The entire Market family learned to work together the following morning.
Abby had managed to harness the team while Aunt Vi and Carrie prepared breakfast. When James crawled from between the blankets, his head aching, his stomach rolling, they discovered a broken axle. Mordecai Stump was so angry, he threatened to pull out and leave them behind.
“What in God’s name have ye been doing for the last two days, man?” Mordecai’s burr was thick with fury.
“I didn’t think to check the wagon. When I bought it I was told it was sound.”
“Aye. ’Tis sound. But nothing survives this journey unless it’s well cared for. Ye’ve been neglecting your duties, James Market. Leaving all the work to a mere slip of a girl. The care of this wagon should be yours.”
Stung by the words that had been heard by half the wagon train, James bent to the task of repairing the axle, while his women were forced to empty the wagon of all supplies. It was late afternoon before the wagon was repaired and the train was able to roll out the gates of the fort. James Market took the reins while the women tramped beside the wagon. At dusk, when the train finally stopped for the night, Carrie and Vi were too exhausted to even consider making a meal. The chore fell to Abby, who started a fire and set strips of rabbit to roast. Checking the game sack, she realized that they had only enough for another day.
Her father, angry and sullen, sat alone beside the wagon, drinking from the jug.
“Pa, we’re nearly out of meat.”
“What’s that to me? Stump says I have to stay with the wagon.”
Abby stared at the ground. “Maybe I could barter for one of the men from the train to hunt for our game along with his own.”
“And how will you pay him?”
Abby bit her lip. She didn’t know. They had no money, and few goods to trade.
“What’s wrong with you hunting?” James asked, taking a final pull of whiskey and shoving the cork into the jug.
“Me?” Abby stuck her hands in the pockets of her dirty britches. “I’ve fired a rifle before. But I’ve never killed an animal, Pa.”
“Then it’s time you learned. If I have to stay with the wagon, the least you can do is take care of our food.” He stood. “Now where’s my dinner? I’m hungry.”
As he walked away, Abby watched his retreating back. She’d never killed. And she’d never been alone in the wilderness before. But then, she’d never driven a team before they joined the train. She’d never done a hundred things she now did routinely. And at least she would have an excuse to be out of her father’s way for a few hours each day.
Walking to the back of the wagon, she lifted the rifle down and tested its weight. Later, she decided, she would find the wagon master. Mordecai Stump would teach her what she had to know to hunt their food.
Chapter Six
After supper, Abby picked up the rifle and made her way through the loop of wagons to the cook wagon. When she entered the circle of firelight, she felt suddenly awkward. Five voices abruptly stopped speaking. Five pairs of men’s eyes watched as she approached. Following Mordecai’s example, each stood and removed his hat.
“Well, Miss Abby, this is a pleasure.”
She had hoped to find Mordecai alone. After meals the men usually went about the business of finishing their chores. Tonight Mordecai and Thompson, Brand and Rourke and Parker still hovered by the fire. Casting a glance at the others, she began to explain her presence.
“Since Pa has to stay with the wagon now, I’ll be expected to take care of some of his chores. I’ll be needing to lay in a supply of game.” Holding the rifle out in front of her, Abby said simply, “I was hoping you could show me how to be a better shot.” She lifted a shoulder in embarrassment. “And tell me anything I ought to know about this land when I leave the protection of the wagon train.”
Mordecai swallowed his smile. She was an altogether unusual young woman. Shy yet bold. Hardworking, while managing to retain an air of fragile vulnerability. Despite the mannish clothes and tough talk, there was no hiding the fact that she was every inch a lady.
He took the weapon from her hand and examined the Sharps breech-loading rifle. “Ever handle this, lass?”
“Once or twice.”
“Hit anything?”
She grinned. “Hit a tree one time. Trouble is, I was aiming at a fox in our henhouse.”
Mordecai laughed good-naturedly, and the others joined in before he indicated the blanket and saddle beside him. “Here. Sit a spell, Miss Abby, while I take a closer look at this rifle.”
When she was seated, the others sat back down near the fire and began to pass the blackened coffee pot around. When it came to Abby, she poured herself a cup and passed the pot to Parker, the cook. Rourke, she noted, chose to sit a little beyond the circle of light so that his face was in shadow. Why did the man always avoid the light, like a man on the run?
“Rifle’s in good shape,” Mordecai pronounced after a thorough examination. “Shouldn’t give you any trouble. But it’s a mighty big gun for someone as small as you. Has a kick to it.” Handing it back to her, he added, “You’ll get used to it. Tomorrow, why don’t you ride ahead of the train with Brand here. When he’s not scouting, he can give you some pointers on the use of this rifle, as well as signs of trouble you ought to take notice of.”
She felt immediately relieved at Mordecai’s ready acceptance of her request. She’d half feared she might be an object of ridicule. As for riding with Brand, though she knew little about the scout, and had rarely seen him around the wagons, she valued Mordecai’s judgment. If the wagon master thought the man worthy of her trust, she wouldn’t question him.
Brand looked up from his coffee. When he spoke, his words were very precise, the result of a Boston-bred missionary who had taught his family English. “You directed me to ride ahead to Fort Laramie.”
Mordecai, reaching for a cup of coffee, paused. “So I did. Rourke, what are you up to tomorrow?”
There was a perceptible pause. The voice in the darkness sounded guarded. “You asked me to find a shallow river crossing before we make camp tomorrow night.”
“Good,” Mordecai said, pouring, then drinking. “Take Miss Abby along. There ought to be a few times in the day when you can stop to give her a lesson or two.” The Scotsman’s eyes twinkled. “Should have thought of you in the first place. Nobody handles a gun better’n you.”
Abby felt her heart sink. Not Rourke. Anyone but Rourke. How could she endure an entire day in his company? He had to be feeling just as reluctant as she. She’d heard the edge in his voice. She felt her cheeks redden and blamed the heat of the fire. “I don’t want to be any trouble. I’d ...”
“Nonsense. Everybody on the train, man and woman, should be able to handle a rifle. Never know when you’ll need it.”
Trapped, she thought, wishing there were some place to hide. She was as trapped as a rabbit in a snare.
She glanced in Rourke’s direction. Except for the gleam of the tin cup in his hands and the gunbelt at his waist, he was invisible. And yet she knew that he was watching her. She could feel his look, as physical as any touch.
Mordecai leaned back against his saddle and cradled the tin cup in his hands. “I’ve known a few women in my time who could handle a gun better’n a man. I remember the time a girl no more’n ten or twelve shot my hat clear off my head. What a shot. Parted my hair without drawing a drop of blood. It was back in fifty-eight,” he said, his voice warm with the memory. “I was a rider for the Butterfield Overland Mail.”
At his tone, Abby unconsciously relaxed, hugging her arms around her drawn-up knees, tilting her head to one side to watch the older man as he reminisced.
In the shadows Rourke studied the slender figure in the dirty men’s clothes and found himself remembering the woman he had seen in the river. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t forget the milk-white flesh, the soft, womanly curves she tried so hard to hide. Never again would he be able to think of her as simply Jam
es Market’s daughter. Every time he looked at her he saw the real beauty she tried to disguise. Noting the way the firelight touched her cheeks and put a glow in her eyes, he decided to stop fighting it and just enjoy watching her. It gave him real pleasure. Despite the hat, tiny wisps of fiery hair broke free from the fat braid to kiss her brow. He glanced at the hands locked around her knees. The fingers were long and tapered. Her hands were meant to hold a fragile teacup. Or a cooing baby, he thought, the muscles of his stomach suddenly tightening. Dismissing such alarming thoughts, he forced himself to face the facts. Abby Market’s hands were rough and callused from handling the reins of an unruly team. And the only thing she’d hold for the next thousand miles was a rifle and a team of mules.
Rourke forced himself out of his reverie to concentrate on Mordecai’s musings.
“That was the year we began twice-weekly runs between the Mississippi River and California. Twenty-eight hundred miles in twenty-five days. I ate so much dust, I figure I got more sand in me than blood.”
The others laughed.
“What about the girl?” Abby asked.
“Rode up to my usual stop along the route. A young fellow, his wife, and three little kids were trying to carve a ranch out of some god-awful wilderness. This day, just as I get within sight of the sod shack, a shot rings out. I holler that I dunna’ mean anybody any harm. I start up again and a second shot rings out. Takes my hat, parts my hair, and leaves me shaking in my boots. Then this little mite of a lass steps out from behind a tree and says in a squeaky little voice, ‘Your name Stump?’ When I say yes, she says, ‘You ride for the Butterfield Overland Mail?’ Again I say yes. She drops the rifle and says, ‘My pa said I could trust you. You have to take me with you.’ In the house I find her mama, papa, and two younger sisters all dead. Pawnee.
“How did she manage to survive?” Abby had become so caught up in his narrative, she forgot about Rourke.
“That’s the most amazing part of it. There had been a party of six. All six lay dead around the house. The little girl admitted that her father managed to kill the first three before he died. But she killed the other three after they’d slit the throats of her mother and little sisters.”
“Whatever happened to her?” Abby asked.
“I took her with me as far as St. Louis. I heard she went east to live with her mother’s people.” Mordecai chuckled. “Lord help the man who expects her to be a docile little wife.”
“If he tried something funny with that one, he’d probably find his throat slit or his hands chopped off before he could blink,” Parker intoned.
The others chuckled, and Abby realized with a twinge of discomfort that she didn’t belong here. These were men, eager to relax with man’s talk. For these few minutes, she had felt a companionship she had rarely known. If she could have picked any man in the world to be her father, Abby thought, it would have been Mordecai Stump. He could be as mean and frightening as a rampaging bull with anyone who questioned his authority. Yet in her presence he was always respectful, even gentle. It was comfortable to sit with these men, listening to their easy conversation. It was something she had never shared with her father.
When she stood, Mordecai and the others stood, making her once again feel awkward. They treated her like a lady, but she didn’t know how to act like one. She wanted to be one of them, but their private jokes and knowing smiles warned her that she could never completely fit in. Yet they tried to make her feel special. All except Rourke. With him, she simply felt . . . clumsy.
She offered her hand to Mordecai. “Good night, Mr. Stump.”
“Night, Miss Abby. Be sure to look for Rourke tomorrow morning.”
As she turned away, she couldn’t see Rourke’s face. It was still hidden in shadow. But from the prickly feeling along her spine, she was certain he was still watching her, as she’d sensed he’d watched her all the while she was there.
* * * * *
Morning dawned dry and hot. No morning mist shrouded the ground. No cooling breezes ruffled the leaves of the poplars. Each footstep brought a cloud of dust that clung like powder to clothing, clogging lungs and throats and eyes.
Abby watched as her aunt carefully wound strips of soft cotton around her arch and instep, then pulled on heavy knit stockings before lacing up her high shoes. Though she never complained, Abby had seen Violet soaking her feet after her first day on the trail. Still, her aunt insisted, walking was good for a body, made the heart pump, the lungs expand. Dear Aunt Vi, Abby thought with a gentle smile. She would always make the best of any situation.
Carrie wasn’t nearly as flexible. Though her young body could adapt more easily to the rigors of this trek, she complained loudly at night about the blisters on her feet, until James reminded her that she wasn’t too old to have a few blisters inflicted on her backside as well. This morning she maintained a sullen silence as she dressed and ate.
While Abby drained her coffee, she fought to calm the nervous flutters in her stomach. An entire day with the moody, mysterious Rourke. When the train was ready to roll, she saddled her father’s horse, lifted the rifle across her lap, and headed toward the lead wagon. As she drew abreast, Mordecai waved a cheery greeting, then called, “Rourke’s up ahead, Miss Abby. You can’t miss him.”
Far ahead, she could see a lone rider. Gritting her teeth, she dug her heels into the sides of the mare and moved out at a faster pace.
Though he heard her approaching, Rourke never slowed his pace or looked back. When her horse galloped up beside him, spewing dust, he angled his head, tipped his hat, and continued at an easy lope. Within minutes her mount altered his gait to keep pace. They rode that way, without speaking, for miles.
At first Abby was tense, waiting for Rourke to grumble about having to put up with a female companion. When he continued to say nothing, she began to relax and take the time to look around her.
Since leaving Independence, the landscape had been gradually changing. But here the changes were abrupt. Thick turf had given way to bunch grasses. The earth’s colors had gone from green to brown and tan. Even the sky had gone from deep blue, awash with fluffy clouds, to a blinding white light that made distances deceptive. Could she reach out and touch that boulder, or was it a mile away? And that mountain range. Would they reach it by nightfall? Or would they need several more days to even draw near?
They passed unfamiliar animals. Bison, pronghorn, jackrabbits, prairie dogs.
Without realizing it, Abby began to enjoy the view. When she had been forced to drive the team, she had felt a responsibility for Carrie and Violet and all their worldly goods. There had been no time to watch the passing parade. Now, unhampered by responsibility, she was free to simply enjoy.
“Oh, aren’t they magnificent.” At the top of a rise, Abby reined in her horse to watch a herd of bison.
Rourke drew up beside her. Lifting his hat, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, then replaced the hat, leaving the upper part of his face in shadow.
“The way they’re being slaughtered, there’ll soon be none left.”
“Oh, Rourke. There must be a hundred of them. It wouldn’t be possible to kill all of them.”
“Wouldn’t it?” His voice was chilling. “You haven’t seen some of the kills I’ve seen. I’ve watched half a dozen men sit on their horses and bring down an entire herd in a matter of hours.”
“How can they butcher that many animals?”
“They don’t. They just leave them to rot in the sun.”
“But why?” Without thinking, she reached out a hand to his arm and felt his muscles flex at her touch.
Rourke turned to her. Sunlight played across her face, accentuating her high cheekbones, touching her lips with color. He felt a sudden sexual pull that left him dazed.
Abby saw his eyes darken from slate to molten lead. Confused, she withdrew her hand and turned her head away, pretending to watch the herd.
He fought to keep his tone even. “For the thrill of the hunt. There are m
en like that in this world. Their only concern is their own pleasure, their own sense of power. They give no thought to the beautiful creatures they destroy in the process.”
Abby heard the underlying pain in his voice and wondered about it. Was Rourke still talking about the bison? Or had there been something—or someone—else to cause such intense feeling?
The tone of his voice changed. “There should be a river in about a mile or so. We’ll stop there for lunch.” He wheeled his horse.
Abby gave a last look at the magnificent herd, then turned her horse and followed his lead.
Lunch was dried meat, hard biscuits, and some precious coffee and chicory boiled over the fire until it was the consistency of molasses. Abby thought it tasted better than some of the meals her aunt and sister had prepared.
While they ate, Rourke pointed out landmarks. A cluster of rocks. A deformed tree, bent and gnarled from wind and sand. Ruts worn deeply into the sandstone from hundreds of wagon wheels.
“Notice where you’re heading. Mark where you’ve been. Watch the sky for wisps of smoke. They could be signals from Indian scouts.”
“What would the signals tell?”
Rourke pulled his hat lower on his forehead to block the sun overhead. “In your case they’d tell of a woman traveling alone. They’d give your location and probable destination. They’d say if you were on foot or riding. Carrying a weapon or unarmed. Within safe distance of a wagon train, or too far away to reach safety.”
Abby shivered despite the heat. “An Indian could tell all that from smoke?”
“It appears so. If they choose to, they can pretty much know everything going on in their territory.”
She peered around, wondering what might be hidden behind the rocks and trees. “Is this hostile Indian territory?”
Rourke grinned. “We’re the hostiles. They’re just trying to defend what is theirs.”
“But we don’t mean them any harm.”
“Don’t we?” Rourke doused the fire, scattering the ashes, then covering them with dirt until no trace remained of their presence. “A few bison can feed a small tribe for an entire winter. How do you think the Indians feel when they see white men destroying entire herds just for the fun of killing?”