* * *
Like Rourke, Will Montgomery avoided the people on the wagon train as much as he could. Rourke kept his reasons to himself. But it was obvious that there was an anger seething inside him. An anger that seemed directed at the world.
Will’s reason for avoiding people was obvious. His empty shirt sleeve was the first thing to draw a person’s gaze. Then, to avoid staring, they would look away, steadfastly refusing to meet his eyes. Out of pity, many women took to looking through him as if he weren’t there. Some of the men tried to do things for him, assuming he was no longer capable of a man’s work. It was only the children who were willing to deal with Will honestly.
“I’m Jonathon Peel.” A six-year-old boy stopped Will as he carried a log toward the cook wagon one night. “You’re the new man, aren’t you?”
Will nodded. “Will Montgomery.”
“Where’s your arm?”
Jonathon’s mother glanced up from her sewing with a look of horror. The other women, seated around the Peel campfire, looked distinctly uncomfortable. Only Carrie Market stared directly at Will.
“I left it in a field in Richmond,” Will said.
“How’d it fall off?”
“A doctor had to cut it off.” Will knelt down until his gaze was level with the boy’s.
“With an ax?” Jonathon’s eyes got as big as saucers.
“A knife and a saw, as far as I can remember,” Will said matter-of-factly. “I passed out after the first few minutes.”
“Why did you let him? Why didn’t you stop that doctor from cutting it off?”
Will was acutely aware of Carrie, watching him across the fire. He wished he could say something that would make him sound brave and noble. But all his life he knew only how to tell the truth. Besides, she couldn’t possibly be interested in him. Except as a freak. “He said I’d die unless I let him take off the arm. And I didn’t want to die.”
The boy stared at the shapeless sleeve. “I think I’d rather die than lose my arm,” he said softly.
“Jonathon,” Mrs. Peel shrieked. “How could you say such a terrible thing? You apologize to Mr. Montgomery this minute.”
“It’s all right, ma’am.” Will dropped the log and brushed the hair from the boy’s brow. In a soft voice he said, “There are times when I’ve felt that way myself.”
“If you could do it over, would you still let him cut it off?” Jonathon stared deeply into Will’s eyes, as only a child can. And Will felt he owed him the whole truth.
“Some days I would.” He shrugged. “Some days I wish he’d have let me die.”
The boy digested this a moment, then nodded, accepting Will’s statement without any show of pity. “Guess there’d be days I’d feel that way too.” He turned away, then turned back. “See you, Will.”
“Yeah. See you, Jonathon.” Will wrapped his arm around the log, bringing it to balance against his chest. Struggling to his feet, he avoided looking at the women. Especially Carrie. He wouldn’t be able to bear the look he knew would be in her eyes.
As he strode away, Carrie watched him, then turned to glance at the others. Their heads were bent, their gazes riveted to their sewing.
“Poor thing,” Lavinia Winters said, biting off a length of thread. “I knew a family in St. Louis whose son came home from the war without a leg. Two weeks later he went to the barn and shot himself. His poor mother was the one who found him.”
Carrie’s eyes widened.
“I wonder if this boy’s family turned him out,” Doralyn Peel said. “I suppose a lot of people don’t want to see half a son return from the war.”
Feeling tears scalding the backs of her eyes, Carrie blinked them away with a fury she couldn’t seem to control. With her hands on her hips she stood and faced the others. “He isn’t half of anything. He’s a person. And just because the war did this to him, don’t think he can’t still think and feel and do. Don’t you think he knows we’re talking about him right now? And don’t you think he feels your pity?”
The tears she’d been holding back now spilled down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and picked up her sewing. “Excuse me. I—I have to go to bed now.”
Feeling ashamed, Carrie ran from the light and hurried to her own wagon. Crawling inside, she lay on her blanket and wondered why she should be crying for a man she hardly knew. Why should it matter to her what Will Montgomery thought? And why should she care how others treated him?
She blew her nose in a delicate lace handkerchief, then, still sniffing, sat up and stared at the stars in the night sky. Aunt Vi said the measure of a man was whether or not he was capable of giving of himself to others, whether it be God, country, or family. A man who was so wrapped up in himself that he didn’t have time for others wasn’t much of a man, she said.
Carrie found herself wondering about Will. It was obvious he’d served his country. And tonight he was so gentle with Jonathon Peel, treating his questions with respect. Another man might have told the boy to mind his own business. Will Montgomery was a kind man. And, Carrie knew, she was going to find out more about him. But she wasn’t sure why.
* * *
After their chores were finished for the day, Flint Barrows and James Market had begun spending every evening drinking together. Because Violet refused to allow them to drink in her presence, they retired to the Barrows wagon, away from the scornful eyes of the women. In each, the other had found a kindred soul.
After a couple of drinks James Market would begin his litany of hate. He hated men in positions of authority, insisting that he could do better.
“We pay Stump good money to lead us across the country. Why?” Market said, reaching for the jug.
“Because he makes us think he knows more than anyone about this wilderness. Know what I think?”
Flint Barrows shook his head.
“I think if everyone on this train gave me all that money, I’d find the shortest route to California too.”
Barrows chuckled.
Market was just warming up. “Know what else I hate?” Without waiting for Barrows to ask, he said, “Whiny little women who constantly nag and complain. Look at my sister, Vi. What a waste. Dried up old prune. Always telling me how to treat my children. Never had any of her own, and she thinks she knows everything about raising a kid.”
Barrows grinned. He made no secret of what he thought of Market’s spinster sister.
“And I hate useless women who can’t pull their own weight,” Market said, slurring his words slightly. “The only thing I think Carrie is good for is …” He paused, then laughed, a cruel, harsh laugh. “Can’t think of a one. That girl is just plain useless.”
His companion could think of one. He wisely kept his thoughts to himself. “What about the older one?” Barrows asked.
“Abby?” Market gave a snort of disgust. “She can work like a mule. But she’s a bad one. Bad seed. Talks back. Goes her own way. Defiant little bastard.”
Barrows squinted at the man seated across from him. He was used to hearing Market badmouth his women. But there was something new, something ugly in his tone.
“What seems to be the problem?”
Market nervously wiped his mouth and stood. “Nothing. I’ve had enough to drink. I’m going to bed.”
“You haven’t finished your drink.” Flint picked up the cup and held it out to Market.
Market shook his head. “I’ve had enough. Too much in fact. G’night.”
Before Barrows could protest, Market stumbled away in the darkness. Lifting the cup, Flint drained Market’s drink, then finished his own. Climbing into his darkened wagon, he rolled himself into a blanket and stared at the moon. What had set Market off? he wondered. What had his stupid daughter done this time to make the old man so angry? Against his will, his eyes closed. He was too tired to sort things out. But tomorrow he’d poke around. It would be good sport watching James Market and his spirited daughter go a few rounds.
* * *
Abby listened to her father’s labored breathing as he crawled into the back of the wagon and fell into a deep sleep. She knew he went to drink with Flint Barrows every night. The stench of liquor clung to him, permeating the wagon, their clothing, even their food. She hated it. And there was nothing she could do about it. Except endure.
When she was little, she would lie in her bed and listen to the muffled voices two floors below. Her mother’s voice, frightened, timid. Her father’s, angry, abusive. Though she couldn’t make out the words, she recognized the tone. When had they loved? she wondered. When had they ever managed to love?
Abby remembered her father’s joy when her mother announced that there would be another baby. After Carrie’s birth, Margaret had lost five children to stillbirth. All sons. Grandfather had said they should accept God’s will. James had said he would have a son or die trying. Abby shivered and drew the blanket close. She wouldn’t have minded if her father had been forced to pay the price. But things never seemed to work that way. It was her gentle mother who had died trying. Her mother, and the son James had wanted more than life.
James began to snore, and Abby rolled to one side to drown out the sound. Why did people marry? she wondered. Did they love one day and hate the next? Or did they confuse love with something else? Passion? Lust? Could it have been possible that her mother, in her youth, had wanted so badly to sleep with James Market that she was willing to spend a lifetime with him for the privilege?
Abby listened to her aunt’s gentle breathing. Dear Aunt Vi would be scandalized at some of the thoughts that flitted through her niece’s mind in the darkness. Abby admired her aunt. Though James Market scorned his sister as a dried-up old maid, she could point with pride to a lifetime of service without compromising her individuality.
That was what she wanted, Abby thought, suddenly sitting up in the darkness. She did want to love a man someday. And she wanted him to love her in return. But she wanted him to love her without smothering her. Without taking over her control. Without making her lose her identity. She wanted someone to love her for herself.
Touching callused fingers to her lips, Abby thought about the shabby men’s clothes she wore, the harsh chores she was forced to do. A man wanted a gentle beauty, who would wear fine gowns and smell of lilac water. A woman with soft hands and a clever mind. What man could love a woman like her?
With a sigh she lay back and drew the blanket to her chin. Aunt Vi thought she was beautiful, but that didn’t count. The thought came into focus so slowly, she wondered just how long it had been hovering on the edges of her mind. Rourke kissed me, she thought. And for as long as I live, I’ll remember what it felt like to be held in his arms. For those few brief moments, I felt beautiful.
Smiling, she drifted back to sleep.
Chapter Ten
“Morning, Miss Violet. Miss Carrie.” Mordecai got painfully to his feet and removed his hat. The other men seated around the campfire did the same. “My, don’t you two ladies look as fresh as an April breeze.”
“Why thank you, Mr. Stump,” Violet said. Beside her, Carrie said nothing, though she was painfully aware of Will Montgomery standing less than a foot away.
Carrie Market, Will thought. So that was the pretty one’s name. Holding his hat awkwardly at his side, he tried not to stare.
“My niece and I have been trying to think of some way to thank you gentlemen for all you do for us and the others on the train.”
“No need to thank us, ma’am. We’re just doing our jobs.”
“No, no,” Violet said, holding up her hand. “We’d like to feel useful. And it occurs to us that perhaps you gentlemen would be in need of some sewing.”
“Sewing, ma’am?” Mordecai shrugged. “Parker here takes care of our needs.”
Violet gave the rotund cook a gentle smile. “And a fine job you do, Mr. Parker. But my niece and I are excellent seamstresses. Actually,” Violet said, turning toward Carrie, “I’m afraid my niece is by far the better of the two.”
“Aunt Vi,” Carrie protested, feeling herself blush. She saw Will turning the hat around and around in his hand while he watched her.
“It’s the truth, child. Never belittle your talents.” Turning back to Mordecai, Violet added, “It would please us to take care of your mending, Mr. Stump. You and the other men, I mean. Carrie can mend torn fabric in such a way you won’t even see the seam. The two of us can shorten, lengthen, or make over. And when we’re finished, your clothes will be better than new.”
“Well now, ma’am.” Mordecai scratched his head, perplexed.
“You see, Mr. Stump,” Violet was quick to explain, “my niece Abby is able to work with the men, hunting, felling logs, even helping with the repair of the wagons. So Carrie and I would like to think we do our share. It would mean a great deal to us if you’d let us do this.”
“I see.” Mordecai glanced over her head at the cook, whose grin nearly split his face in two. Of all the chores Parker handled, sewing was by far the most vexing. “That would be most appreciated, Miss Violet. Miss Carrie. I’ll have the men go through their things and send them around to your wagon later.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Stump.” Violet gave all of them the benediction of her smile. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Carrie gave what she hoped was a fair imitation of a smile, even though her heart was thumping so loudly in her chest she could swear they all heard it.
Looping her arm through Carrie’s, Violet led her away. When they were out of earshot, Violet whispered, “Satisfied?”
Carrie nodded and swallowed down the lump in her throat.
For days she had pondered a way to get Will Montgomery to notice her. But though she was up at dawn, walking about the encampment, he never seemed to be around. And although until dark she often strolled among the wagons, she never again ran into him. It was almost as if, she thought, he was deliberately avoiding her. And then she had latched onto the idea of sewing for the wagon master and his men. If she were to mend his clothes, Will Montgomery would have to notice her.
It took some smooth talking to convince Aunt Vi. But once Carrie pointed out how much work Abby did, and how important it was for everyone on the train to pull together, Violet had become a convert. Single-handed, she and Carrie would have the men of the cook wagon in proper clothes.