hand. “I can’t pay you for it, Mordecai.”

“I want no pay. I want you safe, lass. Take it.”

Rourke saw her blink back tears as she accepted the gun from the older man’s hand.

“We should be at Fort Bridger in a few days. In the meantime, you have your aunt tend to your injuries. I hope none of them are serious?”

Abby shook her head, too overcome to speak. This man, a stranger until they joined his wagon train, showed more kindness toward her than anyone she’d ever known.

“Her hand’s broken, her ankle’s badly swollen, and there’s a deep gash in her shoulder,” Rourke growled.

Mordecai turned to study the man for a moment. Rourke was a man who rarely let his feelings show. Yet he was showing more emotion about this incident than Abby. “You’ll want to see her to her wagon, I suppose, and stay while she talks to her family.”

“No.” Abby bit the word off, wishing she hadn’t been so quick to react.

Both men grew uncomfortably silent.

Rourke handed her the reins to her horse. Turning to Mordecai, he said, “Abby would like to talk to her family in private.”

Abby shot him a grateful look, then turned away. Without a word, Rourke began tending to his own mount.