The diminutive silhouette fought the kicking mule. Rourke saw the thin arms tremble under the animal’s tremendous strength and felt a surge of pity for the boy. Market wasn’t only impatient, he was unreasonable.
When the mule tossed his head in fear, the halter was ripped from the small hand struggling to hold it. Swearing viciously, James Market raised his whip.
With a muttered oath, Rourke began to swing from the saddle. No man, not even the lad’s father, had the right to use a whip in that manner.
A firm hand on his shoulder caused Rourke to spin around. Beside him, Mordecai Stump sat astride a chestnut mare.
“Not thinking of meddling, are you, Rourke?” His voice was as soft as the morning mist.
Rourke’s body actually flinched as he heard the first crack of the whip. Mordecai could feel the coiled tension in the muscled shoulder beneath his hand.
Rourke’s eyes narrowed. “And what if I am?”
“I wouldna’. In my years, I’ve found it best to let families solve their own problems. You step between those two, you’ll have them both scratching at your eyes.”
“You’d stand by and let a man whip his own kin?”
Mordecai shrugged and removed his hand from Rourke’s shoulder. In his anger, his Scottish burr was even thicker. “I’ve no use for a man who would do such a thing. But life has a way of evening the score.”
“Maybe.” Rourke glanced at the Market wagon. His fist clenched and unclenched in impotent fury.
The two men stared at each other for long silent minutes. Mordecai heard the man beside him suck air into his lungs. Slowly Rourke unclenched his fist and clamped his fingers around the horn of the saddle. Almost as if, the Scotsman thought, he was clamping the lid on his own emotions.
As Mordecai’s horse moved away through the lifting shadows, Rourke wondered what would have happened if the old man hadn’t stopped him. He might have ended up killing Market in front of his kid’s eyes. Stump was right. Better to stay out of it. It wasn’t his fight.
Gradually the mule settled down, and the team was hitched to the wagon. All the while he worked, James Market unloaded a stream of oaths on the slight figure who worked closely beside him. When they were finished, Market began lashing the last of their belongings to the wagon floor. The youth hurried to the stream with two buckets nearly as big as he was.
Pulling a cigar from his pocket, Rourke bit the end and struck a match. Puffing lightly, he emitted a stream of smoke, blew out the match, and slid from the saddle. He wasn’t going to meddle, he promised himself. He was just going to satisfy his curiosity.
As he made his way toward the stream, he glanced at the sky. It was so light now he could make out the faces of the people around him.
The figure was kneeling at the edge of the stream, dipping the first bucket into the icy water. From the back, Rourke could see where the whip had split the shirt neatly open from the top of the shoulder to a spot where it was tucked into the waistband of faded britches. A narrow ribbon of blood trickled, leaving the shirt clinging in sticky red patches.
“Need some help, boy?”
A head swiveled. Two eyes rounded in surprise. Leaning against the trunk of a tree was a tall stranger, with a stream of smoke swirling above his head. His hair was dark and shaggy, curling over the collar of his shirt. His shoulders were broad; the muscles of his arms visible beneath the sleeves of his shirt. He had one booted foot crossed over the other in a careless pose. But there was nothing careless or relaxed about this man. A gun and holster rested against a muscular thigh. Dressed all in black, he looked like the devil himself. The handsomest devil Abby had ever seen. Without blinking, he met her gaze. It was his eyes that held her. Gray, almost silver in the morning mist, they were fixed on her with the most piercing look she’d ever seen.
“Thanks. I can manage.”
Rourke nearly swallowed his cigar. The voice was low and husky, but definitely feminine.
The slender figure leaned over, filling the second bucket. Rourke studied the softly rounded hips. When both oaken buckets were brimming, she stood and tugged until she had lifted both to the grass. She turned. Rourke’s gaze studied the boyish figure in a man’s oversized pants and shirt. She was slim, but had the soft contours of a woman.
He grinned, feeling at once foolish and awkward. “I guess you aren’t James Market’s son.”
She didn’t return the smile.
He saw the tremendous effort it cost her to lift both buckets. As she moved past him, head high, arms straining, he saw her eyes. Green. Green as the meadows of his home.
She never paused; never looked back. He watched her until she disappeared behind the wagons.
Tossing the cigar aside, he strode back to his horse. Damn James Market, he thought. And damn his arrogant woman.
* * * * *
A scorching sun burned off the last of the mist and beat mercilessly on man and beast. Dust from the churning wagon wheels swirled in little eddies, rising up to choke the driver of the next wagon. From the front of the train it was impossible to see through the dust cloud to the last wagon in the line.
Aunt Vi had dipped a white lace handkerchief in water and handed it to Abby to tie over her nose and mouth. Still, sand clogged her throat and burned her eyes. Pulling the brim of her hat lower on her forehead, she gritted her teeth and urged the mules on when they fought the reins. Her arms ached from the long hours of driving the wagon. Her cramped muscles protested every rut and hole along the well-worn trail.
In the back of the wagon, Aunt Vi and Carrie lay upon their blankets, holding similarly dampened handkerchiefs to their faces and gagging on the heat and dust. Every other woman and child on the train was out walking beside their wagons. Only these two rode.
“How can Abby stand it?” Carrie moaned.
“I don’t know, child. It’s been hours since we stopped. She has the endurance of a mule.”
“Like Pa.”
The older woman leaned up on one elbow. “Don’t say that. She isn’t like your father.”
“Is too,” Carrie pouted. “They’re two of a kind. All they know is work, work, work. And once they make up their minds, there’s no stopping them. How could Abby allow Pa to sell everything we own and head west?”
“Your sister had no choice.” Violet dipped her handkerchief into a bucket of water and wrung it out carefully before wiping her forehead. “Your father’s running, Carrie. Running from the pain of a dead wife and baby; running from the backbreaking labor of a farm that never yielded anything but failed crops and sickly cattle.”
Violet lay back, ready to expound on one of her favorite theories.
“Maybe everyone in this train is running—from a land devastated by war; from shattered dreams. And everyone is expecting to build a better life.” She sighed. “But if they bring along all the old hatred, all their cherished prejudices, they’ll find themselves with the same old life in a new place.”
“What about us, Aunt Vi? What’s going to happen to us in the west?”
“I’ve heard the land is rich and verdant, and the weather quite hospitable.”
“And the Indians?” Carrie chuckled at her aunt’s sudden grimace. “Maybe I’ll marry an Indian chief and live like a princess.”
“Don’t even think such things, child. I’ve heard horrible tales about how the Indians treat their captives.”
Carrie tossed back her golden curls and noted the soiled smudges on her once-white muslin gown. With a sideways glance, she asked, “Are Indians one of your cherished prejudices, Aunt Vi?”
The older woman’s eyes opened wide as she contemplated her niece for long silent moments. Nodding slowly, she said, “Out of the mouths of babes ...”
“What does that mean?”
Violet touched her handkerchief to her flushed cheek. “It means that I will have to give the matter some thought.” In a brighter tone, she added, “We must make dinner tonight for your father and Abby. The poor thing will be too exhausted to cook when we make ca
mp.”
“I can bake biscuits,” Carrie said, feeling a sudden wave of sympathy for her older sister. What must it be like to sit on that hard seat all day beneath the searing sun and handle an unruly team?
“And I’ll make a stew with the last of that venison,” Vi said, rummaging through the sack that held dried vegetables.
It was nearly dusk, and Mordecai knew the travelers were exhausted. When the first wagon reached the banks of the swollen river, he decided to get the train across before making camp for the night. That way, the morning could begin with ease. Signaling Thompson, he waited by the water’s edge.
“Where’s Rourke?” he called as his partner approached.
Thompson pointed to a horse and rider high on a ridge.
“Bring him down,” Mordecai ordered. “He can help get the wagons across.”
“Maybe we ought to wait until morning to cross.”
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 wais
t. 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.”