Passage West (3 page)

The old man shook his head. “They may as well learn the rules of the trail. When there’s a river to cross, we do it before dark. Besides, I don’t like the looks of that weather. I’d like to cross before we get more rain. The water’s already deep enough to be a problem.”

“These drivers are pretty green,” Thompson reminded him.

“I know. And tired. But the sooner we cross this river the better.”

Thompson wheeled his horse and urged him into a gallop toward the far ridge. Half an hour later, Rourke and Thompson joined Mordecai at the river.

Several wagons were halted at the edge, their occupants staring in fright at the rushing water.

There were big, cumbersome Conestoga wagons, their white canvas bleached by the sun. Many of the families had outfitted farm wagons for the trip. They were easier to haul and repair. Several of Reverend Coulter’s families had painted their wagon boxes blue, the wheels red, and stretched white canvas over the bent hickory bows. On this, their first day, they looked like a festive parade.

“I’ll cross first with the cook wagon,” the old Scot said. “Thompson, you tie a lead rope to each team and tow it across to the other side. Parker and I will tie it to that tree over there, so the horses and wagons can’t be swept downstream.” He jabbed a finger in the air. “Rourke, I want you to ride alongside each wagon as it crosses. If the driver panics, you’ll have to take over.”

The men nodded at his terse instructions. Climbing from his horse, Mordecai took the reins from his cook and urged the team into the swirling water. While more wagons eased toward the riverbank to watch, the old man firmly guided his team toward the center of the stream. Water reached clear to the floor of the wagon, but the horses never paused or stumbled. With a crack of the whip, the horses strained, making straight toward the opposite bank.

A cheer went up from the crowd as the wagon creaked slowly up the steep embankment and came to rest in the tall grass.

As soon as the cook wagon was clear, Thompson tied a lead rope to the next wagon. While the driver whipped and cursed his team, Rourke rode alongside, offering encouragement. One of the mules stumbled and the wagon tilted dangerously. While the onlookers gasped, the wagon tipped further and flopped onto its side in the water. Children screamed and cried. Boxes and bundles fell loose and floated downstream. The mules twisted in their harnesses, brayed frantically and churned the water, trying to right themselves.

From her vantage point, Abby watched the scene with a mixture of horror and fascination. They were going to die. That entire family. Swept away in the current. And the same thing would happen to her family when they were forced to cross. She could swim, at least well enough to save her own life. But she couldn’t simply save herself and allow her sister and aunt to drown. But if she tried to save them, they would all be lost. Panic-stricken, she looked around for her father. He had left hours ago to search for game, and hadn’t returned. As usual, it was going to be up to her to take care of all of them. Silently she watched as Rourke and the others righted the wagon and calmed the terrified team. The children were plucked from the water and handed to their parents. Household goods were retrieved and tossed into a soggy heap. While the family clung to the back of the wagon, Rourke climbed onto the broad seat and took the reins. A few minutes later the wagon emerged on the opposite bank. Its occupants and their worldly goods were thoroughly soaked. But safe.

When Rourke returned for the next crossing, the crowd along the shore was deathly silent. Searching their faces, Rourke could taste their fear. No one would volunteer now. They would have to be bullied.

Spotting Abby, he shouted, “You there. The Market wagon. You’re next.”

While Thompson tied a rope to the team and took it across the swollen creek, Rourke slowed his dripping mount beside the wagon.

“Think you can handle the team, or would you like me to help?”

She gave him what she hoped was a haughty look. “I can handle my own team.”

He touched the rim of his cap and swallowed the smile that threatened. Despite the terror in her eyes, she held herself erect, her hands gripping the reins so tightly he could see the whites of her knuckles.

“That’s fine, ma’am. Just remember I’m right here beside you if you need me.”

She had no chance to respond. The mules stepped into the water and the wagon jolted along behind them. As the wheels hit a submerged rock, Abby was nearly yanked from the seat. Bracing her feet against the boards, she used every ounce of her strength to tighten the slack reins and keep the mules from bolting.

“Hold ’em steady,” Rourke shouted above the sound of rushing water.

She drew back on the reins and felt her muscles protest. The animals nervously tossed their heads, pitting their strength against hers.

“Carrie. Aunt Vi. Get up here and help me,” she called frantically.

Two heads poked out beneath the canvas.

“Hurry. I need you,” Abby shrieked.

As the two terrified women scrambled to take a seat, she thrust a piece of slippery leather into their hands. “Pull back,” she ordered. “Hold tightly, or they’re going to run. If they do, we’ll tip and lose everything.”

While Violet and Carrie held tightly to the right rein, Abby pulled the other, keeping the team on a slow, plodding pace. Several times the wagon pitched and tilted, but they managed to keep the mules from spooking.

Beside them, Rourke marveled at the girl’s nerves. He was certain she’d never handled a team before. And especially a frightened team crossing a swollen creek. But she never lost her composure. The worst of the crossing was behind them.

As the team scrambled up the steep bank, Abby gave a triumphant laugh. “We did it. Carrie, Aunt Vi, we did it.” Just then the wheel hit a boulder and the wagon tipped precariously. Losing her balance, Abby pitched sideways and landed with a splash in the water. In an instant, Rourke leaped from his mount to the wagon seat and grasped the reins from the startled women. When the wagon came to a halt on the bank, he jumped down and waded through the water until he came to a sputtering, gasping Abby.

Her hat had fallen off and floated downstream. Her hair, which she always kept piled up under the hat, now streamed down around her face and shoulders, the ends floating about her on the water. She started to stand, but a wave caught her, knocking her off her feet. Slipping under the water, she came up coughing and spitting like a wildcat.

Catching her hand, Rourke pulled her upright. The weight of the water dragged her clothes downward, plastering them against her figure like a second skin. He felt a moment of surprise at the stunningly beautiful woman facing him: hair the color of fire, falling nearly to her waist; a body that, though slim, was round and soft in all the right places. And those eyes. So green they put the sea of prairie grass to shame.

Another wave engulfed her and she was once more swept down. This time he dragged her upright and hauled her firmly into his arms. Instantly he felt the jolt, and a fist seemed to tighten deep inside him.

With the water threatening to swamp her, she was forced to cling to his waist. His arms held her as gently as if she were a child. But she could feel the strength in them.

Feelings she’d never known nearly overpowered her. Through her clothes her skin was hot where he was touching her. She found it hard to breathe, as if a heavy weight was pressing on her chest. Despite the cold water, her blood heated and she felt her cheeks redden.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

Embarrassed at her reaction to this man, she quickly covered up her confusion. “I’d be a whole lot better if you’d have come to my rescue right away instead of waiting until I swallowed half the creek.”

She pushed herself roughly from his arms and staggered through the water toward the bank. Rourke followed, enjoying the sight of her slender hips swaying as she struggled against the waves.

“If I’d helped you first, your wagon would be floating downstream right now,” he said to her back.

She stiffened at the deep voice that did strange things to her nerves.

Struggling up the steep bank, she sank down in the grass, too weary to move. Shielding her eyes, she stared up at him standing above her with his hands on his hips.

“I suppose you expect me to thank you.”

“No, ma’am. I was just doing my job. And I don’t expect thanks for that, especially from you.”

She flinched. Why did this man bring out the worst in her? Forcing herself to stand, she tipped her head back to see his face. Wiping her hand on her dripping pants, she grudgingly held it out to him.

“Forgive my manners, Mr… .”

“Rourke.”

She swallowed as he took her hand in his. Forcing herself to sound formal, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Rourke. For saving our wagon and my sister and aunt.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Market.”

“It’s Miss. Abby,” she corrected, wishing suddenly that she had a beautiful name. “Abigail Market.”

Rourke didn’t know why her words should make him so happy. It certainly wasn’t the fact that she wasn’t Market’s wife. “Abigail.” The smile was back in his voice. Market’s daughter. For long moments he continued holding her hand. So small. So callused.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she pulled her hand away and strode toward the wagon.

“Better learn to handle that team quick, Miss Abby Market. You’ve got a lot of rivers to cross before you reach California.”

Her chin lifted defiantly. “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Rourke. I can take care of myself.”

Behind her, Rourke watched the way she stiffened her spine. Even with water dripping from her ill-fitting, boyish clothes, she carried herself with dignity. While she managed to infuriate him, he felt a grudging admiration for her. Yes, he thought, slapping the sodden hat on his head and swinging into the saddle, from the looks of things, Miss Abby Market could damn well take care of herself.

Chapter Three

It was long past dusk before all the wagons crossed the creek and formed a circle for the night. When James Market returned with a sack of game, he found Abby huddled under a blanket while Aunt Vi and Carrie prepared dinner.

“Well, Miss High-and-Mighty, is it nap time?”

Vi cast a gentle look at her sleeping niece. “Leave her be, James. She’s put in a hard day.

“And I haven’t?” He tossed down a sack and picked up the jug, taking a long pull before corking it. Jabbing a finger at the lumpy sack, he snarled, “That’s enough food for two or three days, if you don’t get greedy. I scoured miles of this countryside hunting game to fill your lazy stomachs.” He swung away, muttering oaths.

“Where are you going?” Vi paused in her stirring.

“To wash in the creek. My dinner had better be ready when I get back, woman. And you,” he roared at Abby, who sat up, grinding the heels of her hands over her eyes, “had better see to the team and our horses. They have to be rubbed down and fed before you even think about resting.”

Violet watched his retreating back, then wiped the back of her hand across her brow. “He’ll be nicer after he gets some food in him.”

“Huh.” Carrie bit back the hateful things she was thinking and cast an anxious glance at her older sister, who was already climbing wearily from her resting place.

“Come on, Carrie,” Abby said. “I’ll show you how to tend the team. There may be plenty of nights I won’t be able to do everything.”

“Can’t,” the younger girl mumbled, running a finger through a pan of dough. “I promised Aunt Vi I’d help her make dinner.”

“Put those over the fire and help your sister,” Violet said gently. “I’ll watch your biscuits.”

Reluctantly Carrie did as she was told. Even back on the farm, tending the animals had been the one chore she hated. Abby had a way with animals. They seemed to listen to her as she cooed and murmured, letting them eat from her hand. Carrie had been more comfortable around her mother and the household chores. From her mother she’d learned to sew and do handwork. Carrie could take a piece of plain cloth and turn it into a work of art, with shirring, embroidery, or smocking. Glancing at her sister as she carried buckets of water and pitched hay into a trough, Carrie thought how beautiful Abby would look in an emerald-green gown with satin roses and velvet bows.

“Doesn’t it bother you to dress like a man, Abby?” she asked softly.

Abby turned and tousled her sister’s hair. “Why should it? You’re the pretty one, Carrie. I’ll leave the fancy dresses and lace shawls for you to wear. You’re going to break men’s hearts, you know. You’re as beautiful as Ma was.”

Carrie’s eyes rounded. It wasn’t often the two sisters had time for girl talk. “Don’t you know anything, Abby?”

“Know?” Abby pitched the last forkful of hay and rubbed a hand along the mare’s velvet nose. Turning, she saw the look of surprise on her little sister’s face. “Know what?”

“Abby. You’re beautiful.” Carrie flushed in embarrassment. She’d never said this before. She’d never thought it necessary. “Haven’t you ever looked at yourself? It’s true, you don’t look like Ma. But with your hair, and skin, and those eyes …” She giggled at the look that came into Abby’s eyes. “Lord Almighty. You really don’t know, do you?”

“If Pa hears you swear, he’ll box your ears.”

“Pa,” Carrie said with venom. “You match him swear word for swear word every time the two of you fight. Pa treats you worse than dirt, and you take it. Someday …”

When she stopped, Abby touched her shoulder affectionately. “Someday?”

“I’ll be big enough to stand up to Pa the way you do.”

“I don’t stand up to him,” Abby protested softly.

“You know you do. You’re the only one who does.” Her voice trembled with feeling. “Someday I’ll make him do all his own dirty work.” She took a deep breath. “And you and I and Aunt Vi will act like la-de-da ladies.”

The two girls shared a laugh before returning to the wagon.

With the team taken care of, Abby crawled under the blanket, too tired to change her clothes.

Carrie lifted a pan from the fire and handed her a steaming biscuit. “Try these, Abby. Tell me if they’re as good as yours.”