Passage West (6 page)

“All right. What are you up to?” Abby asked, vigorously rubbing her hair with a towel.

“This,” Carrie said, holding up a gown of pale ivory voile.

“Where did you get that?” Abby touched a hand to the soft fabric.

“We’ve been sewing it while you drive,” Aunt Vi said proudly. “It was an old dress of your mama’s. I ripped the seams and made it smaller. And Carrie added the smocking across the front and back yoke.”

“It’s beautiful.” Abby hugged the two women, then stepped back, afraid to wrinkle the fabric. “But it’s too grand for me to wear. Why don’t we save it for you or Carrie.”

“Because it’s yours. We made it for you, and we want to see you in it.” Aunt Vi took the towel from Abby’s hands and finished drying her niece’s hair. “I hope it fits. I had to guess at your size. You’re so thin, Abby.”

Abby laughed, choosing to ignore her aunt’s veiled fears. “I know it’ll be perfect. And so are both of you.”

Climbing into the wagon, she dressed quickly, then stepped out for their inspection.

“Oh, Abby. I knew you’d look beautiful in it.” Carrie caught her sister’s hand as she began to braid her hair. “Let me fix your hair, Abby.”

With a sigh of resignation, Abby knelt in the grass and allowed Carrie to brush her hair and pin it back with two combs. It fell in soft waves down her back.

“Now you look like a lady.”

Both sisters laughed.

“Spoken like a true niece of Violet Market,” Abby intoned.

“There’s nothing wrong with looking like a lady,” their aunt said in all seriousness.

“I know, Aunt Vi. But sometimes we just can’t help teasing you.”

“Come on,” Violet said, putting an arm around each girl’s waist. “Let’s go join the other women for a grand visit.”

While the women sat around a campfire in the circle of wagons, they could hear the sound of men’s voices and raucous laughter emanating from the post. Occasionally one of the women would smile, hearing her man’s voice above the others. They could easily forgive such lapses, since their men rarely had the chance to drink and forget the hard work ahead of them.

While the women talked, they sewed or quilted, exchanging recipes and gossip. As the small children gradually stopped their play and drifted to sleep, they were tucked into the wagons.

Carrie’s head bobbed. “I’m going to bed, Abby,” she whispered.

“All right. I’ll be along in a few minutes.” Biting the end of the thread, Abby studied the face on the rag doll she’d been repairing for Nancy Garner’s little one. Nancy, her face grim, eyes swollen from crying, sat a little apart from the circle of women, staring listlessly into the fire. She would have to get over the loss of her piano, but Abby knew it would take her awhile. In the meantime, her small son had been feeling neglected until Abby picked him up and used the old doll to make him laugh.

When his eyes began to droop, she handed him over to his mother to be tucked into bed. Dropping a kiss on her aunt’s cheek, Abby bid the others good night and made her way in the darkness toward her wagon.

*  *  *

Flint Barrows leaned against the wagon and listened to the sounds of the women’s muffled conversation. He’d left his drinking companion sleeping beneath the chow wagon. Mordecai would see to it that Market made his way back in the morning.

Seeing Carrie approach, his lips curved into a chilling imitation of a smile and he moved deeper into the shadows. As she passed, he slipped silently in step behind her. For tonight, the Market women were fair game. With James out of the way, they had no man around to look out for them.

He watched the sway of her hips and felt the juices begin to flow. She and that crazy old aunt of hers always looked like they were going to a church social. While the other women in the train trudged along beside the wagons, those two rode inside, fanning themselves like queens. They weren’t anything special, he thought, feeding the hostility that always manifested itself in desire. They were just women. And Flint Barrows knew what he liked to do with women. All women.

When Carrie stopped beside her wagon, Flint crept closer. If he moved fast, he could cover her mouth before she could scream. There’d be no one around to hear her struggle. With a grin, he snaked out a hand and caught her by the shoulder, jerking her backward against him. As her mouth opened, he clamped his hand over it and caught her around the waist, lifting her up into the back of the wagon. Before she could cry out, he was on top of her. Seeing her eyes widen with fear, he felt a surge of excitement. They were all alike. Young or old, it mattered not to him. Just as long as they knew real terror. The more a woman cried and lost control, the more excited he became. With one vicious tug her dress gave way at the shoulder, revealing pale creamy skin. His mouth covered hers, swallowing her cries.

*  *  *

As she approached the wagon, Abby smoothed down the skirt of her gown. It had been sweet of Aunt Vi and Carrie to make over one of her mother’s dresses for her. Now it was going to be even more difficult to have to be the one to tell them that they would have to walk alongside the wagon once the train left Fort Kearny. The journey to California was a long one. The extra weight of two women would have to be eliminated if the team was going to make it. Abby wondered how her fragile aunt would endure the trek. Dear Aunt Vi. If only she could have been spared this ordeal.

Hearing a muffled sob, Abby paused. Was that Carrie crying? Had Pa done something to make her cry?

“Carrie?”

The sound stopped abruptly.

“Carrie, what’s…” Drawing back the flap of canvas, Abby saw a man struggling with her little sister. Pinned beneath his weight, the girl was sobbing and thrashing.

Abby’s voice was a hiss of fury. “Let her go!”

The man looked up, swore, then shoved Abby backward with such force, she was flung against the rough bark of a tree. Crying out, she picked up a broken limb and sprang forward to strike him.

He leaped down from the wagon and advanced on the slender figure brandishing the club.

“So you like to fight, do you? Well let’s just see how long you can hold out against me.”

In the glow of the firelight, Abby recognized Flint Barrows. His eyes were glazed. He reeked of liquor. “You animal. How dare you attack a helpless little girl.”

“Little girl?” He laughed, and the sound sent shivers along her spine. It was the laugh of a madman. “If she’s old enough to bleed, she’s old enough to take.”

With quick movements, he grasped the end of the tree limb and wrestled it from her hands. “Maybe you’d like to take her place.”

As he advanced on Abby, he felt a sharp pain on the side of his head as he was struck from behind by a boulder. He swung around to find Carrie, her dress hanging in shreds, bending down to retrieve another weapon.

“Two little she-cats. Now ain’t this going to be fun.” Swinging the club, he caught Carrie at the back of the head, sending her sprawling in the dirt. When she didn’t move, Abby let out a cry.

“You’ve killed her.” In a frenzy, she bent and picked up a flaming stick from the fire and threw it at her attacker. With a scream of pain, Flint Barrows caught the fiery missile against his chest, setting his shirt on fire.

Rolling around in the grass, he put out the flames, then turned all his fury on the girl who was bent over her younger sister.

“You’re going to pay for what you just did, girlie.”

As he advanced on Abby, he heard the click of a revolver and felt cold steel pressed against his temple.

A voice as chilling as death said, “You have five seconds to get out of my sight. Or you’ll be dead.”

Barrows froze, then turned and stared into Rourke’s hard slate eyes. As he started to speak, Rourke cut him off.

“I’d relish the chance to kill you, Barrows. Now you’ve got three seconds.”

Without a word, Flint Barrows turned and ran into the darkness beyond the circle of light.

Tears stung Abby’s eyes as she bent over her younger sister. “Carrie. Oh Carrie, please be all right.”

The girl moaned, and Abby clutched at her, then felt the warm, sticky mass of blood on the back of her head.

Instantly Rourke was at her side. With an efficiency of movement, he lifted the girl in his arms and placed her on a blanket in the back of the wagon. Probing the wound, he said, “Bring me some water and a clean cloth.”

As he washed the blood from her head, he felt the swollen mass at the base of her skull. “It’s bloody, but nothing serious. She’ll have a hell of a pain in her head tomorrow.”

Kneeling beside him, Abby took the cloth from his hand. “I’ll tend my sister now.”

Rourke glanced around the neat wagon. “Where’s your father?”

Abby shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all day. I suppose he’s at the post drinking with the men.”

Or sleeping it off somewhere, Rourke thought.

As he climbed down from the wagon, Abby followed him. All her earlier anger at this man had disappeared. Extending her hand, she swallowed and said softly, “Thank you, Rourke. For saving Carrie and me.”

“You were doing a pretty good job of it yourself.” He glanced at the figure of her sister, lying so still.

As she followed the direction of his look, her voice choked with anger. “She’s just a little girl.”

“That won’t matter to a man like Barrows.” Rourke thought of some of the men he’d met in the war. Something had snapped inside them. Whatever goodness or decency they’d once had was gone. Now they knew only anger and killing and revenge. “Stay close to her.”

Abby nodded. “I won’t let her out of my sight.” She stared up at his face, half hidden in shadow, and couldn’t think of anything more to say.

As she climbed into the wagon, he realized for the first time that she was wearing a dress instead of her usual men’s clothes. He wondered if she knew how small and delicate she looked. Not at all like the kind of woman who drove a team and brandished a club at a man twice her size.

Rourke glanced at the whiskey bottle he had dropped beneath the tree. All he’d wanted tonight was to be left alone, to drink away his memories and find relief in blessed sleep. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in Abby Market’s life. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the moon. These women were alone. Alone and vulnerable. He let out a string of oaths. With reluctance he bent, picked up the bottle, and corked it. He’d need a clear head if he was going to keep watch on the Market wagon for the rest of the night. Not that he wanted to get involved in their troubles, be told himself. But if James Market wasn’t going to look out for these women, someone had to.

Sitting with his back against the rough bark, he checked his gun, then drew out a cigar and bit the end. Might as well be prepared for a long sleepless night. But, he consoled himself, as long as he stayed awake all night, the painful dreams couldn’t touch him.

Chapter Five

Abby held her sister in her arms and waited until the latest bout of weeping subsided. So far she had managed to ascertain from Carrie that Flint Barrows had not managed to accomplish what he had set out to do. Abby’s intervention had fouled his plans. But he had managed to steal something precious from Carrie this night—her carefree childhood. Would she ever again feel safe? Abby shivered and watched as her sister lapsed into restless sleep. Or would she forever remember a man’s cruel hands hurting her?

The men in Abby and Carrie’s young lives had not been kind. Until his death, their grandfather had been a harsh, demanding taskmaster, a preacher whose own children had never measured up to his expectations. Their father, aware of his own father’s disappointment in him, had become bitter, reclusive, turning to the contents of his jug to smother his feelings of inadequacy. And if Flint Barrows was any indication, Abby thought with growing resentment, the men on this wagon train were no better.

“What’s this? What has Carrie done to her dress?” Violet climbed up into the back of the wagon and stared in dismay at the torn fabric.

In a whisper, Abby told her aunt what had happened. In her mind, she had rehearsed the delicate language she would use in order to spare this very proper lady any embarrassment. Her aunt’s uncharacteristic response surprised her.

“We must find James and report this incident immediately. Your father will see that Flint Barrows is removed from the wagon train.”

Relief flooded through Abby. She had expected tears, pity, even hysteria. What she discovered was a hint of steel beneath the ribbons and lace.

Abby caught her aunt’s wrist as she turned to leave. “The men have all been drinking. I wonder if we should wait until morning.”

Violet hesitated. What her niece said made sense. It was very late for her brother to be away from the wagon. Perhaps by now Mordecai Stump and Mr. Thompson were asleep. There was no point in waking them and causing a scene.

“All right, dear. But in the morning, your father will go to Mr. Stump and demand that Flint Barrows leave the train.”

Abby nodded, then squeezed Violet’s hand. A moment later Carrie began to cry. The two women lay on either side of her and stroked her hair, sharing with her their comfort and strength.

*  *  *

Rourke stretched stiff muscles, then stood and holstered his gun. In the morning mist his damp shirt clung. Picking up the bottle, he gave a last glance at the object of his night’s watch and strode toward the cook wagon. He didn’t want to be caught sitting there when they awoke. Each time Abby Market looked at him, he felt like every kind of fool. After that incident at the river, he’d never again be easy in her presence.

He had observed Violet Market’s return, and had heard snatches of a whispered conversation. Though he had stayed awake all night, he hadn’t seen James Market return. Damned jackass didn’t give a damn about these women. Why should that fact bother him? Rourke wondered with growing anger. Stowing the bottle in his bedroll, Rourke pulled on a dry shirt and headed toward the fire. What he wanted was strong hot coffee. And enough work to keep his mind off people who weren’t any of his damned business.