Passage West (23 page)

He leaned a hip against the wheel of the wagon and struck a match to his cigar. Watching the stream of smoke through narrowed eyes, he said, “I heard them leave shortly after midnight. As soon as everyone had bedded down for the night.” Glancing toward the sky, he said, “I figure they ought to be a good twenty, thirty miles from here by now.”

“And you made no move to stop them?”

He flicked ash from the cigar, then met her cold gaze. “Wasn’t my place to interfere. When it comes to a man and a woman, they have to make their own decisions. No one has the authority to tell them what’s right for them.”

“You wouldn’t know right from wrong if it hit you in the eye.”

He drew on the cigar, then studied her. “You seem to be in a fine temper this morning. You aren’t jealous of your little sister, are you, Abby?”

“Go to hell.” She spun on her heel and stalked back to her wagon.

Behind her, Rourke watched her stiff spine, her hands swinging furiously at her sides, and felt the beginnings of a grin. Abby Market was one hell of a woman.

*  *  *

Her father’s murderous rage was even worse than anything Abby could have imagined. While she bent over the fire, she heard her father moving about the wagon. A moment later he emerged, his eyes blazing.

“Where is she?”

Abby stirred the coals, avoiding his look.

“I asked you where your sister was, woman.” He strode toward her with his hand raised as if to strike her.

“She’s gone, Pa.”

“Gone?” His eyes narrowed. “With that one-armed son of a bitch?”

When Abby didn’t respond, he picked up the blackened kettle filled with coffee and tossed it. It landed with a clatter against the side of the wagon, spraying the steaming liquid across the canvas.

Abby flinched and turned away. He caught her by the shoulder and spun her around. “When did they go?”

She avoided his eyes. “I don’t know,” she lied. “Sometime during the night, I suppose. I woke this morning to find her missing, along with all her belongings.”

He hitched up his suspenders and turned toward the wagon. “I’m going after them. And when I find them, she’ll have the privilege of watching me kill her lover-boy.”

Abby heard him clattering around the wagon, throwing things aside in his haste to find what he was looking for. She had to find a way to stop him. In a black temper like this, he would do what he threatened. In desperation, she ran to the cook wagon.

“Mordecai, please come.”

The men looked up from their morning coffee.

“What is it, Miss Abby?”

“My sister Carrie has run off with Will Montgomery. My father is threatening to go after them and kill him.”

Mordecai lifted his rifle and without further question followed her.

Rourke, busy saddling his horse, left the cinch unfastened and ambled along behind them. It would never have occurred to him that he was curious. What’s more, he would never admit to himself that he cared about Abby Market. He didn’t want to get into their fight, he told himself. He just wanted to back up Mordecai in case of trouble.

Just as James Market mounted his horse, Mordecai stepped in front of him, grasping the reins.

“I hear you’re going off in search of your daughter.” Before James could respond, Mordecai added, “You canna’ catch them. They’ve been gone for hours.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because I heard them go. Half the camp probably heard them.”

“And you didn’t bother to wake me?”

Mordecai’s voice lowered; the Scottish burr thickened. “I wouldna’ do that, Market. You’d have tried to stop them.”

“You’re goddamned right I would have. She’s a child. And she’s throwing herself away on a cripple.”

Despite the fact that he himself was crippled, Mordecai’s tone became calmly reasonable. “I’m sorry you see it that way, man. Whether you care to admit it or not, your daughter has become a woman before your very eyes. And you’ve been too blind to notice.”

James jerked the reins from the wagon master’s hand and wheeled his horse. “I’ll show you who’s blind, Stump. By the time I find them, she’ll be so hungry and tired, she’ll be only too happy to come back with me.”

“I think her husband will see that she’s fed and well taken care of.”

“Husband!”

Mordecai nodded. “By the time you find them, they’ll be properly married. And there will be nought you can do about it.”

“I’ll show you what I can do. I’ll kill that one-armed bastard.”

“Market.”

At the tone of Mordecai’s voice, he drew back on the reins and turned his head.

“I think you should know. Will Montgomery may have lost an arm in the war, but he’s one of the fastest gunmen you’ll ever come up against. If you go after him, you may be lucky enough to make your daughter a widow. But I’ll be betting on Montgomery.” Mordecai started to turn away, then paused. Giving the man a cold look, he added, “I consider young Montgomery one of the finest men I’ve ever met. I’d be proud to have him for a son. Or a son-in-law.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“No, Market. You’re the fool. She’s chosen the man she wants to be with. No matter what you do, she’ll never be your little girl again. She’s a woman now. And she’s followed her heart.” His voice lowered. “You can try to stop them. You may even kill him. But she’d never forgive you. You’d lose her anyway.”

For long, frozen moments, James Market stared at the man, digesting his words. With his right hand gripped tightly around the handle of his whip, Market slid from the saddle and stood, his feet wide apart, his shoulders sagging. On his face was a look of stunned disbelief.

Having heard the sound of angry voices, the people milling about the nearby wagons had paused in their chores to watch and listen. The group of travelers had grown suddenly quiet. The atmosphere was tense and silent.

Watching the defeated man, Mordecai tipped his hat to Abby and Violet and walked away. Seeing Rourke, he muttered, “I think Market has come around. It seems best if we leave him alone now, to work out his sorrow.”

“Sorrow?” Rourke glanced at Market, then back at Mordecai. “That isn’t sorrow I see, but anger, rage, frustration.”

“He’ll work it out, man.” Clutching his rifle, Mordecai headed toward the cook wagon.

Reluctantly, Rourke followed.

Behind them, Abby turned toward her father. “I made you fresh coffee, Pa.” Abby handed him a tin cup.

“I don’t want it.” Slapping her hand, he sent the cup flying through the air. Hot liquid spilled down her arm, scalding her.

“You fool.” His hand raised, as if to strike her.

Feeling the heat of his temper, Abby didn’t flinch. “No, Pa. You’re the fool. You’ve lost.” Her tone was quietly triumphant. “And Carrie’s won. She’s finally free of you and your ugly temper forever.”

The entire camp heard the crack of the whip as it struck the young woman across the shoulder. Mordecai and Rourke turned and began running in the direction of the Market wagon.

Standing on the fringes of the crowd, Rourke gripped his gun. Remembering the first time he’d seen Abby take a whipping, he felt a shudder ripple through his body. It would be impossible for him to stand by and do nothing this time. Pushing his way through the gaping crowd, he paused at the unexpected sound of Abby’s voice lifted in anger.

“Don’t you touch me.” Leaping at her father, Abby tore the whip from his hand, shrieking, “Don’t you dare touch me ever again.”

For one long moment, Market could only stare at his daughter in stunned silence. Then, seeing the shocked looks on the faces of the people nearby, he spun on his heel, climbed into the back of the wagon, and pulled the cork from a fresh jug.

Whispering, mumbling, feeling awkward at having witnessed something so intimate, the crowd drifted back to their wagons and resumed their chores.

Mordecai watched as Rourke’s hand continued to rest on the gun at his side, his fingers poised, his eyes steely. There would have been no talking him out of it this time, the older man realized. Whether or not Rourke cared to admit it, even to himself, he was becoming deeply involved in Abby Market’s life. Maybe, the wagon master thought with a sigh, that wasn’t so bad. They were two people very much alone.

Feeling Mordecai’s gaze on him, Rourke spun away and stalked toward the cook wagon.

Violet had stood to one side, cowed by her brother’s violence, amazed by her niece’s unexpected display of strength. As the crowd dispersed, she came forward and embraced Abby.

“You were so brave, dear. I wish I could stand up to James like that.”

Abby’s eyes misted with pain for a moment. With a weak little half smile, she said, “You would if you had to, Aunt Vi. He just hasn’t pushed you far enough yet.”

As Violet bathed her niece’s wound, she whispered words of endearment. “Lie still, dear. Don’t move. This will sting a bit, but I have to disinfect it.”

Abby lay still, allowing her aunt to minister to her. All the while, Vi talked in her soft, dreamy voice about Carrie, and how she had managed to elude her father’s cruelty. “It will be hard for them, Abby. But with enough love, they can make it.”

Would they? Could they? Could a fresh-faced, innocent girl of fifteen and a young man who had been to hell and back really make it on love alone? Abby pushed aside her fears and doubts and spoke the words she knew her aunt needed to hear. “Oh, Aunt Vi. Of course they’ll make it. They’re going to be fine.”

Her aunt gave her a brilliant smile. “They will, won’t they? Oh, they’ll be so fine. But Abby, I shall miss her terribly.” For the first time Violet’s voice shook. “I must face the fact that I’ll probably die without ever seeing them again. But I’m happy for her. Happy because Carrie knows what she wants, and she’s willing to go after it.”

The tears Abby had been fighting began to roll down her cheeks unchecked. What had happened to the world she had once known? Where was the security of their green farm, her gentle mother’s faith? When had it all gone crazy? Her father’s temper was out of control, and he was becoming more violent with each day. Aunt Violet was still living in a world of make-believe, where everything could be solved by love. And the little sister she adored was gone. Like the farm. Like her mother. Like the life she had once known. Gone forever.

Chapter Eighteen

James Market stayed drunk for days. When he wasn’t asleep, he was hurling abuse at his remaining two women—two women who struggled to cope with their loss by driving the team, hunting game, providing food and clothing, and hiding his condition from the other members of the wagon train.

One night, when Abby found Violet hunched over her mending, sound asleep, she decided things had gone too far. This poor woman was pushing herself beyond the limits, not only to overcome the loss of Carrie, but also because James Market was unwilling to face reality.

Reality. As Abby helped her aunt into the back of the wagon and covered her with a quilt, she pondered what their lives had become. They were no longer farmers, with roots deep in the soil. Now they were emigrants, crossing an alien wilderness, with no knowledge of what lay ahead.

As a child, she had thought her father and grandfather the two strongest men she had ever known. Her grandfather could do the work of three men as he went about his farm chores each day. Yet, while the others relaxed after their evening meal, he could spend the evening hours preaching the word of the Lord. And on Sunday mornings, he not only conducted church services for the nearby families, but on Sunday afternoons he went out in his wagon in search of fallen sinners, often bringing them home for supper, where he would lead them in prayers and singing.

Of all his sons, James was the most like him in physical strength. Her father had always been proud of driving himself and every member of his family to the limits of endurance. When the chores were finished, James often went into town to drink or play cards, staying until the sun came up. It was a matter of pride to him that he could return to the fields and work without benefit of sleep. Of course, Abby mused as she stepped from the wagon into the darkness, it wasn’t long before their farm had begun to wear the shabby look of neglect. Still, James had seemed to push himself harder than ever, determined to prove to his father and himself that he could succeed.

Had he sold the farm because it reminded him painfully of the wife and babies buried there? Shivering, Abby paused and studied the path of a shooting star. Or was he just tired of trying to pretend he could make it work? She felt a painful contraction around her heart. What had Aunt Vi once said? Maybe everyone heading west was running from something.

What was Rourke running from? Abby glanced toward the cook wagon, then knelt and carefully banked the fire. Standing, she brushed the dirt from her britches and started toward the wagon. Why would a man leave the beautiful, rolling hills of Maryland for this backbreaking journey?

“Evening, Miss Abby.”

At Mordecai’s greeting, Abby’s thoughts scattered.

“Good evening. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Stump?”

“Mordecai, lass. I’m too young, or you’re too old, to be calling me Mr. Stump. I was looking for your father.”

“He isn’t here.” She stared at the toe of her worn boot. “Can I help instead?”

The man’s heart went out to this girl. Everyone on the train was whispering about James Market’s drinking. Since the youngest girl had run off, he was out of control. It cut Mordecai to the quick to see a determined lass and a delicate spinster trying to hold things together. Much as he hated the embarrassment of a scene, it was time to confront Market with a warning. Unless he was willing to pull his share of the load, he and his family would have to leave the train at the next fort. Of course, Mordecai knew, he would never make good his threat. These two women were too fine to be treated so badly. What he really wanted to do was shake some sense into Market before it was too late. Maybe a good scare was just what he needed.

“No, lass. It’s your father I’ll be speaking to. Know where he is?”

She shook her head. Lying didn’t come easily to her. But she knew that if Mordecai saw her father tonight, before he had time to sleep off the liquor, he would be as mean and surly as a wounded bear.