Beneath the rough shirt he felt the incredibly soft body. Beneath the slender frame he felt her indomitable strength. Lifting his head at last, he stepped back.
Abby stood very straight, absorbing the shock. Though her legs trembled, she stood her ground. Taking a deep breath, she sought to fill her lungs and steady her breathing.
Rourke cursed the fact that he’d tossed away his cigar. He needed to do something besides stare at her. He wanted to smoke, but he knew his hand would shake and give him away if he lit another match. Instead, he shoved his hands into his back pockets in an arrogant pose.
“I suddenly realize that not all the dangers are out there.” Abby’s voice was husky in the darkness.
“That’s right. So now that you’re warned, stay close to your wagon, and as far away from me as you can.”
Abby turned away, keeping her spine stiff. Rourke watched until she disappeared below the hill. Then he lit a fresh cigar. He’d been right to wait until she was gone. His hand was definitely unsteady. He exhaled a stream of smoke, then glanced back at the circle of wagons. He wanted her. God help him, he wanted Abby Market as he’d never wanted any woman.
Chapter Eleven
Rourke lay in his blanket and thought about Abby. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately—thinking about Abby. Damned little female had gotten under his skin like he’d vowed no woman ever would again.
He admired her spirit. Though he’d seen her hand tremble when she first fired that rifle, she’d refused to back down. And gutting her first deer had been sheer hell. Now she hunted with the men and butchered her kill without a qualm.
She could handle a team better than some of the men on the wagon train. Yet she admitted that she’d never harnessed a mule or driven a wagon before joining the train. Rourke had watched her with the animals. She had a real love for them. And they returned her affection. She was more comfortable with them than she was with some people.
Abby Market was a contradiction. She allowed her bully of a father to treat her worse than a dog. And yet she stood toe to toe with him when he tried to intimidate her aunt or sister. Rourke had watched her share the precious meat with everyone on the wagon train, despite her father’s violent objections.
Thinking of James Market always made Rourke angry. Sitting up, he reached for a cigar. He held a twig to the glowing embers of the campfire and lit the tip of the cigar, then blew out a stream of smoke. Leaning back against the wheel of the cook wagon, he turned his thoughts back to Abby, so soft and warm in his arms. It was obvious that she had no experience with men. When he touched her, she jumped like a jackrabbit. He knew, by the way her cheeks flushed, that she felt awkward and uneasy with him. Somehow that only made her more appealing. He loved the way she reluctantly responded to his touch, his kiss. In time her woman’s instincts would show her what to do, and when. It tormented him to think about her callused fingertips caressing his skin.
His thoughts flew to Katherine. Everything about her had been soft. Her skin, her hands, her eyes, her manner of speech. Because of her aristocratic upbringing, she’d never been forced to do anything more complicated than set a fine table. And because she’d been thrown from a horse as a child, she’d never again been astride one. The lingering injury to her hip had kept her from doing anything more physical than climb the stairs. Her hair, her skin, her clothes had smelled of the finest milled soaps and imported perfumes. She’d been a soft, gentle woman who wanted only to love him and make a home for him. He exhaled a cloud of smoke. It wasn’t fair to compare Abby to Katherine. Abby could never be to him what Katherine had been. Besides, Katherine had been a lifetime ago.
Abby Market was just someone who happened to be on this wagon train heading west, he told himself. Someone who had caught his attention and was different from any woman he’d ever known before. When they reached California, she and her family would settle in. And he would be back on the trail, searching, seeking.
He crushed out the cigar, checked the gun he kept hidden under the saddle he used as a pillow, and rolled to his side. Closing his eyes, a vision intruded. A vision of a slim, lithe figure walking naked from the river. He felt the need rising and cursed the woman who was causing him such distress. Abby Market was, he thought, the most fascinating creature in the world. And if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself getting caught up in something he’d later regret.
* * *
While the rest of her family was still asleep, Carrie rolled from bed and climbed down from the back of the wagon. In the predawn chill she filled a basin with cold water and, ignoring the gooseflesh, gave herself a thorough sponge bath. Liberally sprinkling on her aunt’s favorite rosewater, she dressed carefully in a pale blue muslin gown. Aunt Vi had often said that particular color made her eyes seem even bluer. Brushing her hair, she tied it back with blue ribbons, then gathered her shawl about her.
Last night, by the light of the fire, Carrie had mended Will’s shirt. With fine, even stitches she had repaired the tear, then added a seam across the entire back of the shirt, so that it looked better than new. Then she had washed it and hung it on a tree limb to dry. Now, folding it carefully over her arm, she made her way to the river.
Will Montgomery sat with his back against the trunk of a gnarled tree. On the eastern horizon an eerie white light was just beginning to roll back the darkness. In the shallows a frog croaked, and nearby on the riverbank a second one answered. Will liked this time of day best. Though man wasn’t up and moving yet, nature was already humming. Insects buzzed. A chorus of birds chirped. The horses, in tune with their wild cousins, neighed and nipped one another.
Will thought about his father and the plantation on which he’d grown up. From the time he was a toddler, he’d followed his father about the land, imitating him. By the time he was twelve, Will could plow a furrow straighter than most men. He was big for his age, and strong as a mule. His father had boasted of his son’s farming skills. It had always been expected that Will would take over the plantation when he married. When he married. Will tossed a stone into the river and watched the ripples.
He’d seen the look on his father’s face when he’d returned from the war. He had known. They had both known that his father couldn’t bear to see his only son like this. His father had been shocked by his son’s gaunt, haggard appearance and the loss of an arm. What had shocked Will even more was how old his father had grown while he was away at war.
“They’ve won, Will. I’ve been beaten,” his father had said, counting out the money he’d saved. “And if you stay, I’ll be forced to watch you become old before your time too. Make a new life for yourself, son. Someplace with a future. Someplace untouched by this hellish war.”
Will often wondered if it was the war and the land that had beaten his father, or the loss of his only son’s arm.
Carrie stood a moment, willing her heart to stop its hammering. Just the sight of Will sitting so quietly, staring somberly at the river, caused her pulse to race. He was so handsome. She would have stayed a few moments longer watching him. But he turned his head and noticed her, and she smiled and forced herself into action.
“Good morning. I didn’t know if you’d be here this early.”
“I’m a light sleeper,” Will said, coming to his feet. Especially last night, he thought. He hadn’t been able to sleep at all, knowing he was going to meet her in the morning.
“I’m usually a sound sleeper. But I found myself awake at dawn,” she lied. The fact was, she’d been awake for hours, anticipating this meeting. “And here’s your shirt,” she added, holding it out to him. “Just as I promised.”
Will examined the seam, then gave her an admiring look. “That’s fine sewing, Carrie. I’d never even guess the back of this shirt had been torn clear across. But I wish you hadn’t gone to so much trouble.”
“It wasn’t any trouble. I like to sew.”
She stood with her hands behind her back, staring at the ground. Will swallowed. Before she got here, he’d thought of a dozen things to say. Now that she was standing so close, he couldn’t think of one.
“I was just sitting, watching the river. Want to sit?” He indicated the flattened grass under the tree.
Carrie sat, smoothing her skirts down around her ankles. Will sat beside her and breathed in the scent of roses that lingered about her.
“Where’d you learn to sew like that?” Will asked.
“My ma. She was … sickly. Frail, sort of. She couldn’t do a lot of farm chores. So she spent a lot of time sewing, knitting, doing fancy handwork. And I just picked it up from her.”
“You lived on a farm?”
When Carrie nodded, Will said, “So did I. Couple hundred acres. Cotton mostly. Some corn and tobacco.”
“Ours was just a little farm. My pa wasn’t much good at farming.”
“Is that why you’re heading west?”
Carrie gazed out over the water. “I don’t know why we’re going. My ma died, and my pa just sold the farm and said we were going. I think he’s just running.”
Will fell silent. Was that what he was doing too? Running?
“What do you want to do in California, Carrie?”
No one had ever bothered to ask her that before. No one else seemed to care. But she knew. She’d always known.
“I’d like to open my own dress shop.”
“You mean, you want to work?”
Carrie turned to study him. “Of course I want to work. Why wouldn’t I?”
Will shrugged, embarrassed. “I guess I just thought all girls wanted to do was get married.”
She felt her cheeks redden. “I want that too. But I can make simple dresses without even using a pattern. And I know how to add fancy stitches, and lace, and ribbons, to make them special. I know what looks good on a woman, and what doesn’t. And if there are going to be fancy ladies in California, I figure I ought to be the one to make their dresses.”
Will was astonished. This pretty little thing, who looked like a princess in a once-upon-a-time story book, wouldn’t be content to be loved and waited on. She wanted to work. He had never met a girl like this before. In fact, he never would have believed that a girl like this existed.
“What do you want to do when you get to California, Will?”
“All I know is the land. I want to work it. I want to grow things. Different things,” he said, watching the mountain peaks in the distance glisten pink and gold in the rising sun.
“What do you mean by different things?”
He turned to her. The little frown line between his eyebrows disappeared. There was a light in his eyes she’d never noticed before. “Fruit maybe. I read a wonderful book called Life, Adventures and Travels in California by T. J. Farnum. He says the climate in California is perfect for growing fruit and grains. In fact, he says the fruit will be so heavy it will practically weight the trees right down to the ground. Imagine. Oranges. Grapes. Melons.” His voice trembled with excitement. “I’ve been reading about all the fruit I could grow.”
“But who’d want it?”
“People, Carrie. With all the people going west, there are going to be houses built. And houses mean businesses. And businesses mean towns. Think of all the towns that will be built in the west. That means that the people living and working there will need food. They’ll need farmers. They’ll need my fruit.”
Carrie smiled. “And all their women will need my dresses.”
They looked at each other and both began laughing. Oh it was so good to have someone to share the dream with. Someone to talk with and laugh with. Someone to be with while the rest of the world slept.
A voice filled with venom sliced through their happiness. “What are you doing down here, girl?”
At James Market’s angry tone, Carrie jumped up guiltily. “I brought Will the shirt I mended.”
“You could have taken it to the cook wagon. You didn’t need to sneak down here for that.”
“We weren’t sneaking. We were just talking, sir,” Will said, scrambling to his feet. He towered over the short, stocky man.
James turned on him. “You do your talking to someone else. I don’t want you hanging around my daughter, do you hear?”
“Pa, we were just—”
“You back-talk me again, I’ll put you over my knee right here and now.”
Carrie looked stricken. She wished the earth would open up and swallow her so she wouldn’t have to see the look on Will’s face.
“Now you get on back to the wagon and help your sister and aunt with the chores.” He gave her a shove that nearly sent her sprawling. Seeing Will’s hand dart out to steady her, he whirled. “And you. Don’t you ever touch her. You see that you don’t come near my daughter again. Or so help me, you won’t have a hand left to touch her with.”
Will saw Carrie pause and turn. It galled him that a man would talk to him like that. But this man was Carrie’s father. And like it or not, he would have to swallow his pride. And his anger.
“Do you understand me, boy?”
Will nodded, and saw Carrie swing away. “Yes sir. I understand.”
Market’s voice lowered to a hiss. “Then be careful you don’t cross me, boy. ’Cause I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”
Will watched as Market stormed away. When he was out of sight, Will bent and picked up the shirt Carrie had mended. Lifting it to his face, he breathed in the delicate rose fragrance that lingered still. Then he called himself every kind of fool for dreaming about a woman as beautiful as Carrie Market. She’d be crazy to waste herself on a cripple. And her father had just made it plain as day how he felt about him.
* * *
Flint Barrows nursed a smoldering hatred for Rourke. From the first moment he had seen Rourke ride up to the wagon train, Flint had known that he would take his time and find a way to get him. And it had been Rourke who had pulled a gun on Flint the night he’d attacked Carrie. And it was Rourke who got to ride ahead of the train, often in the company of Abby Market, while Barrows was stuck driving his lonely wagon, eating the dust of the many wagons in front of him. But more than anything else, Flint hated Rourke because of what he represented. Though he held no title, Rourke had the respect of the people on the train. Though he was a loner who said little, there was about Rourke an air of authority.