Rexanne Becnel (11 page)

After what seemed like forever, his coughing subsided, and after a while she knew he slept. His breathing came slow and regular, and Abby was finally able to relax. Her little fire was sputtering low, so she added a few chips to it and stirred it up to a respectable blaze. In the east just the first hint of the coming dawn showed. The false dawn. Before too long the morning buzz of activity would begin. They would probably break camp earlier than usual to make up for yesterday’s delay. But for now all was quiet. Just the unique smells carried in on the prairie winds, and the sounds of birds and insects, so unlike those she was used to in Missouri.

She was sitting in her chair, her heels up on the top rung and her arms around her knees, staring into the fire as the coffee brewed, letting her mind wander wherever it would, when a low voice broke into her reverie.

“Can I invite myself for coffee?”

Tanner.

Abby drew a sharp breath as he stepped into the meager light cast by the fire. She’d just been thinking of him, or rather, trying not to think of him, and now here he was, conjured up as if by magic. Despite her every attempt to be unemotional, her heart began to pound like a drum.

She straightened at once into a more ladylike posture: feet on the ground, hands folded on her lap. But her hair … And her nightgown! She thrust the untidy plait behind her shoulder and tugged on the edges of her knitted shawl. “Coffee. Yes. It’s … it’s brewing.” Only how was she to serve it without standing up in her nightgown before him?

Abby gestured weakly for him to sit in her father’s chair, only barely remembering her manners. He always caught her at a disadvantage like this. Stuck in the mud. Hanging up her soiled rags. And now, sitting in her nightclothes, completely disheveled from her sleep. She watched his long-legged form step farther into the golden circle of flickering light, then take the seat she offered. He was so tall and strong and fit. Yet when he lowered himself into the sturdy rocker and stretched his legs out before him, he let out the smallest sigh. Only then did she notice his unmistakable weariness.

“Why are you up so early?” she asked.

He smiled faintly. “Livestock are not known for their brains. The loose stock managed to scatter in every direction, and a couple of them got stuck in some mighty tight spots.” He rolled his neck from side to side, then rubbed one of his shoulders. “I’m not up early, I’m up late. But what’s your excuse? Why aren’t you still curled up in your bed?”

There was no reason for the sudden rush of color to her cheeks. He’d referred to her bed in a purely innocent fashion. As usual her imagination was working overtime. Or was it?

Abby stared at him, conscious of how bold her gaze must appear, yet unable to stop herself. Did that glint in his eyes mean anything, or was it just a trick of the erratic firelight? She swallowed and rubbed her damp palms against the thin cotton gown. “My father is ill. I made something for his cough.”

“And couldn’t get back to sleep yourself.”

She shrugged. “I don’t mind. It’s almost dawn anyway.”

He met her eyes for a long, quiet moment. Despite the silence between them, however, her fertile imagination heard the most wonderfully intimate words conveyed in his gaze: that her eyes were like stars in the sky, that her skin was like silk…

“A good time to think about your children’s story.”

Such an unlikely comment brought her back to reality, and without being conscious of it she leaned toward him. “Why, yes, I had been thinking about my little mouse characters.” She smiled, both pleased and amazed that he remembered about her stories. At once any thoughts about how her eyes and skin appeared fled her mind. No one besides her young students had ever shown such an interest in her writing.

This time her blush had a completely different source. “Most people think my ideas about writing books are rather silly.”

“If your stories make you happy—and the children who read them—then who’s to say they’re silly?” he reasoned, his voice a low, comforting rumble. In the cool night the weak circle of firelight gave their conversation an intimacy that belied the openness of the land around them. It was just she and Tanner. The rest of the world did not exist.

“I think so too. But most people, well, they read the Bible to their children and nothing else, even though they might enjoy penny novels themselves. I think of my stories as penny novels for children—or at least they will be if I can find someone who will publish them.”

“That might be hard in the Oregon Territory.”

Abby sighed. “Yes. I’ve thought about that. Most of the publishing houses are in big cities like New York.”

“Chicago has a few as well, I’ve heard.”

“Do they? Well, I suppose I can always write a letter to several of them once my manuscript is completed. Oh, I’m being a terrible hostess. The coffee’s ready.”

She fetched two cups, then crouched at the fire and, using the corner of her shawl to protect her hand, poured them each a generous portion. But when she looked up at him, she surprised the oddest look on his face. He had straightened in the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hat dangling from his hands. But it was the intensity of his gaze that took her aback, for he was almost frowning, he stared at her so hard.

“Sugar?” she asked, extending the tin cup to him with a hand that suddenly trembled.

“Don’t need it,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, it seemed. He put his hat on his knee, then took the steaming cup. Disconcerted, Abby returned to her chair with her own cup, then realized in further dismay that she’d forgotten about her nightgown. No wonder he’d looked at her so oddly! He was shocked at a woman who would sit around in her nightgown, completely unconcerned to be seen thus.

Cringing at what he must think of her, Abby took a nervous gulp of coffee, then nearly choked on the too-hot liquid. In an instant Tanner leaped to her aid, pounding her back as she sputtered and coughed. But that only added to her distress, for she feared he must now think her both foolish
and
improper. And she’d hoped to impress him!

Tanner was impressed, but not in the way Abby had hoped. Once she’d recovered sufficiently, he stepped back and reached for his cup, studying her anew.

She was the damnedest combination of innocence and seductive appeal. A churchgoing woman who wrote about mice. A flannel-clad beauty who sought to woo him with her domestic talents—for he was sure that was her intent. And it was working. But if she knew the turn his thoughts had taken when the wind had thrust the single layer of flannel against her hips… There had been no drawers beneath the cloth, just sweet, smooth skin. He took a long sip of the strong coffee, then nearly choked himself on the scalding liquid.

“Maybe I should make a fresh pot,” she murmured, clearly embarrassed and looking for a way to cover her discomfort.

“No, it’s fine,” he assured her. “Everything is fine.”

And indeed it was, he realized. Ever since the other night when she’d revealed that she wanted to open a school in Oregon, he’d feared that she was Hogan’s grandchild. But if she was, surely she’d know that the man lived in Chicago. Yet she hadn’t so much as blinked an eye when he’d mentioned the town. Tanner didn’t think she was devious enough to disguise her reaction that well. He had to conclude that she was not the girl he was searching for after all.

An enormous wave of relief poured over him. He didn’t want her to be Hogan’s granddaughter. Nor did he want to examine why it should matter to him one way or the other. But the relief was there nonetheless. He sipped his coffee, studying her with a new fascination. She was not the sort of woman he’d always known. And now that he was sure she was not Hogan’s missing heiress, he couldn’t help imagining exactly what lay beneath her plain nightgown. He didn’t want to stifle the image of her pressed warmly against him. Naked. Willing.

“Abigail?” Robert Morgan’s labored call was as effective as a bucket of icy mountain water in chilling Tanner’s wayward thoughts. Abby, however, jumped as if burned. She cast Tanner a pleading look, one he understood at once.
Don’t reveal to my father that you’re here,
that look said.

Tanner stood up slowly. He was tired—damned tired—from the long day and night of riding. But somehow her father’s impatient call made it worse. What was he doing nosing around a woman like her anyway? She was the kind of woman a man married. Only he wasn’t the type of man fathers approved of for their daughters. Tanner might be attracted to her despite all the differences between them, but her father would never allow it to go any farther.

“Abigail!” the demanding voice came from the wagon tent.

“Yes, Father. I’m coming. I’m just fetching your medicine,” she answered placatingly, though her gaze held with Tanner’s.

It was Tanner who looked away first. He tipped his head back and finished the coffee in one long gulp, despite its stinging heat. Then he stood up, put on his still-damp hat, nodded curtly, and left.

He strode off, angry and aimless in his direction. If he weren’t already so saddle-weary, he’d head for the hills, riding as hard and fast as he could until he and Mac were both soaked with sweat and trembling from the exertion. But Mac was done in from tonight, and anyway Tanner didn’t think it would help. He was horny, plain and simple, and for a prim Papa’s girl who dressed in plain calico and slept in flannel.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered out loud. Fifteen years he’d been on his own and never once had he been forced to deal with a woman’s father. The women he knew didn’t have fathers—at least not nearby. But along comes one little churchgoer with a beady-eyed father shadowing her every move, and he was sinking as surely as if he were in quicksand.

Quicksand. Mud. His mind quickly made the leap to the muddy, meandering river that pointed them west. What he needed was a cold dunking in the Platte River. Maybe that would kill the insane urge he had to steal a kiss—or more—from one Miss Abigail Morgan.

Once at the quagmire that was the riverbank he stripped off boots, jeans, vest, and shirt. Then with a careless shrug he yanked off his drawers as well. Only the first hint of light flirted on the eastern horizon, and even if someone saw him, what the hell. Though his skin prickled from the chilly breeze, and the mud and water were frigid on his bare feet, he forced himself into the water.

She was a pious innocent, better suited to the earnest young preacher than to someone who at fourteen had killed the man who’d murdered his mother, then celebrated by getting drunk and laid for the first time. It had been downhill for him ever since. No, she deserved someone high-minded and upstanding. Well educated. A man who’d give her the respectable place in society she deserved.

He flung himself forward into the shallow river, then gritted his teeth in a silent curse when he hit the bitterly cold water. The ocean couldn’t be any colder! But it did accomplish what he wanted. As he set out in the sluggish current, swimming determinedly though his hands brushed the riverbed with every stroke, he concentrated on how cold he was and speculated how long he’d have to swim before his body forgot the cold.

And he forced himself to remember why he was here in the first place. He’d eliminated Abby and two others as Hogan’s granddaughter, but there were four other possibilities. If he ever intended to collect his pay, he’d better apply himself to the job he’d been sent to do.

“Fetch me the Bible. The big family one.”

Abby did as her father asked, though the big Bible was carefully tucked away in a trunk. Her mother had given it to him as a wedding gift, and he kept all their family records in it. But he only used it when his spirits were particularly low. When she handed it to him, she pressed one palm to his brow. Though he jerked away irritably, she was still able to determine that he was free of any fever.

“I’m fine,” he grunted. But despite his best efforts to prevent it, he let out a harsh cough.

“You’re better,” Abby conceded, “but you’re far from fine.”

“I
am
fine,” he countered. “Just let me read my Bible a few minutes and I’ll be down to help you harness the oxen.”

Abby took her father’s breakfast plate. At least he’d eaten well; that was something. But he would not be pleased to hear what she must tell him.

“Eenie—I mean Matthew—is lame. Victor drove him and the others over, and the poor beast has hurt his leg.”

Her father looked at her across the odd brightness beneath the double layer of white canvas. After the stormy skies of the past few days, this morning’s brilliance seemed almost unearthly. But it showed every line in his face, and Abby fancied now that she could see the starch go right out of him at her news. His irritability and the forcefulness it lent him dissolved right before her eyes.

“Matthew is lame?” he echoed, his shoulders slumping disconsolately.

“His right hock is cut, probably when the stock scattered last night. But Victor has put a poultice on it, and we wrapped it well. In a few days he’ll probably have healed enough to be back in the traces again. But till then the other three will have to pull the wagon alone.”

She rubbed her hands nervously on her apron, not wanting to say the rest of what must be said, “We’ll have to lighten the wagon.” She hesitated. “We’ll have to throw some things out.”

He didn’t respond, at least not in words. But Abby saw his hand tremble as he passed it restlessly over the worn leather cover of the Bible. “Throw things out?” He shook his head and clutched the Bible to his chest. “Throw out our meager possessions? Your
mother’s
possessions?”

He frowned as if about to refuse. But then he paused and glanced helplessly around him, at the carefully stacked crates and barrels that filled the wagon near to overflowing. When he spoke again, his voice was low and wavering. “I’ll have to pray on it. Just let me pray awhile, daughter.”

Abby turned away from the wagon, shaken by his reaction. She’d known he wouldn’t deal well with this setback, but anticipating it didn’t make it any easier to witness. The strong, thundering father of her childhood was no more. Only now was she realizing how securely her gentle mother had propped him up.