* * * * *
The object of her thoughts leaned a hip against the trunk of a tree and drew deeply on his cigar. On a small train like this, rumors spread like fire in dried grass. Most of the people on the train were betting that the two Market women would soon fold under the strain. With the youngest one gone and the old man drunk most of the time, the rigors would soon prove to be too much. These two would be no match for James Market’s vicious temper.
Rourke listened to the murmurs and whispers coming from the wagons as people and animals settled down for the night. From the Coulter wagon, the sound of the baby’s bleating ended when Evelyn Coulter’s soothing lullaby began. A child’s laugh was suddenly smothered, and ended up sounding like a hiccup. In the Garner wagon, Nancy’s voice, high and whining, began its nightly litany of complaints. Horses blew and stomped. Men snored. And Mordecai, walking slowly beside the staggering figure of James Market, was speaking in a tone that was low and commanding. Rourke watched as the two figures halted beside the Market wagon. When James started to speak, Mordecai’s sharp words cut him off. A moment later, Abby stepped through the parted canvas and caught hold of her father’s arm. Steering James into the wagon, she turned to speak softly to Mordecai. Rourke watched as the older man replied, then tipped his hat. Abby stayed where she was, watching until Mordecai was out of sight. Squaring her shoulders, she glanced up to the star-studded sky, then disappeared inside the wagon once more.
Rourke crushed his cigar beneath his heel and made his way toward the cook wagon. The others could say what they wanted about the Market women. He was putting his money on Abby to make it.
* * * * *
As Abby prepared for a day of hunting, she wondered again what Mordecai had said to her father to sober him so quickly. Although she knew James still drank nightly with Jed Garner, he was once again spending his days driving their team, and was shouldering some of his responsibilities. Though he was still surly and abusive, she and Violet were glad for any help he gave them.
The previous night, when she had told Mordecai that their game bag was empty, he had invited her to hunt with one of his men today, and her heart had nearly tripped over itself. Probably, she told herself, because she hoped it wouldn’t be Rourke. Or maybe because she hoped it would be.
She loaded the small handgun and placed it in her pocket, then cleaned and loaded the rifle. Filling a canteen with precious water and tying some dried meat to her saddle, she mounted and made her way to the front of the train. With a smile and a tip of his hat, Mordecai waved her ahead. She urged her horse faster, until she’d left the train far behind. As the dust swirled, she tied a handkerchief over her nose and mouth and pulled the brim of her hat lower on her head. Through the dust she could make out the dark horse and its rider. Her pulse leaped. Riding ahead of the wagons was the unmistakable figure of Rourke. As always, her heart began to race, keeping time to the horse’s hooves. Why did this man have to affect her like this? Why did she feel this foolish happiness in his company, when he obviously wished he could be anywhere except with her?
“Morning.” He turned as she approached, then slowed his mount and gave an approving glance at the protective handkerchief tied across her face. She was learning quickly how to adapt.
“Morning.” She carefully schooled her voice to show as little emotion as Rourke. “Where are we headed?”
“Toward those peaks.” He pointed. “There’s water in those hills. And that means game.”
Without another word, he urged his horse into a trot. Abby’s horse easily kept stride.
He studied the horizon, trying to focus on something of interest. Something, anything that would keep his mind off the woman beside him. Why did her face have to be young and pretty, with eyes that danced with an inner light? Why did her slim figure, cloaked in those ridiculous men’s clothes, cause his insides to ache? Why was it that every time he looked at her he wanted her? Curling his fingers around the leather reins, he kept his face averted.
If she were riding with Thompson, she thought, he would be pointing out a million things of interest, and telling her stories of his youth. If this were Brand beside her, he would be answering her questions in monosyllables and examining the tracks and marks around them. But this was Rourke, and he treated her as he treated everyone on the wagon train. With disinterest. She didn’t really mind the silence between them. If Rourke knew of her problems, he chose not to mention them. And though she would have loved to learn more about this mysterious man, she accepted the fact that he was too private a person to ever reveal much about himself. She was content to look, to study, to learn. There were so many new and fascinating things to see as they crossed the rugged west. It was enough to be away from the others, to be riding with Rourke into the unknown.
Abruptly she reined in her mount. “I thought I saw something move behind those rocks. I’ll take a look.”
As she started to move, he caught her reins. “We stick together, remember?” At her look of surprise, he added, “We’ll both take a look.”
Abby nodded, and allowed him to lead the way. The truth was, when she was with Rourke, she felt safe. For a moment, just a moment, she had forgotten to be cautious.
When they approached the rocks, she thought she heard a slight shuffling movement.
Rourke circled the rocks. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure?” Perplexed, Abby glanced around, and again heard the sound. Nudging her horse, she peered around a second, smaller formation and let out a cry.
“Rourke. Oh, Rourke, hurry.”
Slipping from the saddle, Abby stared at the bloody, ragged form of an Indian. His long hair was matted with dirt and dried blood. His torso was crisscrossed with jagged scars and cuts, many of them bleeding profusely.
Abby’s first inclination was to run. She had never even seen an Indian before, and she felt a moment of sheer panic at the sight of him. Then, peering closer, she heard his little moan of pain, and all her fears fled. He was badly hurt, maybe even dying.
By the time Rourke had dismounted, she was kneeling beside the youth, touching a hand to his forehead. Black eyes rounded. He drew back from her touch.
“He’s burning with fever, Rourke. Bring your canteen.”
“My God, Abby. Look out.” With lightning speed, Rourke jerked her aside just as the Indian’s hand, clutching a dagger, made an arc through the air and fell weakly to his side.
They watched as the knife slipped from his fingers and clattered on the stones.
“He could have killed you.”
She shook her head, willing the panic to subside. Despite the trembling that shook her, her voice was firm. “He’s too weak. He can barely move. Feel his pulse.”
Rourke picked up the knife, then touched a finger to- the young man’s throat. The heartbeat was faint and uneven.
Rourke walked to his horse and removed the canteen. Taking it from him, Abby held it to the stranger’s lips and poured a small amount down his throat. The Indian swallowed, then turned his head away, refusing any more. All the while, Rourke kept his hand on his gun and his gaze swept the rocks above. If there was one Indian, there could be more.
“He’s badly hurt. Look.” Abby pointed to a pool of blood oozing into the dirt from the young man’s shoulder. As she examined him she gasped, “His wrists and ankles are raw. What could have caused that?”
“Rope. Those are rope burns.” Rourke knelt beside her, studying the Indian without touching him. He had seen the youth’s reaction to a stranger’s touch. “Looks like he’s been bound, hand and foot.”
“But why?”
“Captive, I suspect.”
“Who would want to capture him?” She too had seen the Indian’s reaction to her touch, and prayed it hadn’t been a band of white traders.
As if reading her thoughts, Rourke muttered, “Could have been whites. There’s a lot of fear, and that breeds hatred. Or Indians. Some Indian tribes steal from each other.”
“They steal people?” A
bby’s voice was hushed.
Rourke shrugged. “Maybe they were retaliating for something his tribe did to them. Brand would know better about what goes on.”
Abby took her handkerchief from around her neck and poured water onto it. “We’ve got to stop this bleeding.”
“What makes you think that Indian will let you touch him again?”
She stared up at him, then back at the silent figure. “You’ll have to see to that. If he fights me, you’ll have to hold him still until I’m finished.” She knelt down and the youth’s dark eyes watched her. “Now, let’s get started.”
While she worked, Rourke studied Abby with a mixture of surprise and admiration. It was obvious that she was afraid of this strange creature. Yet she was determined to help him. When they rolled the Indian over, they discovered the tip of an arrow still embedded in his shoulder. Apparently he had managed to break off the shaft. The wound was badly infected, yet the youth made no sound when the sharp tip was dug from his flesh with Rourke’s knife. Except for a quick hiss of breath, he showed no emotion. When Abby washed the wound and poured whiskey on it before covering it with a strip of cloth, his eyes glazed with pain. Still he made no sound.
“Aunt Vi will have to make one of her balms for these wrists and ankles,” Abby muttered as she washed the dirt from his raw flesh.
“Your aunt? You thinking of bringing her way out here?”
Abby gave Rourke a quick look before returning her attention to the Indian’s wound.
Rourke’s voice lowered. “You aren’t planning to take him back to the train, are you?”
“Of course I am. What did you think I was going to do with him? Leave him out here to die?”
“You’ve taken out the arrow, dressed his wound. These people know how to survive out here. Leave him some water and we’ll be on our way.”
Abby shot him a dark look. “You can’t be serious.”
“Abby, I don’t think the good people of the wagon train are going to welcome him with open arms.”
“He’s a human being, Rourke. They couldn’t possibly expect us to turn our backs on him.”
“You didn’t turn away from him. But you’re making a mistake if you think you can take him back to camp with you. What’ll you do when you want to change his dressings? Tie him up? Hold a gun on him?”
She gave him a withering look. “If I have to.”
“Abby.”
“I’m taking him to my wagon, Rourke. And when he’s strong enough, he’ll be free to leave. If you don’t agree, you can ride back to the train and warn all those good people. Abby Market is bringing home an Indian.”
For long, silent moments Rourke studied her firm chin, her flaring nostrils.
Biting her lip at his silent contemplation, Abby glanced around. “Now, the question is, how will I get him back to the wagon train? He’s too weak to ride.”
Standing, Rourke gave her a crooked grin. Without a word, he picked up his knife and walked toward a stand of trees.
“Where are you going?”
“To do what I seem to do best for you,” he called over his shoulder. “Finish what you start.”
“Nobody asked for your help. I’ll think of something.”
“Yeah. Well, while you’re thinking, I’ll see what I can come up with.”
While Rourke set to work cutting down several tree limbs, Abby studied the Indian. He hadn’t moved a muscle. Yet she sensed that he was coiled as tightly as a spring, waiting for his chance to either attack or crawl away. What would drive a person, so near death, to take his chances on the harsh land beyond them rather than stay here with her where he was being offered safety and medicine? Though he seemed not to understand what was said, he had to realize that they were trying to help. The answer came instantly to mind. Home. That wonderful, magical lure of home. Abby felt her throat constrict and, kneeling, touched a hand to the Indian’s cheek. He cringed. Wide black eyes focused on her.
“I know you can’t understand me,” she said in a soothing tone. “But maybe you can understand this.” Brushing the dark hair that clung damply to his forehead, she murmured, “I know what it means to be far from home. And alone and afraid.” A tear misted her eye and she quickly blinked it away. “Nothing, no one, is going to hurt you. As soon as you’re strong enough, we’ll find a way to get you home to your family. Trust me.”
His expression never changed. Yet something in his eyes seemed different. She found herself looking into the wisest, oldest eyes she’d ever seen. Pouring water from the canteen, she continued bathing his forehead until Rourke returned.
“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 trus
t 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.