Passage West

  As Abby and Rourke stared at each other in consternation, Nancy began playing “Amazing Grace.” When they reached the door to the makeshift saloon, an old man was wiping tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand.

  Late into the night, as Abby drifted off to sleep, the strains of a tinny piano filtered on the night air.

  And in the morning, when the wagon train pulled away, a pleading Jed Garner rode alone in his empty wagon. Nancy Garner stayed behind, to make music on a broken piano, in a town that was hardly more than a row of rough shacks.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The travelers had been lulled by the lush grass and clear sparkling streams that greeted them at the foothills of the Sierras. Now, as the valley narrowed out and they began to climb, they realized for the first time the enormity of the task before them. If they had thought the Rockies difficult, the Sierra Nevadas seemed impenetrable. The abrupt mountain barrier loomed like a fortress. As they inched along, a cleft appeared, a rock-clogged canyon cut through the mountains by eons of ice and snow. Through that narrow pass, they found even more peaks, reaching higher than the clouds and mist that blotted out the sun.

  In order to get the wagons across these mountains, it was necessary to unhitch the teams and join them together. At least fourteen mules or oxen were hitched to a wagon, then pulled straight up and over each jagged peak. While this oversized team strained, the men and women pushed from behind, chocking the wheels each time the team slowed.

  Most days, the wagon train was lucky to make a mile or two. Though the days remained warm, the nights were growing increasingly cooler. Mordecai kept watch on the sky, fearing anything that even faintly resembled storm clouds. Every wagon master knew the dreaded word Donner. It was absolutely essential to get these people across the Sierras before the first snowfall.

  By nighttime, most of the travelers were too exhausted to do anything more than eat and tumble into their blankets. Some of the women no longer bothered to cook, but fed their families dried meats and corn meal. There was no energy left over for baking biscuits or simmering pots of stew. Their hands were bloody and blistered, often wrapped with layers of rag to absorb the shock as they pushed and strained against the heavy wagons. Their feet too had to be wrapped, and Violet found herself passing out meager portions of her special balm. Most of the men used axle grease to cover their cracked, bleeding hands.

  On the fourth day the last of the wagons was hauled to the top of a ridge overlooking a clear blue lake. It seemed incongruous that such a lake could exist at the very top of a mountain range.

  “Tahoe,” Mordecai said, staring down at the glistening water, completely surrounded by towering pine. “We’ll stop here and rest, and take on supplies. The water is clear and drinkable, and there should be fish. These woods should be teeming with deer and rabbits, if anyone has the energy to hunt.”

  While the men picked up their rifles and headed toward the forest, the women and children made for the lake.

  As Abby turned from the wagon, Rourke stepped forward. Noting the rifle in her hands, he said, “I’ll be hunting game for the cook wagon. May as well bag a few for you and Violet while I’m at it.”

  “That isn’t necessary, Rourke. I can ...”

  He pulled her roughly against him and kissed her, hard and quick. Caught off guard, she could only stare at him as the words she was saying were forgotten.

  “What was that for?”

  He grinned. “It’s the best way I know to keep you from arguing. Now go take a bath, and do whatever it is you women do when we take a break from the trail.”

  She laughed, and he saw the faint flush that colored her cheeks.

  As he started to walk away, he turned. “I wouldn’t mind if you’d make some of those biscuits, too. They’re just about the best I’ve ever tasted. And I’ll bring the rabbit.”

  With a light heart, Abby followed her aunt to the river.

  * * * * *

  By late afternoon, the weary band of travelers could hardly be called festive, but at least their spirits had lifted considerably. The women had bathed tired, aching bodies. Fresh clothes dried in the warm sun. The children had tied string to tree branches, and a bucket of fish was their reward. The men returned with deer and rabbits, and the scent of meat roasting over fires soon permeated the camp.

  Violet rummaged through her trunk and donned a pale blue gown that nearly matched the color of her eyes. Her freshly washed hair gleamed silver in the sunlight. She added a bonnet with little blue ribbons, and, adding a drop of lilac water to her balm before rubbing it over her hands and feet, she stepped from the wagon.

  At Violet’s insistence, Abby was wearing a dress. Pale ivory, it was the perfect background for a cloud of freshly washed hair that spilled down her back in soft waves.

  Rourke was leaning against a tree, drawing on a cigar. The rich aroma of tobacco swirled around him, causing Violet to smile. As she glanced at him, she realized that he hadn’t yet noticed her. He had eyes only for Abby.

  What a picture she made, he thought. The pristine gown suited her. It was buttoned clear to her throat, with only a hint of the soft, womanly curves beneath.

  Her hair was the sort women would kill for. And men would die for.

  “Oh.” She dropped the kettle, sending water hissing among the flames, then lifted her burned hand to her mouth.

  Instantly Rourke was at her side. He turned her palm up to examine the burn. “My God. Your hand is raw.”

  “That isn’t from the fire. I did it pushing the wagons.”

  “You should have wrapped it.” Turning, he called, “Violet, do you have some of that ointment?”

  She nodded and hurried inside the wagon. A minute later, she emerged with the precious salve.

  Rourke rubbed it into the raw, blistered flesh, then gently twisted a clean cloth around her palm, tying it at the wrist. When he was finished, he lifted her bandaged hand to his lips.

  Abby felt the jolt as his lips touched her palm. Flustered, she tried to pull her hand away, but he continued holding it.

  “You’ll stay to supper, won’t you, Mr. Rourke?” Violet didn’t bother to hide her smile at her niece’s confusion.

  “He’s already invited himself, Aunt Vi.”

  “Had to,” Rourke said easily, still holding Abby’s hand. “If I waited for Abby to invite me, I’d starve to death.”

  “Maybe that’s what I had in mind,” she said sweetly, pulling away.

  “She doesn’t mean that,” Violet chirped happily, refilling the kettle with a dipper of water. “Abby isn’t the kind of girl who could ever see anyone starve.”

  “Maybe in your case,” Abby put in quickly, “I could make an exception.”

  Rourke winked at Violet as Abby twirled away and lifted a pan of biscuits. “I think you’re right, ma’am. I don’t think even a hardhearted woman like Abby could stand by and watch me starve.”

  “Just watch ...

  Her words faded as Mordecai, accompanied by several strangers, approached their wagon.

  “Miss Abby, Miss Violet, Rourke,” Mordecai said, pulling his hat from his head. “I’d like you to meet Andrew McClelland. This is his land we’re camped on.

  Rourke and the stranger shook hands. As the man turned, Abby and Violet found themselves staring at a ruggedly handsome man, whose white hair was in sharp contrast to his deeply tanned face. Well over six and a half feet, he even towered over Rourke.

  “These are my three sons, Frank, who is fifteen, Ian, who is seventeen, and Andy Junior, who is eighteen.”

  The three young men, all as tall as their father, promptly removed their hats and shook hands.

  “And this is my daughter, Mary Rose, who is eleven.”

  Like her brothers, the girl was dressed in buckskins. Taller than Abby, she was nearly eye level with Violet. Pale yellow hair was pulled back beneath a broad- brimmed hat. Her eyes, like those of her father and brothers, were as blue as a summer sky. Her smile was at once shy and sweet.
Her face had an open, honest quality about it.

  “Mary Rose. What a beautiful name,” Violet said, taking the girl’s hand. “I had a sister named Rose. And another sister, Abby’s mother, named Lily.”

  Rourke cocked an eyebrow at the surprising statement, then chanced a quick look at Abby. Except for a slight reddening of her cheeks, she gave no sign that Violet had revealed anything unusual. He made a mental note to be patient. Someday, if she trusted him enough, Abby would tell him what Violet meant. He had no right to intrude on her secrets.

  “Mr. McClelland and his family have invited all of us to their ranch for supper,” Mordecai explained.

  “All of us?” Violet’s eyes widened. “Mr. McClelland, we are too many to feed.”

  “When I saw the wagon train in the distance,” he said casually, “I had the boys slaughter a calf. There’s more than enough for everyone.”

  “Where is your ranch, Mr. McClelland?” Violet asked.

  He moved beside her, and she felt dwarfed by his size. Touching her shoulder, he pointed and she followed his gaze. “Just over that ridge, there’s a clearing. The ranch house is that first building.”

  “And the others?”

  “Barn, bunkhouse, storage sheds.”

  Violet wondered if he knew what his touch was doing to her nerves. That big hand, so gentle on her shoulder, was causing the most uncomfortable feelings to stir inside her. She glanced up, and he gave her the most charming smile she had ever seen.

  “We would be honored to take supper with you and your beautiful family, Mr. McClelland,” Violet said.

  “The honor is ours, ma’am.” Pulling himself up into the saddle, he beamed at her. “I’ll send Andy Junior, back with a wagon to pick you up.” Touching a hand to his hat, he rode away, with his children following.

  “Well.” Violet touched a hand to her throat. “What a lovely surprise.”

  “We will assemble at the cook wagon,” Mordecai said before walking away. “I suggest you be ready as soon as the wagon arrives.”

  “I believe I’ll just freshen up,” Violet said, climbing into the back of the wagon.

  Seeing her aunt’s flushed cheeks, Abby muttered, “I hope Aunt Vi isn’t coming down with something.”

  “Why do you say that?” Rourke asked.

  “I thought she looked a bit feverish.” Abby glanced up to see Rourke grinning. “Didn’t you notice?”

  “I did. And I’d say the fever has nothing to do with sickness.”

  Abby swung away and began to bank the fire. “Sometimes, Rourke, you don’t make any sense.”

  Behind her, Rourke continued to smile as he watched the figure in the back of the wagon running a comb through shining silver hair.

  * * * * *

  “Welcome to our highland ranch,” Andrew McClelland called as the wagon loaded with all the members of the wagon train pulled up to the front door.

  Andrew and his sturdy sons helped the women and children from the hay wagon, while his daughter, Mary Rose, invited them inside.

  When he reached out his hands for Violet, Andrew lifted her as easily as if she weighed nothing at all. When he set her on her feet, his hands stayed a moment at her waist. “You smell as good as a meadow of fresh flowers, Violet,” he whispered.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. McClelland.”

  “Andrew,” he corrected.

  “Andrew.” She tried the word and found she liked it. “You have a beautiful ranch, Andrew.”

  “Thank you.” He waited until everyone had filed inside, then, seeing that they were alone, said, “You’re only seeing a small portion of it tonight.”

  “There is more?”

  “This is just our highland home. Before the snows come, we’ll herd the cattle down to lower elevations, where the weather stays mild all winter.”

  “But where do you stay in the lowlands?”

  “We have another ranch down there.”

  “And the land?” Violet glanced around at the towering pines, and far below, the rich, verdant valley. “How much land do you own?”

  “All of it.” He laughed. “As far as the eye can see in any direction. It’s all McClelland land.”

  Violet couldn’t even imagine it. “But how is this possible?”

  “If we clear the land and work it, it becomes ours. And all we have to do to stay here is battle the weather, the Indians, insects, and disease. And the loneliness.”

  “How could you ever be lonely with such a beautiful family around you?” she whispered.

  He stared down into her eyes and read the loneliness there as well. “Mr. Stump told me you have no husband or children. My children fill a lot of lonely hours. But children aren’t enough.”

  “What happened to your wife, Andrew?”

  “She died when Mary Rose was born.”

  “You mean you’ve raised her all alone?”

  He nodded. “The boys and I do our best for her. But the girl needs a woman’s touch.”

  Violet glanced at the young girl who circulated among the guests beyond the open door. “I’d say you and your boys have done a fine job.”

  He put a hand beneath her elbow and led her up the steps. “Come inside, Violet. I hope you like my home.”

  Violet stared around at the rough-hewn walls of the log house. Like the man who lived here, the rooms were overlarge, with a huge fireplace made of stone. On the floor were woven Indian rugs. Along the wall were hung the hides of deer and bear. How could one room be so big and yet so cozy?

  Several Indian women carried steaming dishes to the dining table, already groaning under the weight of trays of food.

  From the kitchen, a small, bearded Chinese man carried a tray nearly as big as himself, laden with a side of beef. While the others watched, the man carved the beef into thick slabs. When he retreated to the kitchen, Andrew said, “Please, everyone. Help yourselves. Dinner is ready.”

  Needing no further invitation, the hungry guests filled their plates with precious beef, as well as potatoes, vegetables, freshly baked sourdough bread, and a variety of dishes no one had ever tasted before.

  As Violet ate, seated beside Andrew, she shook her head in wonder. “I haven’t seen this much food since our last Sunday school picnic. Was it really seven or eight months ago?”

  Andrew chuckled. “The days blend together when you’re on the trail, don’t they?”

  She nodded, then fell silent, thinking about the family and friends who lay buried, their graves marked only by flimsy wooden crosses.

  Sensing her sadness, Andrew said, “We don’t have a chance to entertain often, so the boys have asked if they could play for you.”

  Everyone looked up with interest. A few minutes later, while the travelers drank coffee laced with whiskey and polished off several rum cakes, Frank, Ian, and Andy began playing fiddles. Within minutes, the men and women, and even the children, were up dancing. Rourke hauled Abby to her feet, nearly spilling her coffee.

  “Come on, lady. It’s time you had another lesson in dancing.”

  Giggling, Abby held on while he whirled her around the floor.

  “Dance with me, Violet,” Andrew said, holding out his hand. A minute later, she felt his strong arms encircle her waist as he flawlessly led her in a waltz. Soon the music grew louder, and the dancers moved faster, until they had broken into several squares. Then, bowing and swaying, they began to follow the directions of Mordecai, who appointed himself caller.

  “Bow to your partners.”

  Abby laughed as Rourke made a deep bow at the waist.

  “Bow to your corner.”

  Abby lifted the hem of her gown and curtsied to Aaron Winters.

  “Swing your partner.”

  Abby felt Rourke’s strong arms lift her off the floor as he spun her around and around. Oh, it was so wonderful. If only it could go on forever.

  “Let’s leave this to the others,” Andrew said, mopping his brow before taking Violet’s arm. Leading her from the room, he said, “How woul
d you like to see the rest of the house while they’re dancing?”

  “I’d like that, Andrew.”

  Taking her hand, he led her to the kitchen. “This is Lee,” Andrew said, introducing the Chinese cook. “And this is his wife, Anh.”

  Noting their shyness, Violet crossed the room and shook their hands. They seemed surprised at her boldness. No white woman had ever touched them before. If Andrew was surprised, he hid it. But he was fascinated with her reaction.

  Turning toward the Indian women, who were clearing the table and returning empty serving trays to the kitchen, he said, “This is Wind Sighing in the Trees, and this is Melts the Snow.”

  Violet blessed the fact that Abby had dared bring an Indian to her wagon. More aware of their customs, she simply nodded and spoke a simple greeting to each.

  “Wind Sighing in the Trees and Melts the Snow, I am pleased to meet you.”

  Both women blinked, nodded, then continued their chores. Andrew watched with obvious interest.

  “In the back of the house are the bedrooms,” he said, steering her in that direction before she could voice a protest.

  It didn’t seem proper to Violet to be given a tour of a gentleman’s bedroom. But she didn’t know quite how to stop it.

  “The first room is mine,” Andrew said, pausing barely long enough for Violet to inspect it. She had an impression of a huge room, with another stone fireplace, and a huge bed of rough-hewn timbers, covered with an enormous bearskin throw.

  “This room is for the boys,” Andrew said, indicating a large room with three bunks, also covered with hides.

  “And this room belongs to Mary Rose.” As Andrew opened the door, the girl looked up with a smile. “She asked me to bring you here before you left.”

  “She did?” Violet hesitantly entered, glancing around at the room that, though similar to the others, made of rough-sawn timber and with a rock fireplace, had feminine touches. On a table near the bed was a silver brush and comb. “Oh, how lovely,” Violet said, running a hand over the pieces.

  “They were my mother’s,” the girl said shyly.

  “Then they are treasures. To be passed on to your children someday,” Violet said softly.

  From the doorway, Andrew watched and listened.

  Spotting a book near the bedside, Violet glanced down at the open page. “The Bible. Oh, Mary Rose. Do you read it?”