Mordecai watched the two of them with a puzzled frown. He wondered whether it was the anxiety of the attack that had left them so shaken. Or had something else happened as well? They both seemed too edgy. And both teetering on the brink of something.
Along with all his other duties, he’d have to remember to keep an eye on them.
* * *
As she neared her wagon, Abby felt herself tensing. She dreaded facing her family. She didn’t think she could bear any more tears and tender concern without breaking into a fit of crying. And if she were to cry, she would embarrass herself.
Pausing for a moment, Abby felt a wave of emotions engulf her as she watched her aunt and sister. Aunt Violet was stirring something over the fire. Her gown was rumpled and stained with the dirt of the trail. Her hair, always so neatly fashioned into a prim knot, dripped sweaty little tendrils about her cheeks and forehead. Abby saw her aunt mop the sweat from her brow and felt a pang of guilt. While she was gone, the bulk of the chores would have fallen to her sweet, incompetent aunt. On top of that, Violet must have been nearly sick with worry.
Beside the fire, Carrie was sewing a man’s shirt. Since Abby didn’t recognize the material, she knew it had to belong to one of the men from Mordecai’s crew. Maybe even Rourke. She was a goodhearted child, Abby thought, watching as Carrie bit the thread. Despite her ineptness in most things, Abby was glad to have a sister like Carrie.
Taking a deep breath, Abby stepped from the shadows.
“Abby. Oh my sweet Lord. It’s Abby.”
Aunt Vi dropped the wooden spoon and hurried to embrace her niece. “Oh child, I was so afraid I’d never see you again. Let me look at you. In my imaginings I’ve had you stolen away by Indians, trampled by wild animals, and shot by crazed gunmen.” Her smile faded. “Dear God in heaven, you’ve been hurt.”
“It’s just a little thing, Aunt Vi. Really I’m fine.”
Carrie dropped her mending and hurried to hug her sister. “Where have you been? We thought you were dead. Oh Abby, we’ve been crazy with fear.”
Abby clung to her sister for a moment, feeling a welling of love and warmth. “Not dead, Carrie. Just knocked off my feet for a moment.”
The three women laughed and cried and clung together, their tears mixing with their smiles, their arms threaded about each other’s necks. There was no need for explanations. It was enough that they were together again.
* * *
Rourke began to unsaddle his horse, then realized that he still had Abby’s game bag. Slinging it across his shoulder, he strode toward her wagon. Coming up in the darkness, he stood off to one side, watching the joyous reunion of the three women. They were so different, these three, he thought. Violet, all soft and dreamy. Carrie, flighty and childish. And Abby. Earlier he would have said she was tough and feisty. But now he’d glimpsed a gentler streak in her. She was tough. But she was also tender. She was obstinate and cocky. And she was sweet and vulnerable. And beneath those shabby clothes and rough demeanor was hidden a beautiful woman who was capable of great passion.
“So. You’ve come back.”
James Market stepped down from the wagon, holding a jug. He made no move to go to his daughter, Rourke noted. And although she started at the sound of his voice, she didn’t rush into his arms.
“She’s hurt, James. Look at her hand.”
He ignored his sister. “A good excuse to come back without any food, I’d say.”
“We have game,” Abby said stiffly. “I shot a deer.”
“Funny. I don’t see it.” James made a great pretense of looking around, then glowered at her.
“It’s …” Abby stopped. She had left the game bag with Rourke. “I forgot. It’s on Rourke’s saddle. I’ll get it.”
“Good. I’m tired of eating mush that isn’t fit for a dog.” As Market turned away, he lifted the jug to his lips and took a long pull. “When she brings it, put some meat on the fire, Violet. I’m going to look for some pleasant company for an hour or two.”
“Don’t you think you’d better find out what kept Abby away from the wagon train all night, James?” Though Violet’s words were spoken softly enough, there was an underlying thread of anger.
“If she has something to tell me, let her tell me.”
Abby’s voice trembled. “I was attacked in the rocks while I was hunting.”
James Market whirled to face her. “Attacked? Indians?”
“No.” Abby glanced at her younger sister, then away. “Flint Barrows.”
James Market’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean, Flint Barrows attacked you?”
“He came up on me from behind, Pa, and knocked me to the ground. I managed to get away, but he caught me. When I fought him, he became violent. He tore my clothes from me, and if Rourke hadn’t come along when he did, he would have taken me by force. I have no doubt that when he was finished with me he would have killed me.”
Market studied his daughter in silence. Then, in a voice tinged with sarcasm he asked, “Is that your story?”
Abby blanched. “My … story?”
James Market weaved slightly as he took several steps closer to his daughter. “Flint came to see me before he left the train to go to Fort Bridger. He told me all about you and Rourke and what he’d seen the two of you doing.”
“Pa!”
In the darkness, Rourke’s hand clenched at his side.
“James, I won’t have you speaking this way in front of Carrie.” Violet turned toward her younger niece. “Carrie, go to the wagon.”
“I won’t. I’m old enough to hear what Pa says, especially if he’s going to believe a coward like Flint Barrows.” Carrie’s chin jutted. “What kind of lies did he tell you about me after he attacked me, Pa?”
James Market lifted his hand as if to strike Carrie. She jumped back, her eyes blazing. “And now you’re going to take his word over Abby’s, aren’t you?”
As he moved menacingly closer, Abby stepped between her father and sister. “Don’t you lay a hand on her, Pa. This doesn’t concern her now. I want you to tell me what Flint said.”
“He said he’s a lonely man since his wife died. Said you and Carrie flaunt yourselves in front of him.” As the two girls gasped, he added, “He said he’d even be willing to marry a tarnished woman like you, Abby, as long as you’d be willing to work hard and give him lots of children.”
“Tarnished.” Abby advanced on her father and winced at the stench of liquor on his breath. “The only man who tried to tarnish your daughters was Flint Barrows. He’s evil, and you know it. Why would you want to believe him over me?”
“Because you’re a liar and a cheat. You’re nothing better than a slut. Just like your—”
“James!”
At Violet’s outburst, he looked up. His glazed eyes seemed to focus for a moment.
“I’m going off to drink with my friends. See that we have meat for supper.”
As he began to walk away, he paused, rocked on his heels, then turned back. “You could do a lot worse than marry Flint Barrows. You’re getting old, girl. Take a good look at your shriveled-up old aunt and see what you’ll look like in a few years. In fact, you ought to take a good look at yourself right now. You’re rough and dirty and dried up. You look more like a boy than any woman I know. Even where we’re heading, there aren’t going to be too many men interested in the likes of you.”
“I’d take my chances on the devil before I’d marry the likes of Flint Barrows,” Abby hissed.
Her father studied her for long silent moments before spinning away.
When he was gone, Rourke blended deeper into the shadows. Now at least he understood why Abby had wanted to face her family alone. She hadn’t wanted anyone else to hear the disgusting things her father would have to say. How long had she been hearing them? he wondered. All her life? Had she grown up thinking she was plain and unwanted? Rourke’s fist clenched and unclenched. What man would take the word of a snake like Barrows over his own kin? Market was the cruelest father he’d ever known. He treated his spinster sister like an embarrassment. He treated Carne like a useless child. But he saved the worst treatment of all for Abby. Almost as if, Rourke thought, she was his enemy instead of his daughter.
As he made his way back to the cook wagon, Rourke was deep in thought. He was glad Mordecai had given Abby a gun. He was going to see to it personally that she learned how to use it. Abby had said she would rather take her chances on the devil. Maybe she already had. And his name was James Market.
Chapter Fifteen
Over the long miles, Abby’s injuries healed. When asked, she explained away her cuts and bruises by saying she had taken a fall during the hunt. Most of the members of the wagon train were too involved in their own survival to question further. And though her hand caused her much pain, she was young and strong, and it healed quickly.
Fort Bridger provided the travelers a last glimpse of civilization before the final thrust to the west. Situated near the border of Wyoming and Utah Territory, it offered a final opportunity for the faint of heart to change their minds. But because they had already invested so much of themselves in this journey, few were willing to turn back.
The fort had become the gathering place for ranchers, trappers, even Indians, who came to barter game and hides for much needed supplies, or for guns and whiskey.
Instead of looking forward to this respite from the long journey, Abby felt her heart grow heavier with each mile that brought them closer to the fort. Here she would have to face her attacker. Once again she would have to relive the nightmare of Flint Barrows’s brutal assault.
When the train pulled into Fort Bridger, Mordecai made his way to the camp commander. Abby watched him climb the steps of the command post, then turned away and busied herself with the team to keep herself from thinking. Would Flint deny the attack and spread more lies about her? Would he insinuate to everyone, as he had to her father, that he had actually come upon her and Rourke lying together? At that, Abby’s heart began to beat in double time. The thought of lying in Rourke’s arms had cost her many a sleepless night.
“Miss Abby.”
At the sound of Mordecai’s quiet voice, Abby spun around. She waited, a questioning look in her eyes. The time had come to face her attacker.
“Flint Barrows left the fort yesterday. When a rider came with word of our approach, he left without a word.”
Relief flooded through Abby. Clinging to the wagon wheel, she was surprised that her legs could still support her.
“He didn’t say where he was headed?”
Mordecai shook his head. “He could be anywhere.” His voice lowered. “But I don’t think he’s eager to see any of the members of this train, Miss Abby. I think maybe we’re rid of him for good.”
Abby swallowed.
With a smile, Mordecai patted her shoulder. “Rest easy, lass. You’re done with that devil.”
She made a feeble attempt to smile. “Thank you, Mordecai.”
As he walked away, she touched a hand to the gun in the pocket of her britches. Barrows might be gone, but as long as he lived, she would never again feel completely safe. She’d grown accustomed to having the little gun with her. It was comforting to know she could take care of herself. And if the devil ever decided to return and finish what he’d started, she would show him the quickest way to hell.
* * *
As they had at each post, the men of the wagon train sought solace in the saloons while the women indulged in an orgy of washing and fancy cooking. And when the daily chores were completed, and the men returned to their wagons feeling mellow, the fiddles were tuned and the company took on a festive air.
Abby studied her reflection in the chipped looking glass and groaned. Where her younger sister, Carrie, had firm, ripening breasts and softly rounded hips, she seemed to have lost what little feminine shape she’d once had. Her hips were little more than bony slopes flaring from a tiny waist. Though high and firm, her breasts were so small they were easily disguised beneath a heavy shirt. Even in this dainty gown of ivory voile, her figure gave only the merest hint of a woman’s curves. As she brushed the tangles from her hair, she sighed in agitation. With her hair hidden beneath a cap, wearing her father’s cast-off clothing, she could easily pass as a young boy. And now, dressed in a lovely gown, she felt like a fraud. Her father was right, she thought, giving an angry tug at the tortoiseshell comb. She was plain. Worse, she didn’t know how to flirt like other women. Even if she knew how, she wouldn’t care to. Even in the rugged west, where women were scarce, there would be few men standing in line for her hand.
Carrie stepped from the wagon dressed in a gown that matched the blue of her eyes. Her cornsilk hair had been brushed until it gleamed like spun gold. She smelled of Aunt Violet’s rosewater.
“Are you coming with me to listen to the fiddlers?”
Abby nodded.
“Here then.” Touching her fingers to the vial, Carrie dabbed the fragrance at her sister’s throat. “You don’t want to go around smelling like the mules.”
“Don’t waste that on me,” Abby said with a laugh. “Save the rosewater for yourself. Looking like that, I think there’ll be more than a few who’ll want to stand close to you tonight.”
There was only one man Carrie cared about, but she kept her thoughts to herself. “Maybe we’ll even dance,” Carrie said aloud, looping her arm through her sister’s.
“I’ll leave the dancing to you.”
Violet joined her two nieces, and the three headed toward the cluster of wagons.
“I’ve brought some old pieces of fabric along,” Violet said, showing the girls the contents of her sack. “Thought I’d start a quilt while I enjoy the music.”
On one side of a roaring fire, the women sat in groups of three or four, patching and mending by the firelight. On the other side sat the men, smoking, repairing harnesses, tapping their feet to the tune of the fiddlers. Children darted in and out among the wagons, playing tag, shrieking with laughter.
As Violet settled herself in the company of several ladies, she gave a sigh of satisfaction. “Oh, isn’t this lovely? It reminds me of home on a Saturday evening.”