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.
“I just couldn’t.” His voice lowered to a reverent whisper. “I don’t have any right.”
“To what, Will?” Without realizing it, Carrie touched a hand to his chest and felt the wild thundering of his heart.
“To touch you like this.” He allowed his fingertips to trace the feathery blond eyebrow, the curve of her cheek. And still she didn’t pull away or flinch at his touch. His heart soared until he thought it would fly clear out of his mouth.
“I don’t mind.” Like Will, Carrie’s words became hushed, the whispered conversations of two lovers.
“Your pa does.”
“My pa doesn’t speak for me.”
“He doesn’t?”
She shook her head, afraid to move, afraid even to breathe.
“Oh, Carrie.” Will cupped her face in his hand and leaned forward, enveloped in the fragrance of roses that would always remind him of her.
Their lips hovered, a fraction apart, and Carrie’s parted in a soft sigh of expectation. Will’s head dipped lower, until his lips were brushing hers. And then he stiffened.
“Don’t let him do it.”
At the raspy sound of Nancy Garner’s voice, Carrie froze.
“All men want the same thing, Carrie. Let me tell you. The minute they get you, they start to rule your life. First it’s your father. Then it’s your husband. You’ll never be free if you give in to him.”
Carrie’s eyes widened at the slurred words. Drunk. Nancy Garner was stone drunk.
“Will, go get my sister. She’ll know what to do,” Carrie whispered.
For a moment, Will could only stare at the weaving woman. Then he nodded and hurried off to find Abby.
“You wanted him to kiss you, didn’t you?” Nancy said, her voice high-pitched and wavery.
“People can hear you, Mrs. Garner.”
“Mrs. Garner.” The voice turned to a whine. “Mrs. Garner. Jed’s wife. Timmy’s mother. Mr. Vance’s little girl. When do I get to be myself? When?”
“Shh.” Carrie glanced around, terrified that the woman’s shrill tone would draw a crowd. “Please, Mrs. Garner. Won’t you let me take you to your wagon now?”
The woman slapped Carrie’s hand away. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want any of you to touch me.”
Carrie breathed a sigh of relief when Will returned, followed by Abby. Without a word, Will then went off in search of Rourke.
Abby took one look at the disheveled appearance of the young wife and came to a halt.
“Nancy. What have you done?”
“Done? Nothing. Nothing more than I should have done as soon as Jed threw away my piano. Right then and there I should have jumped from the wagon into the river and drowned.”
Abby kept her tone even. “The Platte was only a few inches deep. You’d have had a hard time drowning in a few inches of muck.”
“They drowned my piano,” she shrieked.
Abby caught her arm, but the woman pulled roughly away. “Don’t touch me, Abby Market. You’re on Jed’s side.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side, Nancy. But you have a husband and little boy to think of now. Aren’t they more important than a piano?”
“No one, and nothing, is more important than my piano,” she moaned, starting to cry. She sat down in the middle of the grass and covered her face with her hands.
When Rourke and Will stepped from the shadows, the young woman was rocking and moaning as Carrie and Abby watched helplessly.
Assessing the scene, Rourke came forward and knelt before Nancy Garner.
“Your husband’s been looking all over for you, Mrs. Garner. I told him I’d find you while he stayed with your boy.”
“They don’t want me,” she cried, and covered her face once more.
“They do. They’re both worried sick. Please let me help you, Mrs. Garner.”
The young woman looked up through a mist of tears. Rourke offered a hand and helped her to her feet. With one arm firmly around her shoulders he led her to her wagon and then helped her inside.
Carrie, Abby, and Will trailed along feeling helpless, able to do nothing more than watch.
From inside, they heard the sound of Nancy Garner’s crying, and the soft, soothing tones of her frantic husband. Feeling like intruders, they crept away until they could no longer hear the sounds of the Garners’ voices.
“Thanks, Rourke,” Abby said softly. “I just didn’t know what to do for her.”
“You were doing just fine. She’ll be all right now,” he said.
Abby took her sister’s hand. “Come on, Carrie. We’d better get back to the wagon before Pa misses us.”
Carrie glanced at Will, wishing they could have had those last few moments alone. Reluctantly she allowed herself to be led to the wagon.
Behind them, the two men watched until they were safely inside. Then, lost in their own thoughts, they made their way back to the cook wagon.
The fiddles were silent. The happy couples had turned in, to conserve their strength for the coming journey. By the coals of the campfire, a lone guitar strummed a sad, haunting melody. The dancing and merriment, at least for tonight, had ended. And while many in the camp fell into an exhausted sleep, others lay awake watching the stars and wondering what the fates had in store for them.
Chapter Sixteen
Most of the people on the wagon train had never seen mountains as rugged as the Rockies. Some days, the entire train was moved, one wagon at a time, over jagged peaks. Men and beasts struggled as ropes were tied to wagons and hauled, inch by painful inch. Muscles were strained. Tempers were frayed. Many, like Nancy Garner, teetered on the edge of despair.
By day Abby worked alongside the men, pulling on ropes, driving teams of stubborn mules. When the train made camp for the night, she learned from Thompson and the others how to treat the cracked and bleeding hooves of the mules and oxen by painting them with hot tar. Watching the beasts’ eyes glaze with pain, Abby glanced down at her hands, torn and
callused from hard labor, and turned away in horror. Had they all sunk to the level of dumb animals, driven to plod onward, ever onward? When would it end? When would they ever find rest?
By evening she assisted her aunt and sister, masking her own fear and uncertainty, encouraging them in their efforts to adapt to this strange, savage environment.
Violet had brought along a copy of The Emigrants’ Guide to Oregon and California, from which she read aloud each evening. The author, Lansford W. Hastings, promised all necessary information about equipment, supplies, and methods of transportation. He had apparently never crossed the Rockies by mule and wagon. His romantic description of the west made it sound like a Sunday picnic. In addition, Will Montgomery had loaned Carrie his copy of Life, Adventures and Travels in California. Whenever Violet read in her carefully cultured voice about the rich, verdant land and its gentle climate, the three women would feel their heartbeats quicken at the promise that beckoned.
“Will says that fruits and vegetables practically jump out of the soil,” Carrie said as her aunt finished her nightly reading.
“He makes it sound like the Garden of Eden,” Abby muttered dryly.
“And what’s wrong with living in paradise? After the hell we’ve traveled along the way, I’d say we deserve it.”
“Carrie. You watch your mouth.” Violet nestled the books among the bits of ribbon and fabric in her chest, then closed the lid.
“Reverend Coulter talks about hell all the time, and no one tells him to watch what he says.”
“That’s different.”
“Well, anyway, I can’t wait to get to California. I want to bathe in crystal-clear waters, and lie in warm sunshine, and pick fruit right off my own trees.”
“What happened to the Indian chief you were going to meet?” Violet asked with a gentle smile.
“She met someone better.”
At Abby’s words, Carrie flushed and turned away. “I’ll go fetch some water from the river.”
“You seem to spend a lot of evenings fetching water,” Abby said, grinning at her aunt behind Carrie’s back.