Abby was too tired to care, but hoping to reassure the girl, she bit into a biscuit nearly as hard as the boulders they’d encountered in the stream. Forcing herself to swallow, she said, “They’re fine, Carrie. Next time, use a little more lard.”
“Will Pa eat them?” the girl asked nervously.
“Pa will eat anything after another swig of that whiskey.” Abby’s lids flickered, then closed.
“Poor thing,” Vi muttered, glancing at the huddled form of the young woman. “She’s done more than a body should ever have to.”
“She ought to eat something. If she isn’t careful, I’ll soon look like her big sister.”
The older woman shook her head and touched a finger to her lips to silence her young niece. “What she needs more than anything is sleep. She can eat later.”
Under a canopy of stars Rourke tossed in his bedroll, his body bathed in sweat. In his mind he saw them again. Bodies. The fields and meadows littered. Forests, rivers, swamps, all teeming with the dead. His own body tensed, then relaxed. In his dream, he was heading home. Away from the battlefields. The thought of rolling meadows, of rich farmland, drove him relentlessly. He made the journey again in his mind, as he had so often, searching for familiar landmarks now missing. Nearer he came, and nearer still. There. The familiar town, only different. Something wrong. Very wrong. Home. At last, home. Katherine. Katherine.
“Katherine?”
He awoke, trembling, and sat bolt upright, his hand clutching his gun. The images vanished. The fear and loathing were replaced by a gnawing emptiness. Glancing at the moon, he felt a surge of disappointment. He hadn’t made it through the night. There would be hours of darkness to endure before another day. He wiped a hand across his brow. The darkness would be gone soon. Soon. He clung to that thought. Morning would be here shortly, and with it the light that would sweep away the dark shadows from his mind for another day.
Keeping the blanket wrapped around him, he leaned his back against the wagon wheel and struck a match to a cigar.
During the day he could stay busy and keep the thoughts and images from his mind, holding the demons at bay. But at night… He blew out a stream of smoke and wearily leaned his head back, feeling the cool air dry the sheen that covered his skin. At night the demons struck, denying him sleep, opening all the wounds.
In the distance a night bird cried, reminding him of a baby’s cry. His heart contracted. Stubbing out the cigar, he draped the blanket over his arm and strode naked toward the creek. Once there, he washed and dried himself quickly. The clothes he had earlier washed and spread out on low-lying bushes were completely dry. He dressed, then sat in the tall grass to pull on his boots, wishing he’d brought along his cigar. There would be at least another hour before dawn.
A rustling in the grass nearby caused him to grab for his gun and freeze.
* * *
Abby awoke on the hard ground, enveloped in the foul-smelling damp blanket. The fire had died to embers. The rest of her family had retired to the back of the wagon.
Sitting up, she glanced down at the soggy clothes she still wore, then stretched her cramped muscles. Every part of her body ached.
Pulling off her moldy boots, she wiggled her toes, then stood stiffly. Walking to the back of the wagon, she rummaged around for her night shift and a cake of her aunt’s bayberry soap. Draping the white muslin gown over her arm, she made her way to the edge of the creek.
The storm that had threatened earlier had blown over, leaving the earth parched, the water calm. A full moon bathed the creek in a pale amber glow. It was that hushed, quiet time between darkness and dawn, when the whole world seemed to hold its breath. Even the occasional chirp of a cricket was muted.
She unbuttoned the scratchy shirt and dropped it in a heap at her feet. Slipping off the oversized britches, she kicked them aside, then untied the ribbons of her white chemise.
* * *
Hidden in the tall grass, Rourke was spellbound by the vision who was so close he could reach out and touch her. When she first approached, he expected her to walk past his place of concealment. By the time he realized what she was about to do, it was too late to make her aware of his presence.
Mesmerized, he watched as she removed her clothes. His throat went dry as she stood before him, clad only in a chemise of soft cotton lawn, which barely covered her from torso to hips.
If he had any decency, he told himself sternly, he would stand up now, before this went any further, and walk away. But a woman like Abby Market would be humiliated to be caught undressing. This had already gone too far to stop. The damage was done. He had to stay concealed, for her sake as well as his own.
If he were a saint, he thought, he would avert his gaze and allow her the privacy she sought. He watched as the white chemise dropped to the ground. His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed back the hiss of air that nearly escaped his lips at the sight of her. Though her arms and face had been bronzed by the sun, the rest of her skin was as pale and luminous as the white pebbles that lay at the bottom of a pool, bleached by the rays of a relentless sun. Her legs were long and shapely; her narrow hips softly curved. Her waist was so tiny he was certain his hands could easily span it. Her breasts were small, rounded, and perfectly formed. She lifted her face to the moon. He studied the white column of throat, and found himself wondering what it would be like to press his lips there and feel her pulse throb. Her hair spilled down her back in a tangle of soft waves and he longed to plunge his hands into it and feel its texture.
His hand tightened at his side. He was no saint. There was no way he could turn away from the sight of her. And he hadn’t a shred of decency, he admitted. He was glad he was concealed here in the shadows.
She picked up the soap and dipped a toe into the cool water. In the moonlight he saw her draw her foot back for a moment. Then with a laugh, she walked boldly into the swollen creek and dipped below the water. Shaking her head, she splashed and frolicked like a puppy, kicking her feet, then rolling to her back, floating soundless for long silent minutes.
A cloud covered the moon and Rourke cursed the darkness. He strained, seeing only her darkened form, silhouetted against the blackened water. Then the cloud lifted, and he sucked in his breath as she stood in the shallows and began lathering her hair. The scent of bayberry drifted to him, and he inhaled the wonderful fragrance. When her hair was covered with soap, she dipped beneath the water, shaking her hair until she could no longer hold her breath. She came up sputtering and shook her head, sending the fiery mane dancing out before settling down around her like a cloud.
She extended one delicate arm and lathered it, then the other. Moving the soap along her throat, she sighed before stroking it across one breast, then the other, and then across the soft white flesh of her stomach. When she struggled to lather her back, Rourke had to force himself not to go to her and offer his assistance. A smile of pure appreciation lit his features. Then he saw it. The thin dark scar left by her father’s whip. His smile fled. He felt a cold, hard fury settle in the pit of his stomach. He hated the man. Loathed him. He could kill him for what he did to her. For as long as that line marred her young flesh, he would hate the man who put it there.
Sitting in the shallow water, she lifted first one leg, then the other, while she lathered and soaped. Reaching for the pile of clothes, she washed them, wrung them out, and tossed them into the grass. Then she turned and settled once more into the water for a final swim.
Following a ribbon of moonlight across the water, Abby glided noiselessly along, feeling a sense of freedom, of exhilaration she rarely enjoyed. She was alone in the universe. In this weightless environment, her muscles no longer ached. The dust and grime that had clogged her throat and burned her eyes along the trail were now forgotten. Her father’s vicious temper couldn’t reach her here. She wouldn’t think about yesterday, and the beautiful mother she missed and the farm that had been her security. There would be no tomorrow, with its torturous trail and endless work and uncertain future. There was only this peace, this tranquillity, this gently flowing water. If she could, she would stay here forever. She glanced at the sky. Already the darkness was growing lighter on the horizon. Dawn would be here soon, and with it reality.
With strong strokes, she swam to shore and pulled herself up the bank. She shivered in the morning air and dried herself quickly, then slipped her white muslin night shift over her head. Slim and straight, it fell nearly to her ankles. Running her mother’s tortoiseshell comb through the wet tangles, she tossed her head and her hair settled like a silken veil across her shoulders and down her back. Bending, she picked up her wet clothes and draped them over her arm. Then she turned and gave a last lingering look at the river.
The light of the full moon cast an ethereal glow on the figure on the bank. Her pale gown became opaque, revealing every curve and line of the body beneath it. Rourke came to his knees, wishing he could go to her, touch her. It would be enough. Just to touch her, to feel the warmth of her milky flesh. In that simple white gown she seemed to belong to another world. Clean. Untouched by the terrible war that had devastated this land. Untouched by all the greed and hatred and bitterness. An angel. One touch from her and he would be cleansed.
He clenched his fists tightly and watched as she picked her way through the grass. As she passed, the wonderful scent of bayberry wafted over him.
He waited, willing himself not to move. What he had glimpsed tonight was a special gift. One he would carry with him on the long, tormented nights. But if she were to discover his presence, the vision would be forever shattered. And so he waited, shivering in the morning mist, until he thought she was gone.
The gun he’d continued to hold at his side slipped from his sweating palm and fell to the ground. Startled, Abby turned toward the sound. Under his breath, Rourke swore, then stiffened as she parted the tall grass and stared at him in shock.
“You!”
He saw the stunned look on her face that slowly turned to realization, then anger. “Miss Market, it isn’t what you think.”
“You scum. You vile, evil monster!” Bearing down on him with her arms filled with wet clothing, she began to beat him about the head and chest.
Rourke was helpless to defend himself against this raging little whirlwind of fury. He couldn’t hit a woman, and it was impossible to stop her blows without pinning her to the ground. Backing up to evade her, he stumbled. Instantly she pounced on him, dropping her clothes and pummeling him with her fists.
“You watched me. Without making a sound, you hid yourself here and watched me. You horrible animal. You watched me undress and bathe. You concealed yourself here in the grass to spy on me.”
Standing, he caught her fists, easily pinning her. His voice was low and angry. “You’ve got it all wrong. I came here to retrieve my clothes. You came up on me too suddenly. I had no choice.”
“No choice.” In her anger, a tear threatened, and she dropped her head to hide it from his view. “A gentleman would have made himself known to me so that I could have fled before”—she hiccuped and swallowed back the sob—“I removed my clothes.”
“Miss Market…”
“You disgust me, Mr. Rourke. You’re lower than a snake.” With a shove, she pushed him backward.
Poised on the bank of the river, Rourke struggled to keep his balance. For a moment he seemed to hang suspended, then, unable to stop the momentum, dropped backward into the river. He came up sputtering and swearing.
With her hands on her hips, Abby surveyed the scene with a smirk of satisfaction. “Serves you right, Mr. Rourke. The next time, maybe you’ll remember to allow a lady her privacy.”
Scooping up her damp clothes, she flounced away without giving him another glance.
Standing in waist-deep water, Rourke let out a string of oaths and watched until her figure disappeared into the darkness. Cursing his luck, he strode from the water and removed his dripping pants. Viciously wringing the water from them, he draped them over his arm. Tomorrow’s ride would be twice as uncomfortable in wet clothes. But he had no choice now. Damn the woman. He glanced toward the wagon train through narrowed eyes. What a firebrand. He’d never expected such a temper from that little woman. The same woman who’d allowed her father to whip her. Abby Market was a contradiction. How many other surprises, he wondered, was she keeping hidden?
When the thin, pale light began to streak the sky, he pulled on his boots, retrieved his gun, and made his way back to the train. As he passed the Market wagon, he heard the soft whispers of even breathing. By now she was probably sound asleep. He smelled the faintest scent of bayberry and was stunned by the emotions it evoked. He didn’t want to feel anything for Abby Market. Anything except dislike.
Parker was already up and stoking the fire for coffee. Without a word, Rourke rolled his blanket and climbed into the back of the cook wagon. Troubled, he leaned against the canvas and fingered a piece of tattered fabric. The sight of Abby Market’s creamy body had brought a rush of desire that left him stunned. In itself, that wasn’t so surprising. It had been a long time since he’d held a woman’s soft body and lost himself in the delights of the flesh. What disturbed him was the feeling that she was special, different from all the others on this train. She was just a woman, he told himself. No more, no less. And a damned ornery one at that. But what had happened tonight was definitely going to be a problem for him. From now on, whenever he saw her dressed in that shabby man’s outfit, he would be able to recall the body underneath.
Dangerous thoughts, he cautioned himself. Next thing, he’d be worrying about her. Hadn’t she told him she could take care of herself? Why then did he have this almost overpowering desire to protect her? And why this unreasonable dislike for her father?