They stared down at the animal, whose blood oozed from its lifeless corpse and mixed with the earth to form a dark, mottled pool.
“I wish I hadn’t killed him.” Abby sighed.
“Your family has to eat.”
“But he’ll never again run across these hills or swim in that river.”
“Don’t think about that. He was put here as food. Without him, we couldn’t survive. There will be others to take his place on the plains.”
Abby nodded, knowing that what Rourke said was true, but it still bothered her.
“Now that I’ve killed him, how do I get him back to the wagon?”
Rourke handed her a knife. “While I search for a river crossing for the train, you can stay here and skin and dress him. Did you bring your game sack?”
“Yes, but… “
“Good. I’ll bring your horse. You can start a fire.”
“Rourke, I… “
Seeing the stricken look on her face, he turned away to hide his grin. “Hunting can’t be all fun, Abby. Now that you’ve had the thrill of the hunt, you have to take the responsibility as well.”
As he walked away she felt her stomach give a nervous flutter. She couldn’t possibly skin this beautiful animal. And it would take her all day to cut up this much meat.
When Rourke returned with their horses, she was gathering dry wood for a fire. When she had a blaze, Rourke made a rack of sticks and boulders. “Roast as much of the meat as you can manage,” he told her. “That way, you’ll have enough for several weeks.”
“Are you going to stay and help?”
“Can’t. Have to inspect the river for a spot to cross. But I’ll be back before the wagons get here.”
As he swung into his saddle, he looked down at the slender figure and felt a wave of sympathy. Abby Market looked as if she’d like to sit down and cry.
“I thought you grew up on a farm. Didn’t you have to slaughter animals?”
“Pa and my uncles took care of that.”
“But surely you’ve plucked a few chickens.”
She shrugged. “Of course I did. But this isn’t like plucking a chicken. I’ve never skinned anything as beautiful as this.”
“Take it slow and easy, Abby. You’ll find it isn’t so hard once you get started.”
Her chin lifted. He would have sworn little sparks shot from those green eyes. “Don’t worry about me, Rourke. I can take care of myself.”
“Sure.” As he wheeled his mount, he called, “Try to cut off the hide in one piece. I’ll show you how to cure it when I get back.”
Abby clutched the knife so tightly, her knuckles whitened. What she really wanted was to plant it squarely between Rourke’s shoulders. Kneeling, she plunged the knife into the hide and felt it bite into still-warm flesh. She ran behind a boulder and retched. Even before Rourke had disappeared over the rise, tears trembled on her lids, then formed little rivers in the dirt that streaked her face.
Chapter Seven
When Rourke returned, he found Abby up to her elbows in blood. Spatters of blood smeared her face and matted her hair. Chunks of meat were carelessly scorching over the fire, and piles of entrails were lying in the dust.
“What in hell… ?”
“Get out of here, Rourke.” She snarled like some kind of madwoman. “Just leave me alone. I can take care of myself.”
“I can see that. But can you take care of one little deer?” As he dismounted, he bit back the laughter that threatened. “Are you certain you want to feed your family, or just the wolves?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you throw all this in the dirt?”
“The guts? What should I do with them?”
Taking the blackened pot from his bedroll, Rourke walked to the river and filled it with water. Then, washing the entrails, he placed them in the pot of water and set it on the fire. “Soup, Abby. The innards make the best soup.”
She nearly gagged before going back to her task.
Within an hour, Rourke calmly took charge and managed to put everything in some semblance of order. In no time the rest of the meat had been cut into neat strips for drying, and the hide had been cleaned in preparation for curing.
When the task was completed, Rourke sat back on his heels and took a good look at Abby. “I think, before the wagon train catches up with us, you’d better wash that blood out of your hair and clean yourself up.”
Not understanding just how shocking her appearance was, she gave him what she hoped was a withering look. “So you can hide in the bushes and watch again, Rourke?”
He felt a flash of anger. With deadly calm, he said, “I guess I deserved that. But unless you wash yourself, you’ll scare the good people on that train. They’re not accustomed to seeing a woman smeared in blood from head to toe. Not to mention her ears,” he said, taking hold of her earlobe and giving it a tug.
Abby shook his hand off and backed away. “I have no intention of taking off my clothes for your pleasure, Rourke.”
His voice lowered, and she felt a tiny tingle of fear. “If I wanted to remove your clothes for my pleasure, I wouldn’t ask permission.” Turning away, he said through clenched teeth, “I’ll clean up the rest of this mess. Get yourself down to the river before the wagons get here. There’s soap in my bedroll.”
For a minute Abby could only stare at his back. Then, needing the last word, she said, “I’ll wash. Downstream. And you see that you don’t come within a mile of me, Rourke, or I’ll blow your head off.”
As she went to his horse, he called, “There’s a clean shirt in there too. Might as well use it while yours dries.”
She kept her spine stiff, her head high as she walked to a spot hidden by thick brush. Stripping, she stepped into the water. There would be no laughing and splashing, no playful swim. After washing her shirt, she spread it on a low-hanging bush before stepping back into the water. As soon as the blood and grime had been removed from her skin and hair, she stepped from the river and reached for Rourke’s shirt. Rubbing it briskly over her flesh, she pulled on her chemise and tied it at the shoulders. Just as she bent to pick up her britches, she heard the telltale warning of a rattler. Looking down, she saw that the snake had coiled itself around the handle of her rifle. Stunned, she dropped the britches and ran screeching across the expanse of ground that separated her from Rourke.
Rourke looked up at the sound of the scream and grabbed his rifle. Abby nearly ran into his arms before coming to a skidding halt.
“Indians?”
She was breathing so hard she could barely speak. “Rattlesnake.”
“Did he bite you?” He felt a hard, cold lump of fear in his stomach and, without thinking, gathered her into his arms.
She shook her head, too breathless to say more.
The fear slowly dissolved. “Where is he?”
“Down by the river.” She took in a long gulp of air, then added, “curled around my rifle.”
Rourke gave a little sigh of relief, then absorbed the first shock of holding her. Water streamed from her flowing hair, soaking his sleeves. Her body was cool from the river while his was quickly heating. He inhaled the clean, fresh woman scent of her. The rifle in his hand dropped to the ground.
He reached a hand to her hair and drew her head back until she was looking into his eyes. She still looked a little bit dazed, a little bit frightened. But he thought he could read something else in her eyes.
“Remind me to thank that old rattler,” he murmured as his arm drew her perceptibly closer.
She brought her fists up to his chest, as if to put a barrier between them. He drew her close, ignoring her feeble protest.
“Don’t, Rourke.”
His lips hovered just above hers. “Don’t what?”
She fought to ignore the realization that it was wonderful being held against him. She felt her heart thudding against her rib cage and hoped her voice wouldn’t betray her. “Don’t do what you’re thinking of doing.”
Her voice was low and husky. That alone would have driven a man crazy, Rourke thought. But having her in his arms, wearing nothing more than a thin cotton garment that revealed more than it covered had him going around the bend.
“Abby,” he breathed, and for the first time in her life, she thought her name sounded beautiful.
He ran a hand up her spine and felt her quiver of response. Then, tangling his fingers in her hair, he drew her head back and stared into her eyes. She was no longer frightened. But some of her defiance still danced like green sparks.
His mouth covered hers. Heat seemed to pour through her veins. If she had felt a jolt at his simple touch, his kiss caused thunder and lightning to rumble through her. Without realizing it, her fists uncurled and her fingers clutched his shirtfront, drawing him even closer.
The swift surge of desire left him stunned. Her lips were soft and warm and slightly parted in surprise. Her breasts were flattened against his chest. She smelled of soap and river water and vaguely of evergreen. He plunged a hand into the tangles of her hair and combed his fingers through the silk. Then, unable to get enough of her, he changed the angle of the kiss and took it deeper, deeper, until she found herself gasping for breath.
Abby tried to pull away, but Rourke’s arms kept her firmly locked against him. His gaze swept the wisp of cotton chemise, its ribbons and lace an odd contrast to the clothes she usually wore over it. Without the dirty hat, her hair flowed down her back, more colorful than autumn foliage. Her eyes were no longer cool or resentful. She couldn’t hide the warmth. Or the desire that smoldered just below the surface.
He wanted her. If she were another kind of woman, he would take her here, on the warm sand, beneath a blazing sun. But unless he was a bad judge of character, he’d swear Abby Market had never even kissed a man before. That thought left him shaken.
He dropped his hands and took a step back. Abby blinked, swallowed, and wondered if he could read her confusion.
“Stay here,” he said, bending to pick up his rifle. “I’ll take care of that rattler.”
When he walked away, Abby stood rooted to the spot, wondering why the ground didn’t seem quite steady.
At the shore of the river, Rourke looked around and found the snake scurrying toward the brush. As he lifted his rifle he realized that his hands were shaking slightly. Damn her. What had she done to him?
When he returned with the dead snake, he avoided her eyes. “Hardly more than a baby. His venom wouldn’t have killed you. Probably would have made you pretty sick, though.”
Rourke handed her the clothes she had dropped in her panic and tried not to stare as she hastily dressed. It was an odd sensation to see her in his shirt. Odd and somehow pleasant. As she stepped into her britches, he tossed the dead snake in the brush. When he turned, she was rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. Her fingers fumbled.
“Here. I’ll do that.” His voice was gruff.
Propping his rifle against a tree, he rolled first one sleeve, then the other. All the while, Abby felt the fires he ignited each time his fingers brushed her skin. Why had she let him kiss her? Why hadn’t she stopped him? What must he think of her? She’d behaved no better than a scarlet woman. She could feel herself blushing.
As Rourke rolled the sleeves, he watched the play of emotions on her face. He should never have allowed her to come with him today. But no one on the train dared to defy Mordecai. Now this damned little woman was going to cause all sorts of problems for him. He resented the feelings she stirred up in him. And he resented the way she was intruding in his life.
Looking up, he shaded his eyes with his hand. Pointing, he said tersely, “Train’s coming. First wagon ought to be at the river’s edge shortly. Better pull your boots on and check that venison. There’ll be a feast at the Market wagon tonight.”
“I think the entire train deserves a feast. I want you to help me give a portion to every family.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t think your father will approve of such generosity.”
“I’ll handle Pa.”
“Like you handled him when he whipped you?” The minute the words were out of his mouth, Rourke could have cut out his tongue.
Abby’s eyes blazed. So Rourke had witnessed that shameful scene. “You’re another man who likes to humiliate me, aren’t you, Rourke?”
He spun on his heel, seething with anger. The trouble was, he couldn’t figure out who made him angrier. Himself. Or Abby Market.
* * *
An occasional cloud scudded across the full moon. A diamond-studded sky looked close enough to touch. Everything in the west, Abby thought, watching the path of a shooting star, seemed larger than life.
She found herself thinking about the people who lived here and called this wilderness home. She found herself thinking about Rourke, and what drove him. She found herself thinking entirely too much, she decided, draining the last of the coffee and getting to her feet.
There was a festive mood tonight on the train. Abby’s generous gift had people laughing and talking, and taking the time to visit for a few minutes before turning into their wagons for the night.
James Market leaned against the wagon wheel drinking from his jug, a scowl on his face.
Nancy Garner walked from the shadows and approached Abby. Though the young woman was still smarting over the loss of her piano, she bravely tried to lift herself out of her gloom.
“Good evening, Abby. We’re so grateful for the venison.” She looked down, embarrassed by the admission. “It was the first meat we’ve had in a week.”
Abby had heard rumors that due to Nancy’s depression, Jed Garner had been afraid to leave his wife and young son long enough to hunt.
Nancy took two jars from a basket on her arm. “These are some of my mother’s peach preserves. She wanted us to have something of home when we reach California.”
Abby was reluctant to accept the cherished sweets, but she knew that to refuse would cause the proud woman more grief.
“Thank you, Nancy. My family will certainly enjoy this.”
When the young woman walked away, James gave a snort of disgust. “Feeling like Lady Bountiful, aren’t you?”
“Leave her alone, James,” Violet said, taking the jars from Abby’s hands. “Everyone is so grateful for the meat. Why, the Reverend Coulter’s wife Evelyn brought us a tin of biscuits. And Lavinia Winters gave me a basket of dried rose petals for my clothes chest.”