“I just couldn’t.” His voice lowered to a reverent whisper. “I don’t have any right.”
“To what, Will?” Without realizing it, Carrie touched a hand to his chest and felt the wild thundering of his heart.
“To touch you like this.” He allowed his fingertips to trace the feathery blond eyebrow, the curve of her cheek. And still she didn’t pull away or flinch at his touch. His heart soared until he thought it would fly clear out of his mouth.
“I don’t mind.” Like Will, Carrie’s words became hushed, the whispered conversations of two lovers.
“Your pa does.”
“My pa doesn’t speak for me.”
“He doesn’t?”
She shook her head, afraid to move, afraid even to breathe.
“Oh, Carrie.” Will cupped her face in his hand and leaned forward, enveloped in the fragrance of roses that would always remind him of her.
Their lips hovered, a fraction apart, and Carrie’s parted in a soft sigh of expectation. Will’s head dipped lower, until his lips were brushing hers. And then he stiffened.
“Don’t let him do it.”
At the raspy sound of Nancy Garner’s voice, Carrie froze.
“All men want the same thing, Carrie. Let me tell you. The minute they get you, they start to rule your life. First it’s your father. Then it’s your husband. You’ll never be free if you give in to him.”
Carrie’s eyes widened at the slurred words. Drunk. Nancy Garner was stone drunk.
“Will, go get my sister. She’ll know what to do,” Carrie whispered.
For a moment, Will could only stare at the weaving woman. Then he nodded and hurried off to find Abby.
“You wanted him to kiss you, didn’t you?” Nancy said, her voice high-pitched and wavery.
“People can hear you, Mrs. Garner.”
“Mrs. Garner.” The voice turned to a whine. “Mrs. Garner. Jed’s wife. Timmy’s mother. Mr. Vance’s little girl. When do I get to be myself? When?”
“Shh.” Carrie glanced around, terrified that the woman’s shrill tone would draw a crowd. “Please, Mrs. Garner. Won’t you let me take you to your wagon now?”
The woman slapped Carrie’s hand away. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want any of you to touch me.”
Carrie breathed a sigh of relief when Will returned, followed by Abby. Without a word, Will then went off in search of Rourke.
Abby took one look at the disheveled appearance of the young wife and came to a halt.
“Nancy. What have you done?”
“Done? Nothing. Nothing more than I should have done as soon as Jed threw away my piano. Right then and there I should have jumped from the wagon into the river and drowned.”
Abby kept her tone even. “The Platte was only a few inches deep. You’d have had a hard time drowning in a few inches of muck.”
“They drowned my piano,” she shrieked.
Abby caught her arm, but the woman pulled roughly away. “Don’t touch me, Abby Market. You’re on Jed’s side.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side, Nancy. But you have a husband and little boy to think of now. Aren’t they more important than a piano?”
“No one, and nothing, is more important than my piano,” she moaned, starting to cry. She sat down in the middle of the grass and covered her face with her hands.
When Rourke and Will stepped from the shadows, the young woman was rocking and moaning as Carrie and Abby watched helplessly.
Assessing the scene, Rourke came forward and knelt before Nancy Garner.
“Your husband’s been looking all over for you, Mrs. Garner. I told him I’d find you while he stayed with your boy.”
“They don’t want me,” she cried, and covered her face once more.
“They do. They’re both worried sick. Please let me help you, Mrs. Garner.”
The young woman looked up through a mist of tears. Rourke offered a hand and helped her to her feet. With one arm firmly around her shoulders he led her to her wagon and then helped her inside.
Carrie, Abby, and Will trailed along feeling helpless, able to do nothing more than watch.
From inside, they heard the sound of Nancy Garner’s crying, and the soft, soothing tones of her frantic husband. Feeling like intruders, they crept away until they could no longer hear the sounds of the Garners’ voices.
“Thanks, Rourke,” Abby said softly. “I just didn’t know what to do for her.”
“You were doing just fine. She’ll be all right now,” he said.
Abby took her sister’s hand. “Come on, Carrie. We’d better get back to the wagon before Pa misses us.”
Carrie glanced at Will, wishing they could have had those last few moments alone. Reluctantly she allowed herself to be led to the wagon.
Behind them, the two men watched until they were safely inside. Then, lost in their own thoughts, they made their way back to the cook wagon.
The fiddles were silent. The happy couples had turned in, to conserve their strength for the coming journey. By the coals of the campfire, a lone guitar strummed a sad, haunting melody. The dancing and merriment, at least for tonight, had ended. And while many in the camp fell into an exhausted sleep, others lay awake watching the stars and wondering what the fates had in store for them.
Chapter Sixteen
Most of the people on the wagon train had never seen mountains as rugged as the Rockies. Some days, the entire train was moved, one wagon at a time, over jagged peaks. Men and beasts struggled as ropes were tied to wagons and hauled, inch by painful inch. Muscles were strained. Tempers were frayed. Many, like Nancy Garner, teetered on the edge of despair.
By day Abby worked alongside the men, pulling on ropes, driving teams of stubborn mules. When the train made camp for the night, she learned from Thompson and the others how to treat the cracked and bleeding hooves of the mules and oxen by painting them with hot tar. Watching the beasts’ eyes glaze with pain, Abby glanced down at her hands, torn and callused from hard labor, and turned away in horror. Had they all sunk to the level of dumb animals, driven to plod onward, ever onward? When would it end? When would they ever find rest?
By evening she assisted her aunt and sister, masking her own fear and uncertainty, encouraging them in their efforts to adapt to this strange, savage environment.
Violet had brought along a copy of
The Emigrants’ Guide to Oregon and California
, from which she read aloud each evening. The author, Lansford W. Hastings, promised all necessary information about equipment, supplies, and methods of transportation. He had apparently never crossed the Rockies by mule and wagon. His romantic description of the west made it sound like a Sunday picnic. In addition, Will Montgomery had loaned Carrie his copy of
Life, Adventures and Travels in California
. Whenever Violet read in her carefully cultured voice about the rich, verdant land and its gentle climate, the three women would feel their heartbeats quicken at the promise that beckoned.
“Will says that fruits and vegetables practically jump out of the soil,” Carrie said as her aunt finished her nightly reading.
“He makes it sound like the Garden of Eden,” Abby muttered dryly.
“And what’s wrong with living in paradise? After the hell we’ve traveled along the way, I’d say we deserve it.”
“Carrie. You watch your mouth.” Violet nestled the books among the bits of ribbon and fabric in her chest, then closed the lid.
“Reverend Coulter talks about hell all the time, and no one tells him to watch what he says.”
“That’s different.”
“Well, anyway, I can’t wait to get to California. I want to bathe in crystal-clear waters, and lie in warm sunshine, and pick fruit right off my own trees.”
“What happened to the Indian chief you were going to meet?” Violet asked with a gentle smile.
“She met someone better.”
At Abby’s words, Carrie flushed and turned away. “I’ll go fetch some water from the river.”
“You seem to spend a lot of evenings fetching water,” Abby said, grinning at her aunt behind Carrie’s back.
Violet touched a hand to her niece’s shoulder. “Just don’t let your pa catch you dawdling down by the river with Will Montgomery. You know what his temper’s like.”
She may as well have talked to the wind. Carrie tossed her curls and lifted the bucket before flouncing away. When a girl was fifteen, and in love, and all of life was spread out like a banquet, nothing else mattered.
The sun lay low on the horizon. Even as Will watched, it seemed to disappear below the waters of the river, leaving behind a shimmering golden glow.
He turned to study the girl who hurried toward him. Her dress was pure white, reminding him of the cotton fields of home. Her hair fanned out around her shoulders. As she ran the empty bucket slapped against her thigh. Her light, girlish laughter trilled on the breeze.
“You beat me. I thought I’d get here first.” She set down the bucket, then took the hand he offered and was pulled behind the tree, where both would be hidden from view.
“I finished my chores early.” Will grinned. “I think Mordecai noticed that I was itching to get away.”
“Me too. But Aunt Vi was reading from your book. I want to learn all about a farmer’s life in California before we get there.”
“I thought you were going to be a seamstress.”
She smiled a secret, woman’s smile. “I am. But something tells me I ought to know all about farming too.”
“Carrie …”
“Shh.” She touched a finger to his lips. Instantly he felt the jolt clear down to his toes. As he started to back away, she laid a hand on his arm. “I think about you, Will. I think about you all the time.”
He studied her hand, feeling the warmth of her touch through his shirt, but made no move to touch her. “I think about you too.” His voice was low, shaky.
“I knew you did. Oh, I just knew you did.” Carrie took a step closer, until their bodies were almost touching. “When you think about me, Will, what do you think about?”
He felt the beginnings of a flush creep along his throat. “It wouldn’t be right to tell you.”
“If you tell, I’ll tell.”
He swallowed. “I think about kissing you. About holding you.” His voice lowered. “About lying in the grass with you.”
Without realizing it, Carrie’s fingers tightened at his shirt. “I think about the same things.”
Will closed his hand over hers, then drew it away from his chest. Dropping his hand to his side, he said softly, “What we’re thinking wouldn’t be right.”
“Why? I love you, Will.”
His voice took on a fierceness, an earnestness she’d heard only once before; on the day he’d confronted Flint Barrows. “It isn’t enough to love someone, Carrie. My father loved me. But he had to send me away because he couldn’t bear to look at me.”
“But I…”
“Listen to me.” He grasped her arm, holding her away when she tried to move closer. “To me you’re a princess, a wonderful, glorious dream. You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. But Carrie, you’re a sweet, sheltered girl.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “I couldn’t stand to have you look at me, at my ugly shattered body, and turn away in horror.”
“How can you say such things?”
“Don’t you understand?” His tone roughened. “I’d rather just live with my dreams of you for the rest of my life than have to watch you face the stark reality of what I am.”
Tears glimmered in her lashes, and she blinked them away. “What you are, Will Montgomery, is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t want just a few stolen kisses by a river. I want to be with you forever. Just like everyone else, you think I’m a child. A spoiled, helpless child. But I intend to prove to you that I’m a woman. And your scars won’t make any difference to me.”
As she reached her fingers to the buttons of his shirt, Will grabbed them. She was surprised at the strength in his hand. He easily pinned both her hands in his big palm.
“Don’t, Carrie. Once you cross this line, you can never go back.” His voice was no longer shaky. It was low and firm, the commanding tone of a man who had given orders and taken them.
She tilted her head back, staring into his eyes. She could read the pain there, the hopelessness. And something else. The loneliness. He was as desperately lonely as she. And just as afraid of rejection.
“I don’t want to turn back,” she whispered.
For long, tense moments their gazes met and held.
“I want to look at you, Will. I want it to be my decision to go or stay.”
Still he didn’t move. Unblinking, his eyes stared down into hers. Watching her, he allowed his hand to drop to his side. With stiff, nervous movements, she unbuttoned his shirt, and let out a barely audible gasp. A thin, jagged scar crossed from his left shoulder to his right side. With her finger, Carrie traced the scar, feeling his muscles contract as she reached his stomach.
Will didn’t speak. He even forgot to breathe. He studied her eyes, waiting to see the shock, the horror.
Bringing her hands to his shoulders, she slid the shirt from him. It floated to the ground and lay unnoticed. Where his left arm used to be, there was now an indentation over which had been pulled a flap of flesh, and a mass of scars twisted like a rope.
Tears sprang to Carrie’s eyes. “Oh, Will. How you must have suffered.”
He hung his head, waiting for her to turn away from him. Now that she had been given a chance to see for herself just how mutilated his body was, he knew that she would be unable to look at him. How would she react? He knew. With horror. Pity. And then revulsion at what he had become. He had seen it all before. All these emotions, he was certain, would cause her to run and hide.
Tentatively Carrie touched a finger to the scarred flesh that had once been his shoulder. Will flinched and forced himself not to turn away. She had to see it, to touch him, before she walked away from him for good.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered.
“Sometimes.” He swallowed. “Sometimes I swear my arm is still there, throbbing like a toothache. Sometimes I have to reach over and feel the empty sleeve to prove to myself that it’s really not there.”
Most people met that response with complete rejection. How could a man feel an arm that wasn’t there?
Still, Carrie didn’t question him. She accepted his answer as fact. “And this. This scar. Does this hurt?”