Rexanne Becnel (20 page)

“He’s with Tulip,” she said, nodding once more. Well, if he’d wanted to punish her, he’d done a very good job of it, she decided as a spurt of restorative anger shot through her. A damned good job.

Oh, but she was getting just as bad as him, she realized, what with her cursing and all. But she was too outraged to care. She’d worried and fretted the livelong day, only to find that he was off with his horse, not with Martha McCurdle—though she had no real reason to think he’d be with her.

“It’s so very good of Victor to help Tanner out.” Abby forced herself to sound civil, when she realized that Sarah was staring at her most curiously.

“Oh, my Victor has a way with animals. He likes nothing better than to mend some poor creature that’s ailing. You just watch. He’ll have Tulip right as rain.”

As if mentioning the word summoned it, a rattle of thunder rolled over the circle of wagons, and the first fat raindrops splattered in the dusty soil. Both women looked up at the glowering sky.

“Well, we shall all have our baths and our clothes washed tonight, it seems. I’ll be off, then. But, Abby, if you can get away, come walk with me tomorrow. It might do you good to talk with a woman. Why, you’ve been surrounded by nothing but men of late.”

“So I have,” Abby agreed. The company of women would be a welcome reprieve indeed.

She had the fire started before the rain began in earnest, and with the aid of the fire tent she was able to make a meal of beans and corn cakes. Beans. By the time they reached Oregon, she’d have eaten enough beans to last her a lifetime. But even the steady downpour and unappetizing meal could not entirely dampen her spirits. Tanner was with Tulip, doing the responsible thing for the mare. Though he was a hard man to pin down, he was extremely responsible. No one could deny that, not even her father.

She was still angry with him of course. He’d worried her so unnecessarily. But her anger was assuaged by her relief that he’d not abandoned her for someone like Martha. Where had this jealousy sprung from?

Besides, she was going to have a proper bath.

The sheets were in place. Every bucket, pan, and pot they owned was steadily filling with rainwater. Abby had already removed her boots, stockings, and petticoat. Her head was bared to the rain, and now she unpinned her hair and began to unwind the single braid and comb it out.

What was Tanner doing right now? Did he have shelter from the rain? Was he cleaning himself of the trail dirt as she was?

“Abigail? Are you there, daughter?”

She blinked at the sound of her father’s voice and wiped at the raindrops that clung to her lashes. “I’m just outside, Father.”

“You’ll get wet,” he complained. “Come in and read the Bible with me.”

“As soon as I finish bathing, I will,” she promised.

With his demand hanging over her she felt compelled to hurry at her ablutions. However, Abby was so pleased at her father’s strengthening voice that she could not regret having to rush. She made certain there was no one about, then pulled all the water containers inside her makeshift bathhouse. Finally she removed her blouse and skirt so that only her chemise covered her. As it met with the rain, however, the thin muslin garment clung to her skin so that every curve was revealed had anyone been there to see.

Let him kiss me with the kiss of his mouth …
the first line from the Song of Solomon came to her. As when she’d helped Tanner remove his clothes, she now had the most improper thoughts. Though she’d feared the idea of bathing his smooth tanned skin, she could now admit that she would have loved to touch him that way. To rub a cloth, slippery with soap, over every part of his body. His shoulders. His chest.

She lifted her wet cloth and squeezed it so that sudsy water ran down her chest and belly in rivulets. Did she dare remove her chemise and scrub all the places on her body that heated now to think of Tanner?

But that would be far too wicked. Instead she used a dipper to pour water over her head. She then rubbed the cake of soap down the long tangles of her hair and proceeded to scrub until the soap trickled onto her face and stung her eyes. Only then did she rinse her thick hair clear of the soap, blinking all the while from the soapy burn.

It served her right for thinking such improper thoughts. Yet when she lifted her clinging chemise to swiftly wash beneath it, sliding the cloth over her belly and buttocks, she once more pictured Tanner. Only this time he was bathing her.

How different it would feel if it were his hand that wielded the soapy cloth, if he slid it across her stomach and down to the inside of her thighs…

With a sodden plop the cloth fell from her nerveless hands. Abby stood there, her drenched chemise hiked up to the apex of her thighs, trembling from the force of the wicked feelings that consumed her.

The rain fell harder, stinging her with its needling power, and the wind whirled in rising crescendo. She should have shivered from the cold, but her shivering had another source, a hot, melting source that welled up from deep inside her belly.

If he ever touched her there, she suddenly understood, she would never recover. She would be his to command, to bend to his will, to use in whatever way he might wish to use her.

Once more she was consumed by the sin of lust. She released the hem of her chemise and with a low groan of frustration turned her face up to the dark, weeping sky. She was a sinner, but though she should despise the terrible feelings that burned within her, what she truly wanted was to see them exhausted, to seek out the culmination of how he made her feel and to revel in it.

Only Tanner was not there. Nor did she have any reason to think he would cooperate.

“Dear God in heaven,” she mumbled on a shaky breath.

“Miss Morgan?”

She whirled around at the sound of a man’s voice. Beyond her flimsy wall stood Cracker O’Hara, and above the soggy, drooping sheets he had a clear view of her.

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” he murmured, but the smirk on his face didn’t change, and he made no move to leave. His eyes slipped over her, head to toe, before she grabbed a towel she’d hung in a dry spot beneath the wagon bed.

“If you don’t mind,” she muttered, furious and repulsed all at once. His smirk turned to an outright leer, and after a long, revolting moment he winked. Then he turned and sauntered away.

Whatever warmth she’d felt disappeared in the wake of O’Hara’s appearance. Shivering now, Abby wrapped one towel around her body and another around her head. It was awkward dressing in the rain, but she managed to pull a loose blouse and an old skirt on, then put her father’s rain slicker on over it all. Her hair she ignored for the time being. She was too humiliated by what had just occurred to care about the appearance of her hair. All she wanted was to escape to the inside of the wagon.

Once the pots, bowls, and buckets were emptied, rinsed, and set out to fill again, Abby found her boots, hung her abandoned clothes on a line until she could get to them, and climbed up into the wagon. O’Hara was nowhere to be seen, and for that she was inordinately grateful.

Inside, her father lay on his back, the big family Bible balanced on his chest. A small candle burned in a dish beside him—a luxury he didn’t often allow himself. When he heard her, he opened his eyes and gave her a wan smile.

“You look a sight, daughter. Sit beside me while you comb your hair.”

Relieved to have someone to concentrate on besides herself, Abby pressed the back of her hand to his brow. Cool. Thank the good Lord.

“Do I pass inspection?” he asked with an impatient shifting of his head on the pillow.

“You pass.” Abby smiled at him, then perched on the side of his bed and rummaged in a basket for her comb. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t use another full day of rest tomorrow.”

“Humph. You treat me like I’m the child, not the other way around.”

“I do not. Besides, I’m not a child either. Not anymore.” She stared at him in the golden light of the solitary candle. Inside the wagon tent the atmosphere was soft and intimate, made cozy by the darkness outside and the steady drizzle. If she squinted her eyes until they blurred, she could almost pretend they were back home on a rainy evening, before they’d set off for the western territories. Before her mother had died. It was precisely the comforting reminiscence she needed tonight.

“No, you’re not a child,” her father conceded. Their eyes met in understanding and he let out a slow sigh. For a quiet while he simply watched her work her mother’s ivory comb through the wet tangles of her hair.

“You have your mother’s hair,” he murmured, more to himself, it seemed, than to her. “I always did enjoy watching her comb her hair in the evenings after all the chores were done. It was so long. So lovely.”

Abby smiled. “When I was little, she used to let me comb it for her. Remember? That was always my favorite time of the day. Just she and I. Talking together. Laughing.” Her smile faded a little at the bittersweet memory and she, too, sighed. “Would you tell me something, Papa?”

He arched one bushy brow fondly. He seemed as mellowed by the cozy atmosphere as she was. Encouraged, she continued. “Tell me about how you and Mama met. You told me a little bit before,” she hurried on, hoping to head off any objections before he could raise them. “But I’d like to know more. Where you were living. Who introduced you. How you proposed to her.”

She’d been concentrating on her hair as she spoke, working on the knotted ends. Perhaps she was a little afraid to face him with her request. But now she chanced a peek at him, to gauge his reaction to her inquiries, and when she did, her hands stilled at their task.

A tear glistened in his eye. He turned his head slightly, and in the shadows she could no longer see it. But she knew she had not been mistaken.

A guilty lump rose in her throat and she put one hand over his and leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sorry. I know that talking about Mama makes you sad. But … but I hate having to act as if she never existed at all. I
need
to remember her. I
need
to talk about her sometimes.”

He turned his head slowly, as if it took a Herculean effort. “I know, Abby girl. I know you miss your mother. I miss her—”

He paused and passed one bony hand over his face. “We’ll talk soon. But not tonight. I’m too tired tonight.”

Abby nodded. Though disappointed, she was nonetheless encouraged. It was so hard for him. But it was hard for her too.

Still they’d made some progress. Eventually he’d be ready to talk about the past from which they fled. And when he did, she was convinced he’d finally find the comfort he so desperately needed.

She put down the comb and pushed her wet hair behind her shoulders. “Shall I read to you awhile?”

He gave her a small, grateful smile and handed her the Bible. “You pick the passage, daughter. Whatever you like.”

Abby took the heavy tome, sliding her hands over the familiar bindings. No matter where this journey took them, so long as they had this book with them, they still had all the memories of their happy home in Lebanon. Her father’s voice would thunder as he read the Good Book. He loved the passages about righteousness and retribution for sinners. Her mother’s readings, however, always had been gentle—full of wonder, it sometimes seemed. She’d read the passages about love and forgiveness.

Abby opened the leather cover, then paused at all the family records inscribed so carefully in her father’s neat hand:
Married, Robert Matthius Bliss to Margaret Adelaide Hogan, September 9, 1833. Born, Abigail Margaret Bliss, December 8, 1834.

There were more listings, of course. Her baptism. The date her father had become a deacon in the church.

The final entry was of her mother’s death and the place of interment. Abby wondered with a sudden wave of heartsickness whether she would ever lay flowers on her mother’s grave again.

With trembling hands she found the passage she wished to read, the passage she needed to read for her own comfort as well as her father’s.

“The Lord is my shepherd,” she began in a less than steady voice. “I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures …”

Her father’s breathing slowly relaxed, and as she recited the familiar words, not needing to read them at all, she prayed fervently that the Lord would shepherd both of them out of the darkness of their recent past and into a valley of love and happiness and fulfillment.

And for herself she prayed that Tanner McKnight would be beside her in that valley.

H
ER FATHER WAS UP
the next day, though he was not strong enough to walk very long. He rode in the driver’s box while she and Dexter walked alongside the wagon. Though she did not want to give the gentle reverend any false encouragement, Abby could not deny that she welcomed his company. He was a comfort to her father, and besides, he was congenial company for her.

He’d had a fire built when she arose, and she’d been conscious of his eyes following her. When she’d caught him staring, a faint blush had crept onto his bearded cheeks. She’d pretended not to notice. Why must all the wrong men be attracted to her? Dexter. O’Hara. She shivered to remember that unpleasant incident last night. Now as they toiled along the mud track formed by yesterday’s deluge, she tried to forget by immersing herself in safe conversation. They spoke of Oregon, of the schools that would be needed, and of the church he planned to establish.

“When did you first hear the call to preach?” Abby asked him, breathless from a long, slippery rise they’d just topped.

“I’ve always known I was no farmer. Nor herdsman either.” He pulled at his beard in an unconscious manner. “Fortunately for my father, he had other sons for those tasks. My talents seemed to lie in building things. Had I the funds, I would have studied architecture. There’s nothing so remarkable as a Gothic cathedral, you know. I’ve a book that depicts the most magnificent structures in all of Europe.”

He shrugged and smiled, and Abby was put in mind of a bewhiskered little boy. “I’ve built all sorts of things,” he continued. “Birdhouses with arched windows and gabled roofs. A pigsty with a cupola on top. Our home near Lexington had a different style of window in every opening. But when my father died … When he died, you could say that I went through a rather bleak period.”