Rexanne Becnel (16 page)

Echoing as it did Tanner’s own words, Martha’s smug pronouncement destroyed the last of Abby’s equanimity.

“And what sort of woman is that, Martha? One who cooks him meals that he raves about? One who tends his aches and pains? One he kisses—” She broke off, aghast almost as much by what she’d revealed as by the braggart’s tone she’d used.

Martha’s lips thinned and her nostrils flared, and Abby was reminded of the tense posture of a wild barn-cat, preparing for a territorial fight. If the woman had possessed a tail, Abby was certain it would be flicking back and forth in agitation, fluffed out in fury.

“Why, you common little slut,” Martha spat, her face ugly with her anger. “You play the role of the little church mouse, while underneath those long skirts you’re all wet for him.”

Abby was not prepared for the pure venom in Martha’s tone. But she knew to her chagrin exactly what Martha meant. All wet for him. She’d wondered about the physical changes she’d been going through. But the way Martha sneered the words made it seem like an awful, dirty thing.

“You may read anything you like into it, Martha McCurdle. I don’t care. Everyone knows what you’re like anyway.”

“Oh, do they, now? Well, we’ll soon see what they think you’re like, won’t we?”

If looks could strike a person dead, the parting glare Martha shot at Abby would have left her gasping for her last breath, fallen and hidden in the tall grasses of the endless prairie. As it was, Abby’s pulse beat such a harsh rhythm in her ears that she would not have been surprised if she burst a blood vessel right then and there.

What a truly vile creature that woman was! A gossip. A liar. And … and a slut.

Abby took a harsh breath and blew it out, then repeated the action until she had her anger marginally under control. She was not the slut. Martha was.

Yet even in the midst of her emotional turmoil, Abby recognized the ugly kernel of truth in Martha’s words. She did lust after Tanner. There was no use pretending otherwise. And she did become …
wet
was the only word to use. She became wet and hot and all stirred up inside whenever he was around—and even when he wasn’t. Just the thought of him made her want to jump out of her skin with yearning.

Horny
was the word he’d used, though he’d referred to men at the time. If it was possible for a woman to be horny, then that’s what she was.

And now Martha was going to trumpet it to the whole world.

Abby trudged alongside the wagon train a long while, well away from the dust plume that hung over the line of slow-moving vehicles. Despite her preoccupation, however, she was mindful of her path. No more tall grasses for her. She stuck to well-trampled areas where a lurking snake could more easily be spied. But today she could do little better than a dawdling pace, and as the sun arched behind a line of clouds to the west, she fell farther and farther behind her own wagon and the terribly conflicting problems it held for her.

Tanner fared no better. He managed to wash his face and neck and most of his upper body. Not that it would help him heal any faster, but he wanted to be presentable. For her.

“You’re a fool,” he muttered to himself as he rinsed the cloth in the cool water.
A fool asking for trouble,
he silently added.

From the front of the wagon he heard Abby’s father. “… but the apostle Paul states in the Bible time and time again that a woman is more susceptible to temptation. And to sin. She must be guarded by her father and then by her husband.”

Dexter Harrison responded in a tone far more calm than Robert Morgan’s. “Our modern interpretation of the Bible must be carefully considered. As you well know, there are any number of passages that Abigail can quote back to you regarding charity and good deeds. The Good Samaritan is just one of many.”

Tanner heard Abby’s father harrumph in irritation. “The Good Samaritan was a man, not a woman. I’m certain he considered the consequences of his actions more thoroughly than my daughter did.”

“If she’d asked you instead of demanding, would you have agreed?”

The answer to that never came, at least not in words that Tanner could hear. But he knew the answer. Robert Morgan wanted him as far away from Abby as possible.

A part of him understood. A part of him agreed that he’d do the same if some hired gunslinger came nosing around a daughter of his.

Then he shook his head in amazement at the very idea. A daughter of his own. A son. He’d never really thought how he’d feel about having a child. He’d never imagined being a parent except in the most practical of considerations: they’d be a big help around the horse-breeding ranch he hoped one day to establish.

He unfastened his worn denim pants and braced himself against a barrel as he balanced on one foot while he shoved his pants down. His knee was already swelling, and after bathing the lower half of his body, he wrapped the damp cloth around the aching joint.

His saddlebag was shoved into a corner, and he found a relatively clean union suit in it. But as he dressed himself, he couldn’t stop thinking about Abby. How would she react if a daughter of hers were enamored of a totally unsuitable man? A daughter of theirs …

His foolish imaginings were interrupted by a demanding yet most definitely feminine hail. “Yoo hoo! Mr. Morgan. Slow up. I want to climb aboard.”

Once more the disdainful snort came from the driver’s box. “Better her than my Abigail,” Tanner heard Robert Morgan mutter. Then the Widow McCurdle clambered with surprising agility into the back of the high wagon bed. Tanner only had time to sit down on the bed and yank a sheet over his lap;

“Oh, Mr. McKnight—Tanner,” she cooed. “I heard how you rescued that poor little boy. Are you all right?”

Tanner nodded, “Yes, ma’am. I’m fine. I’ll just have to stay off my feet for a few days, that’s all.”

She moved nearer, staring at him with unblinking avidity. She was a cute little thing, just the voluptuous, aggressive sort of woman he usually favored. Were it possible for them to find a minute’s privacy—away from the silently listening pair in the driver’s box—he had no doubt she’d prove to be as eager and talented as that hot little number in St. Joseph.

But that knowledge gave him not the slightest pleasure. Nor could he muster even a polite interest in the generous Widow McCurdle. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought that fall had damaged more than merely his ribs and knee. But it wasn’t the fall. It was Abigail Morgan, curse his luck.

He forced a smile when Martha held up a brown bottle and shook it enticingly. “My special tonic,” she revealed with a saucy grin. “I’m going to dose you with Martha’s special remedy three times a day, and mark my words, I’ll have you raring to go in no time at all. No time at all,” she repeated more huskily, letting her hot gaze roam his body.

Once more a snort of disdain floated back from the driver’s box. But Tanner knew that despite Robert Morgan’s contempt, he would gladly suffer the Widow McCurdle’s not-so-subtle attempts at seducing Tanner. The man saw it as his best chance to drive a wedge between Tanner and Abby.

“Actually, Abby already gave me something and it’s made me a little drowsy. I was just about to take a nap.” Tanner twisted on the bed, only wincing slightly at the sharp pain in his side. He pulled the sheet up to his waist, then rolled over to face the wall and closed his eyes.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the everyday sounds of their traveling. The creak of wagons. The heavy tread of the draft animals. The distant sounds of voices and insects and the ever-present wind. But inside the Morgan wagon there was no sound at all.

Tanner knew that both Morgan and the reverend waited. Listening. Hoping that he would succumb to his baser instincts and accept what the saucy young widow so plainly wished to give him.

He yawned, then opened his eyes and peered back over his shoulder. “Sorry, Mrs. McCurdle. I just can’t seem to be able to keep my eyes opened. I’m sure you understand.”

He saw her face tighten. Her brows lowered and her eyes narrowed. Her lips pursed as his rebuff became clear. With a sharp intake of breath she shoved the brown bottle into the pocket of her apron, then drew herself up.

“Oh, I understand, all right. I understand
very
well.”

She left with a flurry of skirts and petticoats, and with a relieved sigh Tanner closed his eyes once more. She was insulted; Morgan was disappointed; and good old Dexter probably didn’t know how he ought to feel. As for himself, though, Tanner suddenly wanted only to sleep. Abby would come back after a while and once she did, he’d figure out what he was going to do about his unlikely attraction to her.

He still had a job to do for Hogan. Until he settled his feelings for Abby, however, it appeared he would never be able to fully concentrate on finding the man’s granddaughter.

His last semicoherent thought, though, was that once he found Hogan’s missing heir, he would be free to concentrate on getting some heirs of his own. Though he’d never once imagined being part of a family, the idea held a growing fascination for him. A family. Children. A wife …

C
RACKER O’HARA DIDN’T KNOW
whether to be glad McKnight had saved the woman or not. If she’d died before he’d had proof she was the one, that hotshot eastern bastard wouldn’t fork over a damned penny. Then again, maybe it wasn’t her.

He squinted at Abigail Morgan’s solitary figure, slowly falling behind the rest of the group. Maybe he’d just go offer her a ride. Now that McKnight was out of commission for a while, maybe he would take advantage of the situation.

Before he could turn his mount toward her, however, he saw another woman heading her way. He muttered a foul string of curse words.

The Morgan woman looked over at a call from the other woman, and after a moment she picked up her pace and angled over to join her. Well, he’d just have to catch her alone some other time. And who knew? Settled as McKnight was in her wagon, the other man would have the perfect opportunity to find out if the Morgan woman was the one. Hell, the cagey bastard probably wasn’t hurt at all. He could be using this as a way of getting to the truth—and of getting under her skirts.

He laughed coarsely. More power to him if he could breach that snooty little bitch’s defenses. As for himself, he’d have to dig out a bottle of whiskey and do a little research somewhere else tonight. Maybe he’d offer a couple of shots to the skinny boy who’d been chasing one of the other young women who was traveling alone with her father. Maybe she’d told the boy something that might reveal whether
she
was the Bliss girl.

“Personally I think it’s an ideal situation.”

Abby glanced at Sarah. “On the surface, yes. But I get so mixed up around him. I feel like such a fool. I mean, I don’t know what to say. I turn beet red, as if I were twelve instead of twenty.” She sighed in exasperation. “And now there’s Martha…”

“What’s
she
up to?”

“Oh, you know how she is. She sees everything in the worst light—or else she deliberately
casts
it in the worst light. Anyway she got me so furious that I—”

Abby broke off, not certain if she should reveal any more about her run-in with Martha. But the story was going to be spread around the entire company like wildfire—probably much elaborated, too, thanks to Martha and her malicious streak.

She shaded her eyes with one hand and peered intently toward the head of the wagon train, barely visible in the dusty distance as it disappeared over a hill. She took a deep breath.

“I more or less implied that Tanner and I were sort of a couple.”

There was a little murmur of approval from Sarah. “And since she’s been trying to lure him in ever since he joined up with us …”

“Right. She’s jealous and she’s mad.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, angling ever nearer the rumbling line of wagons. Finally Sarah caught Abby’s hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry about Martha. Everyone knows by now what she’s like. They may listen to what she says—after all, who can resist a bit of gossip? But they’ll also consider the source. Besides, when they also hear how Tanner has been rebuffing her, they’ll have a good laugh at her expense.”

Abby smiled at her friend’s merry countenance. Being with Sarah always made her feel better.

“How is Tanner doing, anyway?”

“Bruised,” Abby admitted. “But he’ll be all right.
I’m
the one who may never recover.”

“In my considered opinion he’s just as smitten as you are. I bet,” she paused and laughed. “I bet the two of you are wed before we ever reach Oregon.”

Abby laughed too. Then after getting the latest news about Tulip’s condition, she waved her friend off to her own wagon. But her mind spun at the thought. Married to Tanner. Was that what she wanted?

The sun approached the low hills to the west. They would soon circle up for camp, and she could not put off seeing Tanner again. Perhaps this time she would be able to control her careening emotions a little better.

When she reached their wagon, her father and Dexter were walking alongside the oxen. The slight uphill grade they’d been following all day put a strain on the animals, and Captain Peters constantly encouraged people to keep their wagons light. That meant everyone walked as much as possible.

Keeping that in mind, Abby caught up to the back of the wagon but did not climb in.

“Tanner?”

“What?”

The impatient tone of his voice made her pause. “How are you doing?”

He gave a disgusted laugh. “I’m doing about as good as a lame steer in a stampede. How’s Tulip?” he added, a little less irritation in his voice.

She peered into the wagon and saw him sit up and slowly swing his legs over the side of the bed. He was cleaned up with dampened hair combed back from his face, and his shirt now covered his chest.

Thank goodness.

“Tulip is limping pretty bad, according to Sarah. But Victor is tending to her. I’m sure he’ll do everything he can for her.”

“Yeah, as much as he can.”

Abby saw him rub his knee. “Are you in much pain?”