Passage West (25 page)

“I was lucky. I found a couple of sturdy saplings,” he called, dragging the trees.

“What good are they?”

“I’m going to make a travois,” Rourke called, stretching his blanket between the poles. “The Plains Indians use this to carry their sick. Clever people,” he muttered, bending to his task.

Abby glanced at the boy. He had turned at the sound of Rourke’s voice. He watched in fascination until the job was completed.

Bending, Rourke picked up the Indian, then lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “Don’t let his frail appearance fool you, Abby. He may be small. But he has the muscles of a warrior.”

Folding the blanket over him, Rourke lashed the Indian to the travois, then mounted his horse. “You ride behind and tell me if he’s in any distress.”

“Rourke.” Abby pulled herself into the saddle and brought her horse alongside his.

He waited, one eyebrow still lifted in a question.

“Thanks.”

“For what?” he asked.

She shrugged, feeling awkward as she struggled to find the right words. “For not fighting me on this.”

“Maybe I’m just getting smart,” he said, the beginning of a grin tugging at his lips. “Looks are deceptive. Like that Indian”—he cocked his head and threw a glance at the travois—“whose frailty masks a strong young brave; maybe the skinny little girl is really a whole lot of woman, with a mind of her own.”

“I’m not sure if I’ve been insulted or paid a compliment.” She reined in her horse.

“Maybe both.” He threw back his head and laughed as the horse started forward.

Behind him, Abby found herself loving the sound of Rourke’s laughter. He ought to laugh more often. It changed him into someone very different from the grim gunfighter she’d first met.

As they began the slow return to the line of wagons, Abby forced herself to keep her gaze firmly fixed on the figure on the travois. The Indian returned her careful scrutiny. But every so often she found herself staring at the broad shoulders of the man on the horse. And when she did, the Indian saw her eyes take on the ageless look of a woman in love.

Chapter Nineteen

It was dusk when they reached the wagon train. Avoiding the others, Rourke made straight for the cook wagon and sought out the scout.

Mordecai Stump and Parker, the cook, stood to one side while the scout conversed with the Indian.

“Cheyenne,” Brand announced. “He is important to his people. He is called the One with Two Shadows. He was taken prisoner by the Kiowa. Now he journeys home.”

“Kiowa are hundreds of miles from here.” Rourke reacted with surprise. “How could he come so far with such serious wounds?”

Brand spoke rapidly, and the Indian responded.

“He said a true Cheyenne warrior always returns to his people.”

Abby listened to the exchange in silence. She had noted the regal way the youth answered Brand’s questions while carefully studying Brand’s clothing. Except for his long dark hair and mastery of the Indian’s language, the scout could have been a white man. Could have been. But wasn’t. From what she had learned, Brand’s mother had been a member of the Nez Perce tribe, his father a trapper from the Ozarks. The child of their union walked between two cultures, belonging to neither. From his terse responses, the wounded Indian seemed to have little regard for this outcast. He placed as much trust in Brand as he did in a white man.

“Where will you take him?” Brand asked.

“To my wagon,” Abby said.

The scout glanced once more at the Indian, who lay as still as death, then at Mordecai. “His wounds are bad.”

“I’ve tended the sick before,” Abby said. “And so has my aunt.”

“But this is different, Miss Abby.” Mordecai glanced at Brand, then at Rourke, hoping they would help him sway her.

“He may”—the scout licked his lips and weighed his words carefully—“shock your delicate sensibilities.”

“My aunt and I are hardly delicate.”

“You have never tended one of The People.”

“The People.” Abby glanced at the Indian. “Is that what you call yourselves?”

Brand nodded gravely. “Forgive me, Miss Market, but the others on the train will not like this.”

“He’s right, Miss Abby,” Mordecai said softly.

“What would you have me do? Leave him here to die?”

The scout considered for a moment, then spread his hands. “You will make many enemies.”

“And you?” Abby asked, turning to Mordecai. “Do you think the people on this train will object to my caring for a wounded man?”

“A wounded Indian, Miss Abby,” Mordecai corrected. He paused, studying the Indian, who watched without emotion. “I think our people will be alarmed. And I suspect that more than a few of them will come to me asking that he be removed.”

Abby waited, her heart pounding. They were all against her.

“Your father will probably be the first one in line to protest. He’ll never permit you to keep an Indian in your wagon.”

“I’ll handle my father.” Abby saw the skeptical looks on the men’s faces. They had all witnessed her father’s rages. And they were all aware of the abuse she had taken at her father’s hands. She lowered her voice for emphasis. “I will handle him.”

Mordecai shook his head. “It isn’t just your father. This lad will need constant watching. If you turn your back on him you could find a knife in it.”

“My aunt and I will take turns watching him,” Abby said.

“Not good enough.” Mordecai gave a glance at Rourke, and was amazed to see the slight nod of Rourke’s head. So, he thought, our loner is becoming involved, whether he likes it or not. “I take it, Rourke, you’re willing to lend a hand to the Market women?”

“If they want it.”

Abby shot him a stunned look of gratitude.

“This lad will need constant care.”

“My aunt and I will see to it.”

“You’re taking a lot for granted, Miss Abby. Seems to me your aunt should have the right to make her own decisions.”

Abby flushed. Mordecai was right. She had no authority to speak for Aunt Violet. “He’s my responsibility. I’ll see to him.”

Still Mordecai weighed the issue, hoping to find some way out. They couldn’t just leave a wounded man along the trail, even an Indian who resented their care. But the people, already bone-weary and ready to fold, might rise up and refuse to allow him to stay. He’d have to be prepared for anything.

Finally he shrugged. “Take him to the Market wagon.”

The scout watched without emotion as the wounded Indian was carried away.

*  *  *

Abby hadn’t been certain just how her aunt would deal with their unexpected guest. Would she fall over in a dead faint at the sight of a live Indian in their wagon? Would she get all pale and flustered, and hold a handkerchief to her nose? Worse, might she refuse to share her quarters with him?

As always, Violet did the unexpected. Since it was evening when Abby and Rourke arrived back at camp, James had taken his jug of whiskey to the Garner wagon. Violet was alone, bent over her sewing. She had bathed away the dust of the trail and had put on a clean dress before dinner. In a pale rose gown more appropriate for Sunday tea, she was a stunning contrast to the trail-weary figures that approached her.

At the sight of Abby, Violet lifted the lid from a heavy pot. The aroma of vegetables, cooked in the last of the meat stock, wafted on the breeze.

“Thank goodness you’re back, child. I’ve been keeping your supper hot.”

“I’ll eat later, Aunt Vi. Right now, I have to make up a bed for a wounded youth I found on the trail.”

“Mercy. A wounded child.” Violet was up and heading toward the wagon when she caught sight of the figure in Rourke’s arms. “He’s …” She swallowed, blanched, then tried again. Her voice trembled slightly. “He’s … badly wounded, I see.”

Abby studied her aunt’s ashen face. “He’s a Cheyenne warrior. His name is Two Shadows.”

The older woman hesitated for long moments. Whatever battle she was waging within herself was a mystery to the others. Rolling up the sleeves of her immaculate gown, she said, “I’ll make up a bed for him. You eat, child.”

Abby watched as her aunt climbed into the back of the wagon and began rummaging around. A few minutes later she motioned for Rourke. When the Indian had been placed between clean linens, Rourke said softly, “We’ve already removed the arrow’s tip from his shoulder. Miss Violet. But the wound will need cleansing daily. And Abby said you’d know a balm for his wrists and ankles.”

Violet studied the raw flesh, so dark against the white linens. “Who—did this to him?”

“His captors. Kiowa.”

She took a step closer. Despite fatigue, dark eyes watched her. She tried to smile, and her lips trembled. “I’ll get him some soup.”

“Miss Violet.” At Rourke’s low tone, she looked up. “Whenever you’re going to tend him, come and get me first.”

She felt a tiny shaft of fear and swallowed it down. “Why?”

“Because he doesn’t like being touched by strangers. Especially white women. He may react violently.”

The fear grew and she fought for calm. “He’s only a boy, Mr. Rourke.”

“He’s an Indian warrior, ma’am. Don’t ever forget that.”

She stared into dark, watchful eyes, then back at Rourke. “Thank you. I won’t.” She paused. “Will he need watching tonight?”

“He’ll need watching all the time,” Rourke said patiently. “I’ll stay the night.”

She gave him a smile of gratitude. “I’ll get you some supper, Mr. Rourke.”

*  *  *

James Market was tired. And very drunk. He and Jed Garner had emptied the jug. All he wanted, he thought, weaving his way among the wagons, was his bed.

The first thing he noticed was the lantern, still lit. Damned women should have been asleep hours ago, he thought angrily. As he drew closer, he saw the outline of Abby and Violet bent over a figure wrapped in blankets. Dropping the jug, he opened the wagon flap, then stopped. Seated at the far side of the wagon, holding a gun, was Rourke.

“What’s he doing here?” James demanded. Despite his fury, his words were slurred. He tried to think where he’d left his rifle, but his mind was slow to respond. “You’ve got a lot of nerve holding a gun on my women. Get out of my wagon, Rourke.”

When the gunman said nothing, Market turned toward Abby. “Goddammit, tell him …” His words trailed off as he caught sight of the Indian. “Tell me that isn’t what it looks like. A heathen Indian? In my wagon?”

“I found him along the trail. He’s been hurt, Pa. Aunt Vi and I are going to tend his wounds.”

“Like hell you are. You get that animal out of here.”

“This is not an animal, James,” Violet said softly. “He’s a young man. And he’s badly wounded.”

“He’ll be dead if he isn’t out of here now. I’m not sharing my wagon with an Indian.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, James,” Violet said, her voice still as soft as velvet. “But if the sight of him offends you, I suggest you sleep outside, under the wagon.”

Abby glanced at her aunt, unable for a moment to believe what she’d heard.

Market’s eyes widened, then he unleashed his full fury on his sister.

“Don’t you ever speak to me like that, woman. All your life I’ve fed you, clothed you, taken care of you, you dried-up old prune. And now you presume to give me orders. Get out of this wagon. And take that heathen with you.”

“No, James.” Violet’s pale blue eyes frosted over. Her soft voice held a thread of steel. “It’s you who has been fed and clothed and taken care of. All that Papa left me from the farm has gone for your needs. And all my life I’ve taken orders from Papa, and then you. But not this time. I’ve decided there was only one person in our family who really knew how to deal with you.”

When he brought his hand back, as if to slap her, she cut him off with a single word.

“Lily.”

Abby watched her father pale. His face contorted into a look of pure hatred.

“For Lily’s sake, I have suffered the indignities you have chosen to inflict on me. No more, James. Abby and I intend to nurse this young man until he is well enough to return to his people. While he is here, you may share the wagon with us, or sleep outside.”

James Market’s lips curled into a sneer. “You’ll pay for this, woman.”

“I have already paid, James. Dearly.”

“Are you sleeping here, Pa?”

He glowered at Abby, before hissing, “I wouldn’t spend one minute in the same wagon with a damned filthy Indian. The two of you can have him to yourselves.”

He grabbed up a blanket and turned away. Outside, they could hear him slamming around beneath the wagon. Inside, no one spoke. While Abby watched, her aunt handed Rourke a blanket.

“Shall we take turns sleeping, Mr. Rourke?”

Rourke studied the older woman with new respect. She’d put the bastard in his place without even losing her ladylike composure for one moment. “You two ladies sleep first. I’ll keep watch.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rourke.” Violet rolled between her blankets and closed her eyes. If she was agitated, she refused to let it show. Within minutes, her breathing was merely a soft sigh on the night air.

Beside her, Abby glanced once at Rourke, then pulled the blankets around her. Closing her eyes, she mentally played back the scene between her aunt and father. The mere mention of Lily’s name had left him stunned. Why? Abby wondered. Was it because he had forbidden anyone to ever mention her name in his presence? Or was there something more? His reaction had been so surprising, Abby couldn’t figure out if it was due to shock or anger.

Aunt Vi was just full of surprises this night. First she had swallowed her fears and prejudices and reacted with a strength of purpose Abby had never seen before. And then she had stood up to her bully of a brother in a manner that had been completely unexpected. Where had sweet, shy Violet come up with such strength? Had she been saving it up all her life for this one confrontation?

Even if Rourke wasn’t here in the same wagon with her, so close she could hear his breathing, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Life had become such a puzzle. And there were too many pieces missing.

*  *  *