Passage West (32 page)

“Clean yourself, Aunt Vi. Then rest awhile. I’ll see to Pa’s needs.”

“And what about your own?”

Abby shrugged. “I don’t have any. It’s Pa who needs tending now.”

Taking the warm broth from the fire, Abby made her way to the wagon. Her father’s breathing was labored. His skin was the color of clay.

“Here, Pa. I brought you some broth. You need it if you’re going to fight this.”

Holding the spoon to his lips, she was relieved to see him drink the steaming liquid. This was what he needed to regain his strength. They would not let this illness beat them.

As she fed him a second spoonful, he let out a moan.

“Water.”

Instantly, Abby set aside the steaming liquid and lifted a dipper of water to his lips. He drank greedily, then began coughing. Leaning up on one elbow, he covered his face with a rag and retched, then sank back.

When she again tried to feed him, he refused, too weak to even lift his head.

Touching a hand to his forehead, Abby began sponging his face and neck. His skin was so hot. So hot. She felt a moment of panic, then swallowed it back. They weren’t going to let this sickness beat them. She was a fighter. And so was her father. Together they would fight this. And they would win.

*  *  *

All night Abby sat with her father, bathing his fevered brow, forcing him to swallow water. Still he grew weaker as the illness raged within him, draining his body’s fluids, sapping his strength.

When the wagon train moved out, Abby climbed aboard the seat and flicked the reins. While the mules plodded, her head bobbed, until they hit a rut, shaking her awake. Then she scolded herself for her carelessness, and weakly nodded off until the next bump jolted her into consciousness.

By the time they stopped to make camp, Abby was close to exhaustion. But the sight of her aunt, pale and disheveled, left her no choice but to take over the care of her father for another night.

While Violet dozed in the wagon with her back against a cushion, Abby sat beside her father. He couldn’t tolerate even a single drop of water. The hand in hers was too weak to even grasp her finger. His voice, when he spoke, was barely audible.

“I’m dying.”

Violet’s eyes blinked open. Kneeling up, she made her way to his side and grasped his hand.

Yesterday, Abby would have argued with him. Tonight, she could no longer deny the fact. While she watched, she could feel the life slowly ebb from his frail body.

“Pa,” she whispered, bringing her lips close to his ear. “Before you join Ma, give me some sign that you’ve forgiven Carrie. If I ever see her again, I want to be able to tell her that you sent her your blessing.”

“No, damn you. I will never forgive her for defying me.” He took a fit of coughing, and Abby stared in horror at the blood that spilled down his shirt.

“James, you’re about to meet your Maker. It’s time to heal the wounds. Say you forgive Carrie,” Violet pleaded.

“Forgive?” He stared at his sister for long moments before rasping, “I forgive no one. Not Carrie. Not Lily. And not you, for foisting her brat on me.”

Violet’s mouth dropped open at the vehemence of his words. “James! No. You promised.”

Beside them, Abby could only stare in silence. What were they arguing about? It made no sense.

“I kept my promise. I raised her like my own. But now it’s time for the truth.” He was racked with another coughing spell, and as Abby watched, Violet began to cry.

“God forgive me, James, but I pray God will strike you dead before you can inflict any more pain on her. You’ve done too much to her already.”

“You hypocrite,” he spat.

“Pa. Stop this.”

Turning toward Abby, he said, “Don’t call me that. I’m not your pa. It was all a lie. You’re Lily’s bastard.”

Abby’s face went white. Staring at him, she felt tears stinging her eyes. “What are you saying?”

His voice rose, sounding for a moment like the old James. “Lily defied me. Just like Carrie. Ran off with a man like a thief in the night. Pa found her in another town and dragged her home just before she gave birth. She died without ever revealing the name of her lover.”

Abby turned a stricken face to Violet. “But you said her baby died, Aunt Vi.”

“Your aunt’s a liar. Your whole life’s been a lie. Margaret and Violet insisted I take you in and raise you like my own.”

“But why would you agree when you hated Lily so?”

“Because he was the reason she ran away in the first place,” Violet sobbed. “His brutality drove her away. Just the way he drove Carrie away.”

James wasn’t her father. Lily’s baby. Abby felt her mind whirling. There were too many things happening too fast. She couldn’t seem to take them all in.

“I should have expected this from you, James,” Violet said, tears still streaming down her cheeks. Her voice, Abby noticed, had become too soft, too silky. “You enjoy hurting others, don’t you?”

She waited until another coughing spasm had quieted, then added, “I think you should know. I was the one who encouraged Carrie to leave with Will.”

Abby’s mouth opened in silent protest, but her aunt went on, “Just as I encouraged Lily all those years ago. I couldn’t escape you, James, because Father needed me. I was the oldest, and expected to care for him and the younger ones when Mother died. And by the time he died, it was too late for me. But I saw to it that it wouldn’t be too late for Lily. I gave her what little money I had. And as for Carrie, I gave her my little chest of ribbons and lace, and sent her away with my blessing.”

“You bitch.” The words were torn from his lips as he began to retch.

“Lily didn’t want your forgiveness. Neither will Carrie. All either of them wanted was to be free of you. Carrie will have a much better life without your cruelty.”

“You’ll burn in hell, woman.”

“I think God is more forgiving than you, James. But if not, I have no doubt you’ll be there with me.”

James turned to Abby, whose ashen features reflected the shock she was still suffering. “As for you, girl, you should have taken my advice and married Flint Barrows. No decent man will ever have anything to do with a… mongrel. You’ll end up being a dried-up old maid like this one.”

He started to laugh. The sound was abruptly cut off as he clutched at his sides and began to retch. When he lay back, the rag at his mouth was soaked with blood.

“Get away from me,” he whispered fiercely. “Both of you. I want to be left alone. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

*  *  *

Rourke stood on the crest of the hill and stared at the Market wagon outlined against the night sky. He’d been standing here for hours, unable to sleep, unwilling to go back to the train. Pulling a cigar from his pocket, he held a light to the tip and watched as the smoke drifted above his head.

He missed Abby. That thought came as a complete surprise to him. Ever since the Indian had left, taking away his reason for staying with her, Rourke had missed her.

He wondered if she had enough game to last. He wondered if she could manage the team, the meals, the repairs to the wagon, and her father’s illness.

Most of all, he wondered if she missed him. Did she think about him as she drifted off to sleep? Did she ever whisper his name as she rolled from her bed at dawn? Had she ever …

He saw the flicker of flame coming from the direction of Abby’s wagon and strained to see more. A few minutes later, the flame had grown to a bonfire.

There was no doubt of the meaning of the fire. Market was dead. As the knowledge sank in, Rourke felt nothing. No regret that another life had ended, no joy that Abby’s tormentor was gone. There was only a numb acceptance of the facts. James Market was dead, and Abby and Violet would be on their own.

The wagon train was nearly across the Forty-Mile Desert. They had left a glowing trail of night bonfires and simple wooden crosses along this barren wasteland to mark the graves of those who didn’t make it. James Market was among those who would never see California.

Tossing aside his cigar, Rourke mounted and rode slowly back to the train.

Chapter Twenty-four

Abby and Violet were welcomed back to the train in the same manner that all the others had been: a brief nod, a quick wave, and a hasty retreat by the survivors, who still feared contamination.

On their first evening back in camp, Mordecai dropped by their wagon and was surprised to find Rourke there as well.

“Good evening, Miss Abby, Miss Violet,” the wagon master said, removing his hat.

“Mordecai. Rourke just joined us for coffee.” Abby indicated a bench in front of the fire. “Please stay.”

“Thank you, ma’am. It smells too good to refuse.” With a chuckle he sat on the wooden bench and leaned his back against the wheel of the wagon. “Parker’s coffee seems to get worse as the days go by. I wouldn’t recommend it for any but the strongest of men.”

As the women smiled, he cleared his throat. “I wish to offer my condolences, ladies, on the death of Mr. Market.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stump.” Violet sipped a cup of tea and Abby found herself studying her aunt, and marveling at the complex woman she had come to know.

The face Violet showed to the world was of a delicate, proper lady. Yet it was she, Abby realized with a swelling of pride, who had encouraged Lily and Carrie to defy the domineering James and follow their hearts. It was Violet who had managed to overcome her fear and prejudice and help care for a wounded Indian. And it was she who had last night counseled Abby to look beyond the sorrows in her own young life and seek the joys.

Abby sipped her coffee, letting her aunt tell Mordecai and Rourke the details of James’s death. She did not wish to speak of him. While the conversation droned on around her, Abby thought of her little sister. Was she happy? Were she and Will as deeply in love now as when they had first run off? Had they put down roots? Were they making a life for themselves? Or were they still on the run, afraid of James Market’s wrath?

Oh Carrie, she thought, feeling herself close to tears. Be happy.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

Abby looked up, and realized that she and Rourke were alone.

Seeing the arch of her eyebrow, he explained, “Your aunt and Mordecai are paying a call on Evelyn Coulter. With the help of Aaron Winters and his children, she’s been doing just fine.”

“I’m glad. It must be hard for a woman like Evelyn to be alone. Reverend Coulter was such a helpmate.”

A smile played at the corners of Rourke’s lips. It was so good to see her again, to hear her voice. “Maybe that’s what you and your aunt ought to be looking for.”

Abby burst out laughing. “Aunt Vi and I are going to be dried-up old prunes.”

“Who told you that?”

“My p—” She swallowed back the word. He wasn’t her father. Had never been. It had all been a lie. And all those years that she had taken his abuse, he had been hating her because she was Lily’s daughter. Lily’s daughter, she reminded herself, searching for some pride in that title.

Misreading her hesitation, Rourke touched a hand to Abby’s shoulder. “It’s too soon to talk about him, Abby. Wait until the wound isn’t so fresh.”

Abby glanced at Rourke’s sympathetic look and wished she could tell him. But it was too personal, too painful. It was her secret. Her shame.

“I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead,” Rourke said, running his hand across her shoulder and lifting her chin until she met his dark gaze. “But your father didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. There’s nothing old or dried up about Violet. She’s quite a woman. And you.” He brought his other hand up to cup her face. “You’re something very special, Abby Market.”

Lowering his face to hers, he kissed her almost reverently, moving his lips slowly over hers until he heard her little sigh of pleasure. Then, plunging his hands into her hair, he drew her head back and kissed her hard, taking her fully into the kiss, until her head was spinning.

Clutching his arms, she stared up at him in surprise.

He took a step back, his eyes narrowed. “Very special.”

He turned and walked from the circle of firelight into the darkness beyond.

*  *  *

By the time the cholera epidemic had run its course, the only wagon untouched by the dreaded disease was the Garner wagon. That fact should have brought Nancy and Jed even closer together, and made them more protective of their young son. Instead, Nancy had become completely disoriented, going for days without eating or washing. At night, while Jed drank alone, she prowled among the wagons, talking to anyone who would listen about the wrath of the Lord and the coming of the end of the world. She had decided that their family had been spared because she was touched by God. She insisted that she possessed special powers.

When the train left the deep, choking dust and cruel heat of the Forty-Mile Desert behind, Nancy Garner intoned loudly that the Lord had told her there would be refreshing water and even shade trees ahead. The weary travelers, desperate for relief, clung to her predictions as if they had been given by God Himself.

Rourke, returning from a scouting expedition, reported that they were only a few miles from the Carson River, which flowed westerly into the Sierra Nevadas.

In this early autumn setting, the tree-lined Carson River was placid and cool, its winding course marked by giant cottonwoods. Though Mordecai had promised the travelers respite once they crossed the Forty-Mile, some of them, dazed, frightened, began to put more stock in what Nancy Garner said than in the words of their wagon master. There was even talk of appointing her to replace Reverend Coulter as the new minister. Evelyn, hurt and angry that they would pass her by in favor of the unbalanced Nancy Garner, became quiet and withdrawn. On Sunday mornings, while Nancy preached loudly about fire and brimstone, Evelyn and a few of the others, including Abby and Violet, prayed together and sang some of the old familiar hymns.

Mordecai watched with growing concern. Too much divisiveness on a wagon train was dangerous. These people needed to work together if they were to survive. Yet he could see no way to bring them together, short of force.