“Not good enough.” Mordecai gave a glance at Rourke, and was amazed to see the slight nod of Rourke’s head. So, he thought, our loner is becoming involved, whether he likes it or not. “I take it, Rourke, you’re willing to lend a hand to the Market women?”
“If they want it.”
Abby shot him a stunned look of gratitude.
“This lad will need constant care.”
“My aunt and I will see to it.”
“You’re taking a lot for granted, Miss Abby. Seems to me your aunt should have the right to make her own decisions.”
Abby flushed. Mordecai was right. She had no authority to speak for Aunt Violet. “He’s my responsibility. I’ll see to him.”
Still Mordecai weighed the issue, hoping to find some way out. They couldn’t just leave a wounded man along the trail, even an Indian who resented their care. But the people, already bone-weary and ready to fold, might rise up and refuse to allow him to stay. He’d have to be prepared for anything.
Finally he shrugged. “Take him to the Market wagon.”
The scout watched without emotion as the wounded Indian was carried away.
* * * * *
Abby hadn’t been certain just how her aunt would deal with their unexpected guest. Would she fall over in a dead faint at the sight of a live Indian in their wagon? Would she get all pale and flustered, and hold a handkerchief to her nose? Worse, might she refuse to share her quarters with him?
As always, Violet did the unexpected. Since it was evening when Abby and Rourke arrived back at camp, James had taken his jug of whiskey to the Garner wagon. Violet was alone, bent over her sewing. She had bathed away the dust of the trail and had put on a clean dress before dinner. In a pale rose gown more appropriate for Sunday tea, she was a stunning contrast to the trail-weary figures that approached her.
At the sight of Abby, Violet lifted the lid from a heavy pot. The aroma of vegetables, cooked in the last of the meat stock, wafted on the breeze.
“Thank goodness you’re back, child. I’ve been keeping your supper hot.”
“I’ll eat later, Aunt Vi. Right now, I have to make up a bed for a wounded youth I found on the trail.”
“Mercy. A wounded child.” Violet was up and heading toward the wagon when she caught sight of the figure in Rourke’s arms. “He’s ...” She swallowed, blanched, then tried again. Her voice trembled slightly. “He’s ... badly wounded, I see.”
Abby studied her aunt’s ashen face. “He’s a Cheyenne warrior. His name is Two Shadows.”
The older woman hesitated for long moments. Whatever battle she was waging within herself was a mystery to the others. Rolling up the sleeves of her immaculate gown, she said, “I’ll make up a bed for him. You eat, child.”
Abby watched as her aunt climbed into the back of the wagon and began rummaging around. A few minutes later she motioned for Rourke. When the Indian had been placed between clean linens, Rourke said softly, “We’ve already removed the arrow’s tip from his shoulder. Miss Violet. But the wound will need cleansing daily. And Abby said you’d know a balm for his wrists and ankles.”
Violet studied the raw flesh, so dark against the white linens. “Who—did this to him?”
“His captors. Kiowa.”
She took a step closer. Despite fatigue, dark eyes watched her. She tried to smile, and her lips trembled. “I’ll get him some soup.”
“Miss Violet.” At Rourke’s low tone, she looked up. “Whenever you’re going to tend him, come and get me first.”
She felt a tiny shaft of fear and swallowed it down. “Why?”
“Because he doesn’t like being touched by strangers. Especially white women. He may react violently.”
The fear grew and she fought for calm. “He’s only a boy, Mr. Rourke.”
“He’s an Indian warrior, ma’am. Don’t ever forget that.”
She stared into dark, watchful eyes, then back at Rourke. “Thank you. I won’t.” She paused. “Will he need watching tonight?”
“He’ll need watching all the time,” Rourke said patiently. “I’ll stay the night.”
She gave him a smile of gratitude. “I’ll get you some supper, Mr. Rourke.”
* * * * *
James Market was tired. And very drunk. He and Jed Garner had emptied the jug. All he wanted, he thought, weaving his way among the wagons, was his bed.
The first thing he noticed was the lantern, still lit. Damned women should have been asleep hours ago, he thought angrily. As he drew closer, he saw the outline of Abby and Violet bent over a figure wrapped in blankets. Dropping the jug, he opened the wagon flap, then stopped. Seated at the far side of the wagon, holding a gun, was Rourke.
“What’s he doing here?” James demanded. Despite his fury, his words were slurred. He tried to think where he’d left his rifle, but his mind was slow to respond. “You’ve got a lot of nerve holding a gun on my women. Get out of my wagon, Rourke.”
When the gunman said nothing, Market turned toward Abby. “Goddammit, tell him ...” His words trailed off as he caught sight of the Indian. “Tell me that isn’t what it looks like. A heathen Indian? In my wagon?”
“I found him along the trail. He’s been hurt, Pa. Aunt Vi and I are going to tend his wounds.”
“Like hell you are. You get that animal out of here.”
“This is not an animal, James,” Violet said softly. “He’s a young man. And he’s badly wounded.”
“He’ll be dead if he isn’t out of here now. I’m not sharing my wagon with an Indian.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, James,” Violet said, her voice still as soft as velvet. “But if the sight of him offends you, I suggest you sleep outside, under the wagon.”
Abby glanced at her aunt, unable for a moment to believe what she’d heard.
Market’s eyes widened, then he unleashed his full fury on his sister.
“Don’t you ever speak to me like that, woman. All your life I’ve fed you, clothed you, taken care of you, you dried-up old prune. And now you presume to give me orders. Get out of this wagon. And take that heathen with you.”
“No, James.” Violet’s pale blue eyes frosted over. Her soft voice held a thread of steel. “It’s you who has been fed and clothed and taken care of. All that Papa left me from the farm has gone for your needs. And all my life I’ve taken orders from Papa, and then you. But not this time. I’ve decided there was only one person in our family who really knew how to deal with you.”
When he brought his hand back, as if to slap her, she cut him off with a single word.
“Lily.”
Abby watched her father pale. His face contorted into a look of pure hatred.
“For Lily’s sake, I have suffered the indignities you have chosen to inflict on me. No more, James. Abby and I intend to nurse this young man until he is well enough to return to his people. While he is here, you may share the wagon with us, or sleep outside.”
James Market’s lips curled into a sneer. “You’ll pay for this, woman.”
“I have already paid, James. Dearly.”
“Are you sleeping here, Pa?”
He glowered at Abby, before hissing, “I wouldn’t spend one minute in the same wagon with a damned filthy Indian. The two of you can have him to yourselves.”
He grabbed up a blanket and turned away. Outside, they could hear him slamming around beneath the wagon. Inside, no one spoke. While Abby watched, her aunt handed Rourke a blanket.
“Shall we take turns sleeping, Mr. Rourke?”
Rourke studied the older woman with new respect. She’d put the bastard in his place without even losing her ladylike composure for one moment. “You two ladies sleep first. I’ll keep watch.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rourke.” Violet rolled between her blankets and closed her eyes. If she was agitated, she refused to let it show. Within minutes, her breathing was merely a soft sigh on the night air.
Beside her, Abby glanced once at Rourke, then pulled the blankets
around her. Closing her eyes, she mentally played back the scene between her aunt and father. The mere mention of Lily’s name had left him stunned. Why? Abby wondered. Was it because he had forbidden anyone to ever mention her name in his presence? Or was there something more? His reaction had been so surprising, Abby couldn’t figure out if it was due to shock or anger.
Aunt Vi was just full of surprises this night. First she had swallowed her fears and prejudices and reacted with a strength of purpose Abby had never seen before. And then she had stood up to her bully of a brother in a manner that had been completely unexpected. Where had sweet, shy Violet come up with such strength? Had she been saving it up all her life for this one confrontation?
Even if Rourke wasn’t here in the same wagon with her, so close she could hear his breathing, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Life had become such a puzzle. And there were too many pieces missing.
* * * * *
Rourke leaned his head back and watched the sleeping figures. How had he allowed himself to be talked into playing nursemaid to a couple of women and a half-dead Indian? His gaze roamed slowly across Abby’s face, half hidden in shadow. Even asleep, there was a strength, a determination about her that appealed to him. It was there in that strong chin, that upturned nose. She was the most irritating, most abrasive, most—persuasive woman he’d ever met. Against their better judgment, Mordecai, Parker, and even the impassive Brand had caved in. And without even being asked, he had done something he’d promised himself he’d never do again. He’d allowed himself to get involved.
Violet Market had surprised him. It wasn’t just the way she’d stoically accepted the presence of an Indian in her wagon. But the way she’d stood up to her brother was completely out of character. There was a lot more to that timid little woman than the rest of the world saw. Beneath the ribbon and lace was steel.
Abby sighed in her sleep and Rourke caught his breath for the space of a heartbeat. Being this close to her, and not being able to touch her, was sheer torture. He studied the way her fingers curled around the edge of the blanket, and thought about those same fingers stroking his skin. A stray wisp of hair had fallen over one eye, and he itched to reach out and brush it aside. Her lashes cast soft shadows across her cheek. In the lantern’s glow, he studied her skin, burned and bronzed by the sun. Such lovely skin.
The Indian moaned, and Rourke’s hand moved to the gun at his side. He should be glad for the disturbance, he reminded himself sternly. The things he was thinking about Abby Market could only bring trouble.
* * * * *
While Rourke stood guard, Abby changed the dressing on the Indian’s shoulder, then rubbed salve over his wrists and ankles. She saw him grit his teeth, and knew that the salve burned the raw flesh. Aunt Vi said she had made it extra strong, because his wounds were so deep. The ropes that bound him must have cut clear to the bone.
When she was finished, she lifted the youth’s head and held a cup of broth to his lips. As the liquid entered his mouth, he drew back, then spit it out. It spattered across the front of Abby’s shirt, and she was so surprised she dropped the cup, spilling the rest of the hot liquid down her britches.
While Rourke watched, she jumped up, grabbed a cloth, and began furiously mopping up the broth. She glanced down at the Indian and could have sworn that behind his bland look he was laughing at her.
Filling the cup again, she knelt down beside him. “I don’t know what you’ve got against my cooking. It isn’t the best in the world, but it’s filling. And right now, you need to gain your strength back. So if you know what’s good for you, you’re going to drink this.”
The Indian compressed his lips.
When Abby touched the cup to his lips, he glared at her. She glared back. Behind them, Rourke swallowed back his laugh. If it was a contest of wills, he’d hate to have to pick the winner. Two more stubborn people he’d never seen.
“You have to drink this broth, Two Shadows. It’s good for you.”
The Indian kept his mouth firmly closed.
“One sip. One tiny sip and I’ll go away.”
Dark eyes glowered.
Abby set the cup down beside him and gestured, hoping he understood. “I’m going to leave this here. When I come back, I expect to find it empty.”
As she turned away, the Indian picked up the tin cup and hurled it through the canvas opening.
Undaunted, Abby filled the cup once more and placed it beside the Indian’s blanket. Without waiting to see his reaction, she walked away, leaving him glaring at her back.
An hour later, she returned to find the cup empty. But because she couldn’t communicate with Two Shadows, she couldn’t be certain whether he drank the broth or dumped it on the ground.
That evening, as soon as they made camp, James Market picked up his jug and headed toward the Garner wagon. He didn’t even bother to wait for supper, saying he wouldn’t share a meal with a heathen. Abby and Violet felt a wave of relief. At least for a few hours there would be peace.
To stay busy, Rourke mended a tear in the canvas and greased the wagon’s wheels. The sound of their creaking for the last ten miles had nearly driven him crazy. When those chores were finished, he sat beside the wagon and took a cigar from his pocket.
Abby tended to the team, then joined her aunt in preparing supper. Venison sizzled in a pan while dumplings thickened in gravy. Rourke held a match to his cigar and wondered why Parker’s meals never smelled this good. Content, he leaned back and watched Abby swing a kettle over the fire. The women whispered and laughed, and Rourke saw a side to Abby he’d never seen before. She looked so natural, talking, laughing, working beside her aunt. Natural until she happened to glance his way. He saw her cheeks redden before she gave him a smile. And for some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, he felt more lighthearted than he had in years.
Abby prepared a meal for Two Shadows, then, with Rourke beside her, she climbed into the wagon. The Indian’s eyes were closed, but Abby knew he was aware of them.
“I’ve brought you something to eat,” she whispered.
The Indian’s eyes opened. He showed no recognition.
“Venison,” Abby said, kneeling beside him. Cutting the meat into small pieces, she handed him the plate. He stared at it, then back at her.
“Eat,” she said. “You need food.”
He continued to stare at her. Little wisps of her hair had slipped loose, trailing along her cheeks and neck. He stared in fascination at the fiery strands.
Lifting the first piece of meat to his lips, Abby was stunned when he pushed her hand away, then reached up to touch her hair. For one breathless moment, she sat very still as his fingers explored the silken texture, so different from the women of his tribe.
Beside her, Rourke watched. Though he understood, he felt an unexpected wave of something he’d never before experienced—jealousy.
Pushing the Indian’s hand away, Abby firmly brought them all back to the problem at hand. “Watch me,” she said, striving for patience. Lifting the meat to her mouth, she chewed, swallowed, then offered a second piece to Two Shadows.
Again he slapped her hand away, this time much harder. Beside her, Rourke’s hand tightened on his gun.
Placing the plate beside the Indian, Abby said, “If you’re as smart as you look, you’ll eat, so you can get strong enough to go home to your people. If you don’t eat, you’ll just get sicker and never see them again.”
Turning, she climbed down from the wagon, with Rourke following.
Violet looked up. “Did he eat?”
“Not a bite.” Abby couldn’t hide the worry she was feeling. How could they make him understand that he had to eat?
“Don’t worry,” Violet said. “You two come and eat. And afterward, I’ll ask Mr. Brand to speak to Two Shadows. I’m sure he can convince him that our food is safe.”
Rourke grinned. This good woman still didn’t understand that it wasn’t the food that bothered their young Indian. It was the people serving it.
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Dinner tasted even better than it smelled. Rourke couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten plump dumplings simmered in gravy. The venison was cooked to perfection. Violet spread wild blackberry jam over biscuits that melted in his mouth. Even the coffee tasted different. Better. While he finished his cigar and sipped a second cup of coffee, Violet went in search of the scout.
“That was a fine meal, Abby.”
“Thank you.” She tidied up around the wagon, hung the last of the towels and rags to dry, then sat down next to the fire, facing him.
“Did Violet teach you to cook?”
Abby laughed, the low, husky sound Rourke had come to recognize. And love.
“I learned to cook out of necessity. My mother was sickly. She spent a lot of time in bed. So Carrie and I had to learn to do all the chores around the house. With my pa out in the fields with my grandpa, the care of the house and animals fell mostly to me. I kept us in food. With our mother’s help, Carrie managed to keep us in clothes.” At the mention of her sister’s name, Abby fell silent.
“You miss her, don’t you?”
Abby nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“It’s the first time I can ever remember us being apart.”
“She’ll be fine, Abby.”
“I hope so.” She licked her lips. “Oh, I hope so.”
Quickly changing the subject, Rourke asked, “What about Violet? Didn’t she help you with the chores?”
“She did her best. Aunt Vi sang in the church choir and helped the older ladies of the church. They made bandages for the soldiers off fighting the War Between the States and visited the homes of widows and orphans. She said, with all those brave men out there serving their country, she felt obliged to do her share.”
“Sometimes, with all the killing and madness, it was easy to forget that there were still good people going about doing their best.” Rourke drew on his cigar and watched the smoke dissipate in the night air.
The killing and madness. This was the first time Rourke had ever volunteered any information about himself and the war. Abby breathed in the scent of tobacco and wondered why it was so easy to sit like this, talking quietly with Rourke. Usually they were so tense with each other. But tonight, the meal, the conversation, seemed as natural as if they’d done it all their lives.
“Why didn’t you go home after the war, Rourke?”