The night was unbearably hot and still. The moon was obscured by dark clouds. James had gone off to drink with Jed Garner. Violet lay in the back of the wagon, occasionally dabbing at her face and arms with a damp cloth. Abby walked some distance from the wagons to a dry creek bed. If only there were water, she thought, bending to touch the sun-bleached stones. How she longed to strip off her clothes and swim in cool, refreshing water. Thoughts of another night drifted into her mind. A night when Rourke had watched while she stripped naked and swam. Just the thought of it brought the heat to her cheeks.
“I thought I’d warned you to stay close to camp.”
At Rourke’s low voice, she whirled and saw him standing just a foot away.
“And what about you? Why are you out here?”
“It’s my job to keep an eye on things. I always check out the territory after the others go to sleep.”
Abby hadn’t given much thought to what Rourke did. Yet she wasn’t surprised. It was like him to see to even the smallest details. Small wonder that people felt safe with Rourke.
“It’s too hot to sleep. I was just wishing this creek hadn’t dried up.”
“We won’t find as much as a trickle until we reach the Sierras,” he said. “But I sure would enjoy seeing you swim.”
She saw the smile light his eyes and was glad for the darkness that hid her blush.
“A gentleman would never bring up a subject that might make a lady uncomfortable.”
“I never said I was a gentleman.” Rourke threw back his head and laughed. “Damned if you don’t sound exactly like your Aunt Violet when you talk like that.”
Abby started to turn away, but Rourke caught her by the arm. “What’s your hurry?”
“I should get back. They’ll start to miss me.”
“Your aunt is probably asleep by now. And your father won’t head back to his wagon until the jug is dry. By then, he won’t be able to see who’s in the wagon. Or care.”
Abby hung her head at his words. It was true. Everyone knew about her father.
“Abby.” With his thumb and finger, Rourke lifted her chin until she met his gaze. “I’m sorry about your pa. But he has nothing to do with you. Nobody blames you for what he does or says. You can’t make him behave any more than a breeze can tell the moon when to shine.”
“I just wish he was different.”
“Wishing won’t change anything.”
A hint of a smile touched her lips. “Don’t tell my Aunt Vi that. She used to tell Carrie and me that all we had to do was wish hard enough and we could have anything.”
Brushing a wisp of hair from her cheek, Rourke stared into her eyes. “If you could have just one wish, what would it be?”
Abby found her gaze drawn to his mouth and felt a jolt. What she wanted was to kiss him. To kiss him and never stop. But that wasn’t something she could dare to tell him.
“Aunt Vi says if you tell, you won’t get your wish.”
“Is that so?” His fingers stayed on her cheek, warm and soft, then slowly slid around her neck until he was cupping the back of her head. Slowly he lowered his face, until their lips were almost touching.
Standing on tiptoe, she lifted her face to his. And then, so slowly she thought her heart would break from the waiting, he brushed her lips with his.
It was the gentlest kiss, like the touch of a snowflake to her tongue when she was a child. Such sweet, sweet seduction. Slowly, slowly, the pressure on her mouth grew, until she brought her arms around his neck and pressed herself to him.
She heard his little intake of breath. Instantly his arms were around her, molding her to him. The hands at her back were strong and firm. The lips that touched hers were no longer gentle, but grew demanding. Inside her veins, fire and ice collided, leaving her dazed and clinging.
“Rourke.” She sighed, struggling for breath. “I wish ... oh how I wish ...”
“You don’t have to say it,” he murmured against her temple. “Just wish it hard enough. And I’ll wish it too. And together we’ll have it.”
She stepped back. The clouds parted. In the sliver of moonlight, he saw the look in her eyes. Desire. And he knew that now, finally, she could be his.
Moving into his arms, she brought her arms around his neck and drew his head down. Lifting her lips to his, she gave a sigh from deep within, and he felt the little shudder that passed through her slender frame. And then he was lost in the kiss, knowing that no other woman would ever thrill him as she did.
His hands moved along her sides until they found the swell of her breasts. With his rough thumbs, he stroked until she moaned and whispered his name.
They were so caught up in each other that at first they didn’t hear the shout that went up from the wagon train. But as the cry grew, they lifted their heads and turned to stare.
“Fire!”
Everyone on the train rolled from their wagons to look at the sky. A bonfire lit the darkness. Even with nearly a mile separating them, the members of the wagon train could smell the acrid odor of burning flesh.
“Oh my God! Rourke, it’s the Peel wagon.” As tears sprang to her eyes, Abby whispered, “The last thing Mordecai told Doralyn before she pulled back was that when a person dies of cholera, his body and all his belongings have to be burned in order to avoid spreading the contamination.”
Rourke tried to draw her close against him, but she pushed away, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Oh, dear God. Poor Doralyn. Jason has died.”
“You don’t know that, Abby.”
“Yes I do. And so do you.”
Rourke thought about the men he’d seen, lying in the fields of battle as the life slowly drained from them. How cruel it had been, dying in a strange place, far from home.
“Doralyn and Jonathon will be all alone now. All alone.” Abby’s voice held a trace of anxiety. “They’ll need us. I have to go.”
He wanted to comfort her. But there were no words to say. In silence, they began to walk, then broke into a run, side by side until they reached the wagon train. And as they parted, they both found themselves going over the names of the people on the train. Who would be the next victim?
Chapter Twenty-three
They didn’t have to wait long. By morning, two new wagons had pulled back from the train.
Lavinia Winters, suffering from chills and fever, hid her condition from her family until it was no longer possible to keep quiet. Stricken with a bout of prolonged vomiting, she was forced to admit to her husband that she had been ill for more than two days. While she had been bravely hiding her symptoms, he realized, she had exposed him and their three children as well.
As the wagon turned in preparation to leave the train, the children waved a solemn goodbye to their friends, and Abby noted that the two oldest Winters children were crying. Perhaps the youngest were the luckiest, she thought. They were still too young to know fear.
Reverend Coulter offered a prayer for the Winters family as the wagon train pulled ahead.
Less than an hour later, the reverend passed out, falling into a heap in the dirty trail. A cry went up from Abby, who spotted him. Rourke, hearing her shout, came running.
At first it was thought that Reverend Coulter was merely suffering from heat exhaustion. But soon his wife confirmed that he was indeed suffering from the feared cholera.
While the others watched in stunned silence, Evelyn Coulter climbed up on the wagon seat, with her baby beside her, and turned the team around. As the train continued westward, the Coulter wagon waited until the dust had settled before following at a safe distance.
That evening, over a quiet supper, James Market’s face grew purple with rage at the mention of the new victims of cholera.
“Damned fools should have listened to me. The widow Peel and that boy of hers should never have been allowed to rejoin this train.”
“James. You aren’t suggesting that Doralyn Peel and Jonathon are the cause of this.” Violet was appalled at the mere thought.
> “’Course they are. You and all those do-gooders who would nurse the sick and bury the dead disgust me, woman. Why, if you’d been allowed inside the Peel wagon, you would have brought that sickness home to us. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course not, James. I was simply trying to do the charitable thing.”
“Charity be hanged. If the others had listened to me in the first place, we would have been rid of the cholera right away. It was the Peel family that brought it here. They’re dirty little devils. She and that grinning boy of hers. They don’t deserve any mercy. Now look,” he hissed, pointing a knife at the dim lights bobbing in the distance. “The Winters brats will be left without a mother, and Evelyn Coulter is about to become a widow.”
“You don’t know that, James. Lavinia and the reverend are young and strong. They’ll fight this illness.”
“You better go wish on a star, woman. Better yet,” he scoffed, “go wish for a handsome prince to marry you and take you away from all this.” He threw back his head and roared with laughter at his little joke. “You do that, all right. You’ve got about as much chance of getting one wish as the other.”
Trembling with rage, Violet turned her back on his laughter and brewed a cup of tea. Her mother had taught her that a cup of tea could soothe the nerves and calm a rising temper. Besides, having something to do offered a release. Straining the leaves carefully through a linen handkerchief, she tied it and set it aside, to be used again for breakfast. When she turned back, James had picked up his jug and was headed for the Garner wagon.
Seeing the tear that glimmered on her aunt’s lashes, Abby placed an arm around her shoulder. “He doesn’t mean any harm, Aunt Vi. Pa’s just scared. Everybody is scared. Scared they’ll be next.”
Sniffing, Violet lifted the cup to her lips. “You’re wise beyond your years, child. Your father thinks it is unmanly to show fear. So he lashes out instead.” Taking another sip, she dabbed at her mouth with a spotless handkerchief. “He’s always had a cruel streak.” Determined to change the subject, she said, “It would be tragic if we lost Lavinia and Reverend Coulter. I pray the Lord will spare them.”
Abby said what they both needed to hear. “They’ll be fine.” Patting her aunt’s hand, Abby went off to attend to her evening chores.
* * * * *
They stopped believing meaningless words meant to comfort.
In the next three days, three more wagons pulled back, leaving only six wagons in the train. Each night, the travelers scanned the horizon, watching for bonfires announcing another death.
Lavinia Winters’s body was burned, along with her six-year-old daughter and all their belongings. A simple wooden cross marked the place where their charred remains were buried. When the wagon bearing her husband and two remaining children returned to the wagon train, they wore the haunted looks of those who had stared into the face of death.
Afraid of contamination, the others on the train shunned the Winterses, just as everyone except Abby and Violet continued to avoid Doralyn Peel and her son. Violet, feeling a wave of pity for two motherless children, cooked a pot of hearty stew and took it to the Winterses’ wagon. When the children peered through the flap of canvas, she invited them down, where she gave each a fierce hug. Like blossoms opening to the sun, the children were soon talking and clinging to her skirts. While they ate, they told her of their mother’s valiant battle with the illness, and about her death and the death of their little sister. By the time she left their wagon to help Abby prepare supper for James, the children had begun to relax, and even smile. They would be fine, she told herself. They would draw together and be a comfort to their father, who was still hurt and bewildered by his sudden loss.
“Fool!” James shouted when he heard what she’d done. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone. Like the old busybody you are, you had to run right over to the Winters family and hear all the details, didn’t you?”
“James, I wanted to let them know we cared. We’re all so afraid of cholera, we’re avoiding dear friends. At a time like this, we all need each other.”
“Soon there won’t be anyone left. You’ll have no one but yourself to blame when you come down with the fever,” he hissed.
“That’s a terrible thing to say.” Abby jumped to her aunt’s defense.
“Oh, is it? Well, you’ll see. She’ll be next.” Pointing his finger at his sister, he sneered. “And how many of them do you think will come running to your aid, Vi?”
“Stop it.” Abby put her hands over her ears. “I can’t stand to listen to you anymore, Pa. You sound as if you’d like to see Aunt Vi take sick, just so you could say ‘I told you so.’”
“You watch your mouth, girlie, or I’ll close it for you.”
She frowned as he uncorked the jug. Then she turned away and tended to the team. Still, even from a distance, she could hear the loud mocking voice of her father, taunting her aunt.
* * * * *
Another bonfire lit the night sky, but no one on the train knew who had died. It was only in the morning, when the Coulter wagon approached just as the train was breaking camp, that they knew.
Evelyn drove, with the tiny baby, Jenny, lying on the seat beside her. The look on her haggard face told them all they needed to know.
“Morning, Mrs. Coulter,” Mordecai called. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Just as sorry as I can be. Is there anything you need before we move out?”
Evelyn shook her head. “Did Lavinia Winters pull through?”
Mordecai met her steady gaze. “No, ma’am. Aaron and two of the children returned to the train two days ago.”
“Only two?” Evelyn was silent for a few moments, fighting the lump that clogged her throat. She and Lavinia had been friends since childhood, growing up on neighboring farms. And after they had married, they remained close. Evelyn had watched Lavinia’s children grow, and cherished them as her own. Now she had lost her husband and best friend in a matter of days. And the dreaded cholera was even taking the lives of the very young.
“If Mr. Winters could spare his daughter, it would help if she could ride with me and take care of Jenny. In return, I would be happy to cook their evening meal.”
Mordecai nodded. “I’ll speak with Aaron right now, ma’am.”
Within the hour, the train pulled out. In the Coulter wagon, ten-year-old Mary Winters sat beside Evelyn Coulter and held the sleeping infant. While eleven-year-old Thaddeus Winters drove his father’s team, Aaron Winters went off in search of game. While their wounds were deep and their tears still fresh, the healing had to begin.
* * * * *
By the light of a full moon, James Market staggered among the darkened wagons. Confused, he stared around. Had the damned women moved his wagon since suppertime? Which was his wagon? The half- empty jug dropped from his hand and he bent to retrieve it. Feeling his legs wobble, he sank to his knees in the dirt. Why should he feel so weak? He hadn’t had that much to drink. He began to sweat profusely, and passed an arm across his forehead. Something he ate. Violet and Abby were terrible cooks. Margaret was the only one who could ever cook a decent meal. In the morning they’d pay for this. Rotten cooks. Silly do-gooders. Weak, useless women.
A wave of nausea left him trembling. Fighting it, he got to his feet, ignoring the jug. Stumbling forward, he caught hold of a wagon wheel and held on until the nausea passed. Then, his vision blurred, his clothes damp with sweat, he searched among the darkened wagons until he found his own. Just as he started to climb up, he fell back and retched.
Damned cheap whiskey. He swore, then retched again. His skin felt cold, clammy. Trembling violently, he pulled himself into the back of the wagon with great effort. Even after he had wrapped himself in a warm blanket, the chills continued. Within a few minutes he was seized with a fit of vomiting. Leaping from the wagon, he knelt in the dirt, fighting the weakness that had taken over. When it passed, he gathered his strength and climbed back inside the wagon, where even several layers of blankets couldn
’t relieve the chill. For the rest of the night, he alternately fled from the wagon, retched, then dragged himself back inside. By morning, he was too weak to lift his head.
* * * * *
Abby awoke and lay still, listening to the sounds of morning activity. Somewhere a baby cried. Little Jenny. A few moments later the crying stopped. Abby smiled. As her senses sharpened, the smile turned into a frown. The stench of sweat and vomit permeated the wagon. Sitting up, she glanced at the figure of her father. As she watched, the blanket-clad figure began to tremble. A second later, a moan escaped his lips.
“Pa.” Crawling close, Abby touched a hand to his shoulder.
He stirred, moaned, then shook violently.
“Pa.” At the anxious tone of her voice, Violet sat up and brushed the hair from her eyes.
“What is it, child?”
“It’s Pa. He’s sick.”
Shrugging from her blanket, Violet crawled beside him and touched a hand to his forehead. “Dear God.” Bending close, she whispered, “James, can you hear me?”
His eyes opened but didn’t focus on her. They were glazed with pain. “Hot,” he croaked. “Too damned hot.”
The two women stared at each other for long, silent moments. Then Abby began pulling on her boots. “I’ll go tell Mordecai that we’re pulling back.” She glanced at her aunt’s face and read the fear that mirrored her own.
Violet nodded. “I’ll tend to James.”
“We’ll both tend him,” Abby said firmly. “I’ll hitch the team first, then go to the cook wagon.”
The older woman watched as her niece climbed from the wagon. Then she whispered a prayer as she pressed a damp cloth to her brother’s burning forehead.
Outside, Abby sucked fresh air into her lungs. Already the inside of the wagon reeked of sickness. Her father had been barely coherent. How long had he kept his illness from them?
Murmuring to the team, she coaxed them into the harness and hitched them to the wagon. Tying the horse to the back of the wagon, she loaded their meager supplies, then went in search of Mordecai.