Rexanne Becnel (5 page)

“Tulip?”

“Actually, it’s two-lip.” He enunciated the words separately. “Look for yourself.” He sauntered over to the sorrel and rubbed her neck affectionately, all the while shooting that angel’s grin—or was it a devil’s?—at Abby. “Her lower lip is huge and it has a ridge in it. Come over here and see. It looks like two lips.”

She hadn’t made a conscious decision to approach him, but Abby was not able to fight the urge either.

“Pull up some grass for her.”

She did as he said, then had to laugh when Tulip reached for it. Just as he’d said, the mare’s lower lip was oversized and it tickled Abby’s palm. The mare practically sucked up the twist of grass Abby offered her.

“Tulip,” she murmured. “How appropriate.”

“I thought so,” he answered. Then his already low-pitched voice dropped to an intimate rumble. “And if I were to name you, I’d choose …” He paused and studied her face so intently, Abby swallowed, not once but three times. His eyes were the most intense shade of blue she’d ever seen, vivid and yet somehow a dark, smoky color too. “I’d call you Venus. She was the goddess of beauty in days of old.”

Abby’s eyes widened in shock. Venus. He thought she was as beautiful as Venus? And just as amazing, he actually knew who Venus was. She had to close her gaping mouth with an effort. Oh, but he had the devil’s own smooth tongue, the rational part of her mind warned. But the irrational parts—those parts that daydreamed and made up stories and envisioned something more in her life than marriage to a pleasant but unimaginative minister—those parts overwhelmed and silenced that solitary warning voice. He thought she was beautiful.

“Shall I be forced to call you Venus, then?” he persisted in his velvet voice. He ran one slow, caressing hand up and down the curve of Tulip’s neck. For one fanciful moment Abby felt as if he were stroking her neck that way, and a hot flood of color rose in her cheeks.

“I … I …” She pressed her lips together to stop her idiotic stammering. “That’s not my name,” she got out at last.

“No? Well, it should be.” He looked away toward where the impromptu church gathering had been held, and Abby had a moment to compose herself. What in the world was she doing, all alone, speaking with a man her father didn’t know, and of matters far too intimate to be proper?

But it wasn’t the words that made their conversation so improper. It was the way he looked at her, and the way his warm gaze made her feel. As if she were melting on the inside, hot and shivery all at the same time.

She cleared her throat and glanced guiltily back at the dispersing group. “I’d best be going. Thank you for … for introducing me to Mac and Tulip.”

“Which wagon outfit are you and your father traveling with?” he asked, ignoring her words.

Once more she hesitated to leave. “Captain Peters’s. Bound for the Oregon Territory.” Abby knew she was lingering when she shouldn’t, yet she was loath to tear herself away. Was it really so wrong for her just to speak with him? It was broad daylight, after all, and they were in plain view of anyone who cared to look their way.

“Where are you headed?” she asked, deliberately stifling the knowledge that her father would not see her conversation with this man as innocently as she did. Not that it was truly innocent. The feelings he’d set off inside her might be completely unfamiliar to her, but she nonetheless knew they were not innocent. Still, she was not ready to pull herself away.

“I’m heading for Oregon as well.”

Abby’s heart began to pound. He was going to Oregon too!

“In fact,” he continued, “I’m looking to hire on to one of the wagon trains. I’ve been this route before, and I’m good with a rifle.”

When her eyes widened, he grinned. “Indians are occasionally a problem, but fresh meat is a constant need.”

Abby clasped her prayer book tighter and made a silent wish. “Perhaps you should speak to Captain Peters,” she suggested, her voice gone breathless.

“Perhaps I should,” he echoed, his smoky-blue gaze holding with her own, silently saying things to her that no man had ever said before.

“Abigail!”

Abby froze at the familiar stern ring. Her father.

Tanner McKnight, however, only gave her a wink. “So it’s Abigail,” he murmured before turning to face the two men hurrying up to them.

“Abigail. Get to the wagon,” her father ordered, his face mottled with anger. Though Abby had known he’d be displeased to find her conversing with a strange man, his fury nevertheless seemed a vast overreaction. And in front of both Tanner and the Reverend Harrison.

“But Father—”

“Now!” he practically roared.

Tanner McKnight stepped toward her father and the trailing reverend. “You must be Mr. Morgan,” he said before her father could address him directly. He stuck his hand out. “I’m Tanner McKnight. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

Robert Bliss drew up, huffing hard from his exertions. He glared at Tanner, then sent his daughter a sharp look. Only when Abby stepped back as if to leave did he turn back to Tanner. “I’ll thank you not to approach my daughter without my express permission.”

Abby could have cried at her father’s tone. Tanner’s hand fell to his side and his face went very still. “I meant no disrespect to her, sir, as I’m sure she will verify. She was good enough to refer me to Captain Peters.” Slowly—dismissively, Abby thought—he swung his glittering gaze to the reverend.

The younger man cleared his throat. “Reverend Dexter Harrison.” To his credit the reverend extended his hand to Tanner, and after a moment they shook. Abby shot an angry look at her father, but he was not so easily placated. Then Dexter stepped over to her and took her elbow as if to guide her away.

Abby sent him a quelling look. How dare he try to imply that he had a claim on her. She shook off his grip with an impatient jerk just as her father spoke.

“You should not be making such queries to a young and unchaperoned girl. Your inquiry would be better directed to someone at the fort.”

Tanner shrugged, but didn’t concede a thing. Though Abby realized that perhaps her father was right, especially given the recent incident with young Rebecca, she was too stung by his lack of faith in her—and his willingness to create a scene—to be sympathetic to his position. And as for Dexter … She raised her chin a notch and glared at her father, determined that he know just how angry she was with the both of them.

“I’m afraid dinner will be delayed. Reverend Harrison, I will understand, of course, if you wish to dine elsewhere,” she added pointedly. And with that she turned with a swish of her full skirts and stormed off, furious with her father, Reverend Harrison, and the entire male species in general.

Except, of course, for Tanner McKnight.

She stayed at the Lewises’ wagon until nearly dusk, though she declined anything but coffee. Her stomach was too knotted by anger and chagrin to allow her any appetite. But she’d been unable to discuss it, even with the sympathetic Sarah. Once Sarah had realized that Abby would be a relatively silent companion, she’d pulled out her sewing basket and they’d worked together on a set of embroidered pillow slips.

If she’d thought to bring her writing instruments, Abby would have spent the day writing. She wanted to finish that chapter with Tillie meeting a prairie dog—she decided to name the intimidating animal Rex. When Snitch found out about him, he would have a conniption fit, but Tillie was already fascinated. Unfortunately Abby hadn’t brought her pencil and paper with her, and she refused to go back to her wagon to fetch them. Let her father fret. Let him know just how angry she was. She would just work Tillie’s adventure out in her mind for now.

But as the afternoon wore on and the white, curving initials took shape beneath her deft needle, Abby’s anger slowly subsided into a troubled resignation. When she finished the ornate
L
, she tucked the needle into a corner of the pillow slip. “Well, I suppose I’m cooled off enough to deal with my father.”

Sarah paused, her needle in mid-air, and studied her friend. “Does this by chance have anything to do with Reverend Harrison?”

Abby shook her had. “No, not really. Well,” she paused. “Perhaps in a way it does. I was … I was speaking to a man. Someone my father doesn’t know—”

“Someone interesting?” Sarah broke in, leaning forward eagerly.

Abby felt her cheeks heat. “Well … as a matter of fact, he was. Interesting, I mean.”

“Only your father didn’t approve.” Sarah sat back, nodding her head in commiseration when Abby didn’t deny her words. “So. Who is he?”

Abby struggled to sound composed, though she was anything but. “Who he is is not the point. It’s my father’s inflexibility that troubles me, his complete disregard for my opinion or my feelings. His complete pigheadedness,” she muttered after a moment’s hesitation.

Sarah looked at her askance. “You
must
be smitten with this new fellow. But Abby,” she added in a more cautionary tone, “your father wants only the best for you. Remember that. There are any number of unscrupulous men on the trail. That poor Rebecca is evidence enough of that. Her father is beside himself with worry over her. And even without that concern, it’s only natural for your father to worry. My own father thought Victor a poor choice for me.” She grinned then. “But he came around.”

Abby gave her friend a wan smile. “Thank you, Sarah. I know what you say is so. It’s just …” She trailed off, unable to reveal even to Sarah the true extremes of her father’s odd behavior. The name change. The desperate urge to get to Oregon—or rather to leave Missouri, for that’s what she had determined it actually was. She just didn’t know why.

“I’d best be getting back to my own wagon. He probably hasn’t even thought about preparing any supper for us.”

Abby skirted the wide circle of wagons as she made her way back. Dusk was imminent. The western sky burned with red and gold streaks, made more vivid by the pale wisps of a few high-flying clouds. Though the air was crisp and cold, the scent of a hundred campfires made it seem warmer. How suggestible the human mind was, she pondered. The mere smell of fires burning gave her the illusion of warmth, just as the gurgling of a lively creek on a hot day in August always made a body feel cooler.

Was that the same sort of illusion that had been going on when Tanner McKnight had looked at her?

Abby kicked at a clump of dried mud as she considered that unpleasant possibility. Her reaction to him had been real enough. There was no point pretending otherwise. His dark, unwavering gaze. His slow smile. Even the sound of his voice.

And his touch.

She nearly tripped over a wagon shaft, then glanced around sheepishly.

His touch. Reverend Harrison’s hand at her elbow today had not affected her so. Not even remotely. But just because she’d reacted that way to Tanner McKnight didn’t necessarily mean anything. Any number of women might react the same way—no doubt plenty of them already had. The question was, how did he react to her? And more importantly, how could she possibly find out?

The wind gusted, buffeting her full skirts, and she automatically caught the excess fabric with one hand. But her attention focused on the white tent a little way outside the wagon circle. His two horses cropped grass beyond it, and a low fire glowed nearby. But he was not readily visible.

She paused, knowing she should not, but unable to prevent herself. Had he spoken to Captain Peters? Would he join up with their company? She forced herself to move on, to prepare herself to deal with her father. He would be angry and short-tempered, or else sullen and depressed. These days she could never predict his moods. But no matter his mood tonight, she had avoided him long enough.

To Abby’s surprise her father had water going, the table down, and the basic kitchen utensils ready to go. He sat in his chair, one of the three they’d decided to carry west with them. It was plain he was waiting for her, sitting there with a book open in his lap. But he didn’t speak as she put away her bonnet and her prayer book, and donned her apron. Only when she had her hands deep in a bowl, kneading the dough for pan biscuits, did he clear his throat.

“You risk the affections of a good and honorable man when you behave in a less than seemly manner.”

Abby punched the dough, lifted it up and slapped it back into the white-enameled tin bowl. “Do you refer to yourself?” she replied, unable to completely contain her irritation.

“I refer to the Reverend Harrison!” he thundered, rising to his feet.

Abby lifted her face to him. She’d never spoken disrespectfully to her father. She’d never willfully disobeyed him—at least not on important matters. And she’d never tried to counter him when his voice took on that righteous timbre. But there was a first time for everything, she told herself, though her knees shook beneath her skirts.

“Since I do not seek Reverend Harrison’s affections, there can be no risk for me.”

For one long, terrible moment they stared at each other. She feared he would explode with fury, allowing the entire camp to hear what should be a private conversation, so she went on before he could speak. “I do not seek a husband, Father. I wish to be a teacher. And a writer,” she added, deciding not to hold anything back. “You have uprooted me and forced me to this move, and so here I am. But you shall not force me into a union I cannot want. When we arrive in Oregon, I shall claim my half share of land as the Donation Act allows to women. I will be a good daughter and a good teacher, I hope. But I am twenty now, no longer a child. If you would but accept that …”

She trailed off as her emotions spent themselves. But she fully expected his words to rain down on her now, righteous and filled with fury. To her shock, however, his shoulders slumped. Then a sudden fit of coughing overtook him.

“Papa?” When his coughing did not abate, she hurried to his side, wiping her hands on her apron. “Papa, are you all right?”

He nodded his head and gestured her away with one hand as the last of his hacking coughs died down. “The dust—” He coughed again, then took the dipper of water she had hastily gotten. He drank deeply, coughed once, then cleared his throat and drank again. “It’s this infernal dust,” he finally said, wiping his face and mouth with his handkerchief. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”