Rexanne Becnel (10 page)

She flopped over again. If it were light enough, she’d read from her Bible. Not the Song of Solomon, though. Not the way she was feeling right now.

A splat of rainfall hit the canvas tip, then another. In a matter of seconds the lively sound of the rain drowned out every other of the camp’s night sounds. Abby sat up, almost relieved to be drawn away from her inappropriate thoughts. She dutifully checked their belongings, making sure no box or barrel touched the canvas cover and thereby disturbed the watertightness of the cloth.

When she lay down again, however, it was to worry about Tanner and whether he was dry and, later, to dream of him and wonder if his lean fingers could ease the fires that burned her unceasingly.

The wagon train didn’t break camp the next morning. The torrential rains made the trail an impassible quagmire, but more calamitous, a number of the draft animals had panicked and broken free during the night’s violent storm, scattering to the four winds.

Abby awoke at dawn, though it was hard to discern day from night. In the dark, damp quarters she wriggled into her shortest skirt, oldest bodice, and closest-woven jacket. Then she donned her sturdiest boots and a large bonnet and tied a huge scarf around her head, bonnet and all. She would not stay dry for long; she knew that. But perhaps she could get the extra tarp positioned over her little table and then prepare breakfast in a modicum of comfort.

Her father crawled out from beneath the wagon once she had the tarp up.

“Have you wood—or chips?” he asked as he shrugged his suspenders onto his shoulders then reached for his jacket, all the while huddled beneath the meager shelter.

“I refilled the basket yesterday. Will you set up the fire tent, or shall I?”

He didn’t answer, much to her frustration. He clearly meant to punish her with silence for her rebellious behavior last night. But once he donned his hat and boots, he did proceed to position the makeshift shelter that would prevent the rain from dousing the fire. Even so he was a long time in getting the chips to light. By the time the fire was marginally hot, Abby had the batter for hotcakes ready and salt pork rinsed and ready to fry.

She squeezed both the coffeepot and the skillet onto the meager blaze, knowing she must work fast. Right now she had only a drizzle to contend with. But if another downpour came, they would be eating jerky and undercooked hotcakes. They ate in silence, waiting for the water to boil for coffee. When her father finished his meal, he handed her his plate, then climbed into the front of the wagon, still without speaking.

Abby sighed, and a huge weight seemed to settle over her, pressing her down with hopelessness. He would read the Bible all day, and she … she would go mad if she simply sat around waiting for him to relent.

Frustrated anew, she scrubbed the skillet, plates, and utensils, then thrust them still wet into the wagon. She tossed a handful of ground coffee into the boiling water, then carried the coffeepot to a hook beneath the wagon.

“Coffee’s ready,” she called, though she knew he expected her to deliver a brimming cup to him. But not today, she resolved. Let him sulk. She would visit with Sarah—or with poor Rebecca. Yes, she would call on young Rebecca Godwin and try to lift her spirits. She was certain to have more success with Rebecca than with her own father.

Sarah accompanied her, and Abby was especially relieved to have her company when they reached the Godwins’ wagon. Rebecca sat huddled just inside the tailgate, staring morosely out across the endless rolling plains. When the two women approached her, however, the poor child flinched back, her eyes dark with sudden fear.

“Rebecca, dear,” Sarah began cheerfully, though Abby could tell that her tone was forced. “You remember Abby Morgan, don’t you?”

Rebecca shifted her hesitant gaze from Sarah to Abby, then gave a tiny nod. Abby forced herself to smile, but what she really wanted to do was to draw the tortured child into her protective embrace. What sort of monster would attack a young woman—any woman—in so vile a fashion?

“Hello,” Rebecca murmured, fingering a lock of her long, tangled hair.

“Hello,” Abby replied. Then drawing on her experience” dealing with reluctant children in the classroom, she decided just to be forthright. “We’ve come to spend the morning with you, dear. Since the rain has eased, Sarah and I thought we’d help you straighten things up here. Why don’t you come on down from there? And bring your hairbrush and a bit of cord or ribbon too,” she added before the girl could protest.

While Sarah brushed Rebecca’s neglected hair, Abby revived the dying campfire and put on coffee. Doris Crenshaw stopped by briefly, but when she saw Rebecca was in good hands, she didn’t linger. By the time the sun rose to its watery zenith, the fragrance of hot corn bread and antelope stew scented the air. Between Sarah’s deft ministrations and Abby’s constant chatter, Rebecca slowly relaxed, and by the time her father appeared for the noonday meal, the girl was even contributing suggestions for Tillie’s great adventure.

“What if she accidentally climbed into a buffalo’s shaggy coat—you know, at night, when it was asleep. And then there was this stampede. She would be so scared. But she would be excited too.”

“
I
wouldn’t be excited,” Sarah put in. “Once, this horse ran away with me. He took the bit in his teeth and simply took off for the hills.”

“What did you do?” Rebecca asked, round-eyed with wonder.

“Why, I held on for dear life. What else could I do?” Sarah laughed. “The horrible beast eventually wore himself out. But it took me ten times as long to walk home, for I refused to ride the wretched creature.”

Abby chuckled at Sarah’s wry expression. “The two of you and your wild adventures would have poor Tillie stranded far away from the wagon train forever. But what about Snitch? He loves her in his own stubborn way.”

“He would go searching for her of course.” Rebecca smiled, a happy, innocent child again, at least for a while. “He could find her and save her. And they could live happily ever after.”

“Actually I haven’t decided yet whether the two of them should even make it all the way to Oregon,” Abby replied. “There are so many lovely places along the way.”

“Aye, there’s that,” Rebecca’s father said, coming in from his work chasing after the missing stock. He nodded a greeting to each of the women. “But the land’s free for the asking in Oregon.”

“But Tillie and Snitch won’t have to own the land,” Rebecca responded animatedly.

The man stared at his daughter, his eyes slipping from her newly braided hair to her alert expression and neatly dressed figure. He swallowed once and sent a grateful look to Abby and Sarah. Then he faced his only child. “What’s the point of anyone going to Oregon if not to claim their portion of land?”

Rebecca laughed out loud, a precious sound to hear. “Oh, Papa. Tillie and Snitch are Abby’s mouse characters. She’s writing a book all about their adventures.”

When Abby and Sarah finally left the Godwin wagon, they were both in the best of moods. They’d accomplished something very good today, despite the dreadful weather and unfortunate reason the company had not broken camp. Each of them was uplifted by Rebecca’s response.

“She’ll be awhile recovering,” Sarah said. “But she’s on her way.”

“Yes,” Abby agreed. Then, spying her father up ahead, she added, “I only wish my father could recover as easily.”

“You’ve never exactly explained what the trouble is with him.”

Abby glanced at Sarah, then quickly looked away. She had strictly promised her father she would reveal absolutely nothing of their past, especially their real last name. Yet Abby knew that was somehow at the very center of her father’s troubled mind. Some secret he was withholding, even from her.

Oh, how Abby longed to share her worries with someone else. But she knew she must not, so she only bottled up her feelings and pushed them back, closing them away in her heart, though it hurt her sorely to do so.

“He … he misses Mama so,” she finally said. That was not a lie, but the truth went much deeper than that, she was certain.

“Maybe he needs to remarry.”

Abby tilted her head sharply toward her friend. “Remarry? My father?”

Sarah shrugged. “Well, he might not fuss so about your romantic interests if he had one of his own.”

There was a kernel of truth in that. Still, Abby could not see her father married to anyone but Mama. Most especially, she could not imagine him actually courting some woman. It would be nice if he would, she realized as they neared Sarah’s wagon. But she didn’t think it very likely.

Abby had just said her good-byes and started toward her own campsite, still deep in thought over Sarah’s surprising suggestion, when a man crossed her path. She stumbled to a halt in the clinging mud, just avoiding colliding with him. But her quick anticipation rapidly disappeared. It was not Tanner, but another, far less savory-looking fellow.

“Good day, miss,” he said, touching his hand to the brim of his hat.

“Good day,” she murmured, sparing him the thinnest of smiles. Her father would not want her speaking to him, nor was she in the least inclined to do so. But as she hurried on her way, she was uncomfortably aware that his gaze followed her all the way.

Cracker O’Hara watched Abby’s retreating figure. She seemed kind of old, but she
could
be the one. Then again, even though he had ruled out the Godwin girl, there were still three other possibilities, three more girls traveling on the train with only their fathers. And though none of the other three men admitted to having taught school, it was still possible.

He pulled his hat from his head and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. He would lay low for a while, just gather information and narrow it down until he was sure he had the right one. But he’d need proof. If he just killed her, he might never get paid. No, he needed something. A picture of her mother. A letter. A family Bible with a list of family members and important dates.

He jammed his hat back on and ambled toward his raw-boned horse. He’d better get back to work. Bud was trailing them in another wagon train. Bud had recognized McKnight as the bounty hunter they’d been warned was after the girl. Ever since that bungled attack, however, Bud didn’t dare show his face in this company in case McKnight recognized him. He would stay back and investigate a different wagon company until McKnight was out of the way. But that was fine with Cracker. He preferred to work alone.

Only he’d have to be even more careful now. He’d almost ruined things with that Godwin girl. He should never have followed her out into the prairie, especially when he knew she wasn’t the one. But it had been so dark and she’d been so young. So young.

And she’d been so scared. Even now the memory of her slender young body squirming in blind panic beneath him made him hard.

He muttered a coarse oath. He’d had too much to drink and his wits had been too dull to prevent her from crying out in alarm. He’d had no choice but to run, and he’d worried that the little slut would be able to identify him. But it was quickly apparent she could not. The fact that he could walk around in the same camp with her made his need for physical relief even stronger.

He rubbed his crotch, then swore and spit. He’d just have to forget about that for now. Business first.

Money first.

But once he did the job and collected his pay, he’d buy himself the youngest little girl he could find and vent his pent-up urges on her.

H
ER FATHER COUGHED ALL
night. Abby awoke in the middle of the night to his painful hacking and wheezing. When after a while it did not abate, she climbed down from the wagon to check on him.

“Come sleep inside the wagon. This cold ground is making you ill.”

“No. I’ll be fine right—” He broke off as another spasm of coughing gripped him.

“You’re getting in the wagon,” Abby stated, not about to back down. “It’ll do us no good at all if you’re ill. I can sleep here.”

“That would not be proper,” he protested, though he rolled over and sat up at her urgent tug on his arm.

“Proper be damned,” she muttered to herself. But to him she said, “It’s nearly dawn. I probably won’t fall back to sleep anyway. I’ll just start the fire and make coffee. Write a little,” she added, for she’d been neglecting Tillie lately.

Once he was settled in her bed, Abby grabbed her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. She tied a belt around it to keep it out of her way as she worked, then slipped on her boots. What a sight she was, she thought, with her braid hanging over her shoulder and the skirt of her nightgown showing for the whole world to see. At home she would never have dreamed of stepping foot outside garbed thus. But life on a wagon train called for endless compromise, and in some areas at least, modesty must suffer. Thank goodness it was dark and no one else was around to see.

Once she had a small fire going, she heated water and made a small amount of strong tea with horehound, which she sweetened with a portion of their precious store of honey. Her father’s coughing had not eased, but she was certain it would do so once the medicine had a chance to do its work.

He took the infusion without complaint, then fell back onto the pallet. He was exhausted, she realized. He was sick, both in body and in spirit. What if he got worse?

Abby had never considered losing her father. After her mother’s death the very idea was inconceivable. Yet now, faced with his wracking cough and overwarm brow, she could not avoid it. What if he
did
only get worse? It had happened to others. Every day she noted the graves they passed. Little children, women and their newborn babes, and most of all men. That’s what scared her. She knew logically that there simply were more men on the trail. But being logical didn’t help.

She crouched in the back of the wagon, just staring into its cavelike blackness, listening to her father’s labored breathing, and praying.

Spare him, dear God. Don’t take my father too. Don’t leave me all alone with no family. Please, God, I’ll do whatever you ask of me. Only make him better.