Passage West, Page 4

  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?

  There was no room in his life for such feelings. Love, tenderness, concern for others. All were dead. Dead and buried. Buried with those simple pine boxes in a lush green meadow.

  Chapter Four

  Rourke avoided the Market wagon. Each time he saw the slender driver, head bent against the sun, he thought of the scene by the river and felt his blood heat.

  If Abby was aware of him, the only indication she gave was a slight lifting of her chin. Even in her father’s cast-off clothing, with the scent of horses and sweat clinging to her, she bore herself with regal disdain.

  From her perch on the wagon’s bone-jarring seat, Abby saw the twisting Oregon Trail like strands of a rope. Leaving Independence, they paralleled the Santa Fe Trail until a simple wooden sign read Road to Oregon. Just west of the Big Blue River the strands of several trails came together into the Platte Valley. Everyone in the wagon train was eager to cross the Platte River, where they would stop for two days to take on supplies at Fort Kearny.

  When they were within sight of the river, Abby let the reins go slack in her hands. Ahead of her, shimmering in the afternoon sun, was a body of water two or three miles wide. Though the waters seemed tranquil enough, she felt her throat go dry. How would she ever hold the team on a firm, steady pace for such a great distance?

  At the river’s edge, the wagons stopped, waiting for direction from Mordecai Stump. As the older man approached on horseback, balancing his cane across the saddle, he called, “Afternoon, Miss Abby. Where’s your father?”

  “He said he was going hunting with Flint Barrows.”

  Mordecai frowned. Hunting, was it? More like crawling into the shade of a big rock and draining their jug while the others did their share of the work. He had no use for James Market, but he felt sorry for his three women. If it weren’t for this tenacious little creature, they wouldn’t have survived the first hundred miles. And as for Flint Barrows ... Mordecai’s frown deepened. He could always smell a troublemaker, and Barrows reeked of it.

  “Will we be crossing soon?” Abby asked, breaking through the older man’s reverie.

  “Aye. As soon as we round up everyone.”

  “Look at her,” Thompson said, riding up and pointing to the river. “Damned mud flat’s too thick to drink, too thin to plow.” He squinted through the white glare of the sun.

  Seeing Abby’s look of concern, Mordecai sought to calm her. “I’m sorry, Miss Abby. It’s just the usual lament of a tired man. Dunna’ worry about the size of the Platte. Though there are strong currents in places, and pockets of quicksand, the river is only knee deep.”

  Instead of feeling reassured, she felt the panic tighten her throat. “Quicksand?”

  “It is easy enough to spot, if you know what to look for. I’ll cross first and find a safe passage. Once done, the other wagons will follow close together. As long as no one strays from the route I lay out, we’ll have no problems.”

  As he and Thompson rode away, she pushed her hat back on her head and passed a hand over her forehead. No problems. Just strong river currents and quicksand. And her father nowhere in sight.

  While drivers climbed down from their wagons to stretch stiff muscles, and family members drew together to watch from the shore, Mordecai and Parker began to cross the river in the chow wagon. With her hand shielding the sun from her eyes, Abby watched as the wagon slowly eased across the vast stretch of water.

  “The water is quite shallow, it seems,” Aunt Vi said, coming up beside her.

  “Yes.”

  “It should prove a simple matter to get across.”

  “Guess so.” There was no sense mentioning her fears to this gentle woman.

  “Then I’ll let Carrie sleep through it. All that bouncing and jostling gave her a headache.”

  Abby turned, about to remind Violet that a better way to cure Carrie’s headache might be to find her a few chores. Noting her aunt’s spotless yellow gown, she felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips. “You look just like a pretty little buttercup, Aunt Vi.”

  The older woman touched a hand to her throat in a disconcerted gesture Abby had come to recognize. “Why, what a sweet thing to say. Why don’t you take some refreshment while we wait to cross?”

  Abby nodded. Her throat was parched. Her stomach growled for food.

  “Go wash up, child. I’ll have something ready in a minute.”

  While the older woman started a small fire and placed a kettle over the flame, Abby filled a basin with water and scrubbed the dust and grime from her face and neck. Bending her head forward, she ran a comb through the long hair matted with tangles and sweat, then shook her head upward, sending the hair drifting like a fine red veil about her back and shoulders. Glancing up, she was startled to see Rourke standing beside a tree, staring at her. For one breathless moment, their eyes met and held. Then, breaking contact, Abby twisted her hair into a fat knot, smashed the dirty hat onto her head, and pivoted away. Despite the refreshing wash, she felt sweat bead her upper lip. Why did Rourke have to look at her like that? And why did his look affect her so? She would have to steel herself to feel nothing for him. Nothing but contempt.

  Abby sipped the scalding tea her aunt handed her, and burned her tongue. She felt almost relieved. It gave her something besides Rourke to think about.

  When the call came to line up the wagons for the river crossing, Abby pulled herself up to the wagon’s seat and grasped the reins. Following the lead of the other wagons, she spoke softly to her team and urged them into the water. The river was shallow, coming no higher than the lower spokes on the wagon wheels. But the thick muck oozed and sucked at the mules’ hooves, forcing them to strain against the harness.

  Some of the heavier wagons became mired in mud as wagon wheels were caught and held fast. The Garner wagon, carrying Nancy and Jed Garner and their young son, Timmy, was soon bogged down in muck that resisted all attempts to free it. While the others watched from their position in the long procession, Rourke and Thompson and the scout Brand examined the Garner wagon to find a way to extricate it.

  While they waited, Violet climbed up front to sit with Abby.

  “What seems to be the problem?” she asked.

  “Garner wagon’s stuck.” Abby wiped her forehead and replaced her hat.

  “Oh no.”

  At her aunt’s exclamation, Abby turned. “What’s wrong?”

  “It must be the piano.”

  “Piano?”

  “Nancy Gamer insisted they bring along her family’s Spinet. She made Jed promise they would never leave it behind, no matter how heavy a burden it proved to be.”

  “They’re holding up an entire wagon train for a piano?”

  Violet’s voice held a note of sympathy. “It isn’t just a musical instrument, child. It’s a piece of her past. Something to prove that her life wasn’t always just dust and heat and backbreaking labor.”

  Abby thought of her aunt’s little chest in the back of the wagon, filled with lace and ribbons and bits of fine fabric. She was glad she’d persuaded her father to take it along. To Violet it contained so much more than sewing remnants. It was her aunt’s testament to a better way of life, a life of gentle culture, of shade trees and lemonade, of church choirs and Sunday picnics. A life they had left behind and might never see again.

  “Nancy Garner is such a lady,” Violet sighed.

  Abby absentmindedly nodded her head in agreement. Ever since they’d joined the wagon train, Aunt Vi had held the Garners up as the model young family. Jed was hardworking and ambitious. Nancy, always dressed in clean gingham, her long dark hair pinned in a perfect little knot, walked submissively alongside her husband’s wagon, keeping an eye on their young son. They were a handsome, cultured family, who had plan
s for a long and prosperous life in California.

  Hearing shouts and crying, Abby stood on the hard seat and watched in horror as the men struggled under the weight of the piano. Pressing their shoulders to the task, they managed to shift it to the edge of the wagon. Without ceremony, they shoved it over into the river. While the young wife let out a wail, her husband drowned out her cries with a shout to the team and a crack of the whip. Relieved of their burden, the team easily pulled the wagon ahead. The young wife watched from the back of the wagon, her eyes streaming with tears, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth to stem her weeping.

  One by one the rest of the train followed. As each wagon passed the submerged piano, the passengers stared at the scene, then turned their heads away. Every wagon carried something precious, something that might yet have to be sacrificed to this harsh land.

  As their wagon passed the piano, Abby glanced at the mud gurgling over the keys, spilling into the top of the instrument to rust the wires and soak the precious wood, and felt tears sting her eyes. Glancing at her aunt’s white face, she averted her gaze. It was only a piano. A piece of one woman’s history. Yet for the moment, they shared the pain of her loss. What price would they all be forced to pay before they reached California?

  As Violet retreated to the back of the wagon, Abby viciously cracked the whip and cursed the team. It gave her no measure of satisfaction to vent her anger on the silent, plodding beasts.

  Fort Kearny, Nebraska, was the first real concentration of people the train had encountered since leaving Independence. A stockade fence surrounded the encampment. Inside, a tall wooden tower afforded a view for miles in every direction. There was a plain wooden barracks for the soldiers, and a series of small wooden houses for the married officers. A little further away from the military complex there were several separate houses, built by settlers who ran the post store and traded with trappers and Indians for pelts and other goods. Homesteaders came from a hundred miles to trade at the fort, to gossip, visit, and refresh themselves with this small vestige of civilization before once more going back to the business of carving out a living in this wilderness.

  For the people of the wagon train, this was an opportunity to refill their depleted supplies and to pause in their journey before moving further into the unknown.

  After securing their wagons and caring for their stock, most of the men were eager to visit the back room of the trading post, where liquor was served by the bottle or glass. Even the men from the Reverend Coulter’s congregation seemed eager to put aside their strict rules for a day or two of unbending.

  Rourke sat with his back against the wall and drained the tumbler of whiskey. He waited, then felt the familiar surge of heat. Tonight he was determined to drink a whole damned bottle of whiskey and fall into a stupor beneath the cook wagon. At least for this one night, he would dull the pain and sleep until morning. He saw Mordecai glance his way and gave him a look that was meant to stop him from coming any closer. Tonight he had no intention of being neighborly. Let the men of the wagon train socialize among themselves. All Rourke wanted was to get pleasantly drunk and fall asleep.

  James Market and Flint Barrows sat huddled at a corner table, an empty bottle between them. They’d been there when Rourke entered. He’d seen neither of them with the train today and found himself idly wondering whether they’d crossed the river even before the wagon train had started its crossing. Arrogant, lazy bastard, Rourke thought, watching Market through narrowed eyes.

  When the two men stood and approached his table, he tightened his grip on the bottle.

  “Where’d you learn to handle that gun?” Barrows asked. He was a tall, thin young man, with brown, stringy hair falling nearly to his shoulders and a scraggly growth of facial hair. The gun stuck in the waistband of his buckskins probably cost him a month’s pay.

  When Rourke didn’t answer, James Market sneered. “Too good to speak to us, Rourke?”

  “I don’t have anything I want to say. And I prefer my own company.” With that he poured another drink, lifted it to his lips and drained it, then set the tumbler down, all the while watching their faces. He didn’t like what he saw.

  Skin flushed. Eyes watery. They were both drunk and itching for trouble. Rourke saw Barrows look down at his gun. His hand twitched. Rourke tensed.

  “Mr. Hawkins, who owns this fine establishment, would like you two gentlemen to leave now.” Mordecai walked up behind the two men and spoke in low tones that the others in the room couldn’t hear. “Asked me to see that you obliged him.”

  “My money’s as good as anyone else’s,” Market snarled.

  “Not tonight. Mr. Hawkins says he’s all through serving the two of you.” With his hand firmly under Market’s elbow, Mordecai eased him toward the door. Behind them, Barrows shot an angry glance at Rourke, hesitated for a moment, then followed. When the door closed behind them, Rourke released his grip on the gun under the table and poured himself another drink. Glancing up, he saw three men from Reverend Coulter’s congregation looking his way and mumbling among themselves. He knew that look. A delegation from the good reverend was no doubt planning to invite him to partake of their church service. He didn’t think he could stomach another interruption in his well-laid plans. A moment later they started across the room. Swearing under his breath, Rourke picked up the bottle and glass and strode toward the door, completely missing the look of surprise on the faces of the men he’d managed to evade.

  As soon as the men drifted toward the post, the women put kettles of water over the fire, and strung blankets from their wagons to nearby tree branches for privacy. Then they got down the tubs and indulged themselves in an orgy of washing. First there were the clothes, that had only been rinsed in rivers since their departure from home. Then came the children. And finally the women immersed themselves in warm, scented bathwater, soaking away the dirt and grime of hundreds of miles.

  Abby allowed Carrie and Aunt Vi to go first, knowing how much they’d looked forward to this luxury. When they were finished, Abby stripped off her rough, scratchy clothes and left them soaking in a bucket of lye soap. Later she would rinse them in a kettle of boiling water and hang them over a line to dry.

  When she emerged from the tub, Carrie and Aunt Vi were giggling like two children.

  “All right. What are you up to?” Abby asked, vigorously rubbing her hair with a towel.

  “This,” Carrie said, holding up a gown of pale ivory voile.

  “Where did you get that?” Abby touched a hand to the soft fabric.

  “We’ve been sewing it while you drive,” Aunt Vi said proudly. “It was an old dress of your mama’s. I ripped the seams and made it smaller. And Carrie added the smocking across the front and back yoke.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Abby hugged the two women, then stepped back, afraid to wrinkle the fabric. “But it’s too grand for me to wear. Why don’t we save it for you or Carrie.”

  “Because it’s yours. We made it for you, and we want to see you in it.” Aunt Vi took the towel from Abby’s hands and finished drying her niece’s hair. “I hope it fits. I had to guess at your size. You’re so thin, Abby.”

  Abby laughed, choosing to ignore her aunt’s veiled fears. “I know it’ll be perfect. And so are both of you.”

  Climbing into the wagon, she dressed quickly, then stepped out for their inspection.

  “Oh, Abby. I knew you’d look beautiful in it.” Carrie caught her sister’s hand as she began to braid her hair. “Let me fix your hair, Abby.”

  With a sigh of resignation, Abby knelt in the grass and allowed Carrie to brush her hair and pin it back with two combs. It fell in soft waves down her back.

  “Now you look like a lady.”

  Both sisters laughed.

  “Spoken like a true niece of Violet Market,” Abby intoned.

  “There’s nothing wrong with looking like a lady,” their aunt said in all seriousness.

  “I know, Aunt Vi. But sometimes we just can’t help teas
ing you.”

  “Come on,” Violet said, putting an arm around each girl’s waist. “Let’s go join the other women for a grand visit.”

  While the women sat around a campfire in the circle of wagons, they could hear the sound of men’s voices and raucous laughter emanating from the post. Occasionally one of the women would smile, hearing her man’s voice above the others. They could easily forgive such lapses, since their men rarely had the chance to drink and forget the hard work ahead of them.

  While the women talked, they sewed or quilted, exchanging recipes and gossip. As the small children gradually stopped their play and drifted to sleep, they were tucked into the wagons.

  Carrie’s head bobbed. “I’m going to bed, Abby,” she whispered.

  “All right. I’ll be along in a few minutes.” Biting the end of the thread, Abby studied the face on the rag doll she’d been repairing for Nancy Garner’s little one. Nancy, her face grim, eyes swollen from crying, sat a little apart from the circle of women, staring listlessly into the fire. She would have to get over the loss of her piano, but Abby knew it would take her awhile. In the meantime, her small son had been feeling neglected until Abby picked him up and used the old doll to make him laugh.

  When his eyes began to droop, she handed him over to his mother to be tucked into bed. Dropping a kiss on her aunt’s cheek, Abby bid the others good night and made her way in the darkness toward her wagon.

  * * * * *

  Flint Barrows leaned against the wagon and listened to the sounds of the women’s muffled conversation. He’d left his drinking companion sleeping beneath the chow wagon. Mordecai would see to it that Market made his way back in the morning.

  Seeing Carrie approach, his lips curved into a chilling imitation of a smile and he moved deeper into the shadows. As she passed, he slipped silently in step behind her. For tonight, the Market women were fair game. With James out of the way, they had no man around to look out for them.