Passage West (20 page)

The women smiled and nodded, then grew thoughtful and dreamy at the thought of the homes they’d left behind.

Carrie studied the cluster of men, her eyes eager and searching. Suddenly she smiled, and Abby watched as she made her way slowly toward the cook wagon. In the shadows, Abby could make out the tall, slender figure of Will Montgomery. As Carrie approached, Abby saw him whip his hat from his head. They leaned close, in whispered conversation, and Abby knew that Will was probably drowning in the wonderful scent of roses. When Reverend and Mrs. Coulter appeared, the young couple quickly drew apart. Abby chuckled to herself. Poor Carrie. She had probably dreamed for weeks of this chance to be alone with Will. And now that she had the opportunity, the dear Reverend Coulter and his wife would probably engage them in conversation until the small hours of the morning.

When the fiddles stopped, someone strummed a guitar and sang about sweet Betsy from Pike. Abby strolled among the wagons, nodding and smiling as friends called out. At the Garner wagon, she heard the sound of sobbing. Pausing, she debated about getting involved. It was common knowledge that Nancy and Jed weren’t getting along. As Abby began to move on, the sobbing increased. It was soft, high-pitched, more like a child than a woman. She felt a little prickle of alarm.

“Nancy? Is that you?”

The crying continued.

Abby drew back the canvas. “Nancy? Are you in here?”

A tiny, tear-streaked face appeared.

“Timmy.” Abby held out her arms, and the child fell into them, burying his face against her shoulder and weeping as if his heart would break.

“Shh. There now, Timmy. Nothing can be as bad as all this. Come on, love. Let’s go find your mama and papa.”

“No.” The child clung to Abby’s neck while his tears began anew.

Abby heard the fear in his voice and stroked his head. “All right. Let’s just stay here awhile.” Standing still, she allowed him to cry until his tears began to subside. Then, drying his tears with her lace handkerchief, she sat down beside the wagon and cradled him in her lap.

When the boy grew quiet, Abby began to rock him gently, crooning the tune the fiddlers had struck up. She felt him slowly relax in her arms.

“Now. What was so bad it made you cry like that?” she whispered.

“Mama doesn’t love us anymore.”

“Timmy. Don’t say such things. Your mama loves you very much.”

“No she doesn’t. She said so. She told my papa she hated him for taking her so far away from home.”

“She’s just upset because she lost her piano,” Abby whispered, nuzzling the child’s forehead. “She doesn’t mean what she says.”

Fresh tears shimmered in the child’s eyes. His lower lip trembled. “She said I’ll probably grow up to be just like my papa. Wild, dirty, and uncivilized.”

Abby tried to hide her shock. Nancy Garner’s unhappiness was taking an ugly turn. “You musn’t think about what people say in anger, Timmy. Tomorrow, when she’s feeling better, your mama will be sorry, and she’ll hug you and tell you how much she loves you and your papa.”

One fat tear rolled down his cheek, and he brushed it away. His little face was so solemn, it nearly broke Abby’s heart. “I don’t believe you, Abby. I don’t think my mama will ever again love me and my papa.”

“Your parents will always love you, Timmy. That’s what parents do best.” Thinking about her own father, Abby swallowed back the pain that threatened. There were people, she knew, who were incapable of loving. Her voice lowered to a mere whisper, as if she were talking to herself. “Sometimes, when they’re tired or sad, they say things they don’t mean. That’s when we have to find it within ourselves to love them even more.” She forced a note of hopefulness. “But you’ll see. Tomorrow, or the day after that, things will work out. They always do.”

Abby drew him close to her heart and began humming the tune that played in the background. Though her own heart was heavy, she rocked the little boy until, exhausted, he fell asleep in her arms. Standing up, she cradled the boy against her shoulder. As she came around the Garner wagon, she nearly collided with Rourke. With wide eyes, she touched a finger to her lips, warning him not to wake the boy. Without a word, Rourke took the sleeping child from her arms. He felt a sudden shaft of pain as the boy snuggled close against him. Just as swiftly the pain was gone. And as Rourke placed him in his blankets inside the wagon, he experienced a fresh sense of loss.

Abby felt a great well of tenderness at the sight of a strong man like Rourke tenderly holding the little boy.

Closing the flap of canvas, Rourke turned to her. “That was a nice thing you did.”

“I didn’t do anything.” She felt her cheeks burn, and was grateful for the darkness.

“I didn’t mean to pry. But I couldn’t help overhearing. You took the time to comfort a frightened, lonely little boy. You were there when he needed you, Abby. And he won’t soon forget it.” He touched a finger to her cheek, sending heat racing along her spine. “Nor will I.”

Abby could think of nothing to say.

Rourke recognized her distress and sought to put her at ease.

“That’s a pretty dress.”

“Thank you.” Oh, how she wished she were taller so she wouldn’t have to tip her head so far back to look up at him. And how she yearned for a lush figure as his gaze swept the length of her. “Carrie and Aunt Violet made over one of my ma’s old dresses.”

“It looks good on you.”

She fell silent, wishing she knew how to be clever and charming in the company of a man.

Rourke saw her watching the couples dancing a reel in the circle of light.

“You ought to be dancing, Abby.”

She laughed, a low, husky sound that shivered across his nerves. “I don’t know how.”

“I thought every pretty girl knew how to dance.”

Her smile faded. “Then I guess that’s why no one ever taught me how to dance. I’m not pretty enough.”

Rourke frowned. That was her father speaking, not her. How could she believe such nonsense? Removing his hat, he made a little bow in front of her. “Miss Abby Market, would you do me the honor of this dance?”

She drew back, embarrassed. “I told you. I don’t know how.”

“Then I’ll teach you.” Taking her hand, he drew her into the circle of his arms.

Abby felt a rush of feelings. Gathered close to his chest, she felt the rough scratch of his freshly laundered shirt against her cheek. His lips were hovering just inches from her temple. His warm breath feathered across her face. He smelled clean, like soap and water, reminding her of the land after a fresh spring rain. He kept her one small hand in his, and she prayed he couldn’t feel the trembling. His other hand was pressed to the small of her back, and she felt a warmth radiating from it that left her nearly weak.

She didn’t know what to do with her other arm. At first it hung limply at her side. But slowly, instinctively, it moved along his arm, then curved gently around his neck. As her fingers grazed the spill of dark hair at his collar, she drew her hand away, then ever so slowly brought it back until her fingers were twined in the hair at his nape.

As they moved slowly to the music, he drew her perceptibly closer, until their bodies were touching. Bringing his mouth close to her ear, he murmured, “I thought you said you couldn’t dance.”

A tiny thrill shot through her. Without realizing it, her hand clutched at his head, drawing it even lower, until his mouth was tantalizingly close to hers.

“I… didn’t know it was this easy,” she said, feeling a dryness in her throat.

“It gets even easier,” he whispered. His lips grazed hers and he saw her eyes widen. “When two people dance together often enough, each learns how the other moves.” His fingers began to burn a trail of fire along her spine. Through the soft fabric of her gown she felt each fingertip leave an indelible mark on her flesh. She would know Rourke’s intimate touch anywhere, anytime.

She didn’t know when they stopped moving. She wasn’t even aware that he had gathered her close, or that her own arms had curled around his neck, drawing him to her. In a cocoon of darkness, locked in his embrace, she forgot about the music. The only sound she could hear was the rhythm of her own heartbeat. The people dancing in the circle of light no longer existed. There was only this man, and the warmth of his touch, and the thrill of anticipation as she waited for his lips to cover hers.

Slowly, so slowly she thought she might die of waiting and wanting, his mouth lowered to hers. She felt a shudder race through him seconds before his mouth covered hers in a savage kiss.

He forgot to be tender. He’d intended to be tender. In fact, he’d intended to walk away from her the minute he’d seen her. But seeing her led to the need to hear her voice, that low, sultry whisper that touched him as no other woman’s voice ever had. And talking to her had led to the need to touch, to hold, to taste. And now, holding her, kissing her, needs ripped through him, shattering his veneer of cool control.

There was still time to walk away, he told himself as his lips plundered hers. But first he needed to touch her. Touch her in a way he’d never dared before. While her arms twined around his neck, he ran his hands across the slope of her hips, then upward, to span her tiny waist. He’d held his passion too long in check. Now needs broke free, and while her breath trembled in his mouth, he brought his hands higher. She was small and firm in his palm, and his thumbs stroked until he felt her moan and take the kiss deeper. He wanted her, needed her, had to have her, with a need that bordered on desperation.

And then she was pushing away with a fierceness he hadn’t expected. He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and she pushed away again. Above the thundering of his heart, above the sound of his breath, ragged and shallow, he recognized the sound of footsteps drawing nearer. And then Mordecai and Thompson were coming directly toward them on their way to the cook wagon.

“Evening, Miss Abby. Rourke.” Mordecai touched the brim of his hat, then cast a sidelong glance at Rourke.

“Evening.”

“Enjoying the music?”

“Yes.” Even that simple word was difficult to say with her throat gone dry.

Abby and Rourke stood apart, struggling to control their breathing, hoping the darkness hid them enough to cover their confusion.

“Good evening, Miss Abby.” Mordecai leaned on his cane and gave the couple a long look. “Rourke.”

“Good night.”

When they were alone again, Abby turned away, ashamed to face him. “I’d better get back to my wagon. Thank you—for teaching me to dance.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” Rourke swallowed back the smile that threatened. There’d be another time. Another place. And many more steps of the dance to be learned.

*  *  *

Carrie stood beside Will, smiling into the faces of Reverend Coulter and his wife. While they talked, she was careful to keep the smile in place. How long, she wondered, could two old people babble on about the weather, the land, and the goodness of the Lord? The evening was quickly rushing by, and she and Will hadn’t had a single moment to themselves. The wagon train was pulling out in the morning, and it might be weeks before they would have this much time to themselves again.

“… said to Evelyn, praise the Lord, I think we’re all going to make it safely to the promised land.”

“I think you’re right, sir,” Will said politely. “Mordecai Stump strikes me as a man who knows every trail from here to Sacramento.”

“Well said, son. Put your faith in the Lord, and in a few men of good will. And nothing will be denied you.”

As the fiddlers started up, Carrie’s foot began tapping to the rhythm. Seeing it, Reverend Coulter smiled at his wife. “Here I am going on and on and these young people are itching to dance. Come on, Evelyn, let’s join the old married folks.”

With a laugh, he and his wife walked away arm in arm. Behind them, Will and Carrie stared at each other, gave a nervous laugh, then grew uncomfortably silent.

Will twisted the brim of his hat between his fingers. “You look awfully pretty, Carrie.”

Her smile could have lit up the entire fort. “You look fine too. How did that shirt fit?”

“Fine. Just fine.” He found himself staring at her breasts, reddened, then looked up to find her staring directly at him. God, he thought, she had to know what he was looking at. The realization made him blush more.

“Do you dance?” she asked as the music grew livelier.

“No. Well, I used to. But I don’t anymore.”

“Why?”

The minute she asked the question, she nearly died from embarrassment. “Oh. You mean because of your arm?”

No one had ever come right out and said it before. Will couldn’t make up his mind if he was angry or glad. He’d need time to think about it. “I just don’t anymore,” he said softly.

“That’s too bad.”

He glanced at her. “You like to dance, Carrie?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I never tried it.”

“You never danced?”

She glanced down at the toes of her shoes.

Will cleared his throat. “Every girl ought to dance, at least once in her life.”

“Why?”

He couldn’t think of a good reason. “Just because. It feels good to sway to the music.”

Without thinking, he held out his hand. Surprised, Carrie accepted it. They began swaying, slowly at first, then vigorously as the tempo of the music increased. Like two shy children, they held hands and swayed, bowed, then swayed again. Will grinned, and Carrie threw back her head and laughed.

Oh, it felt so good to hear her laugh. Will couldn’t imagine anything sweeter than the sound of her laughter.

“So this is dancing.”

Still holding her hand, Will drew her closer. He stared down into her eyes and wondered if there could be anyone prettier in the whole world than Carrie Market.

“There’s a lot more to dancing than this. But I don’t think I could handle anything more complicated.”

“Why?” Without realizing it, Carrie moved a step closer, until they were almost touching.

Will let go of her hand and touched his knuckles to her cheek. She was so soft, so sweet, she made him ache. She lifted her face to his touch, the way a cat arches its back, and he opened his hand, feeling the fine softness of her skin against his rough callused palm.