Passage West Read Free

again.
    “So help me, this is your last chance. Hold that animal still until I get him in the harness.”
    The diminutive silhouette fought the kicking mule. Rourke saw the thin arms tremble under the animal’s tremendous strength and felt a surge of pity for the boy. Market wasn’t only impatient, he was unreasonable.
    When the mule tossed his head in fear, the halter was ripped from the small hand struggling to hold it. Swearing viciously, James Market raised his whip.
    With a muttered oath, Rourke began to swing from the saddle. No man, not even the lad’s father, had the right to use a whip in that manner.
    A firm hand on his shoulder caused Rourke to spin around. Beside him, Mordecai Stump sat astride a chestnut mare.
    “Not thinking of meddling, are you, Rourke?” His voice was as soft as the morning mist.
    Rourke’s body actually flinched as he heard the first crack of the whip. Mordecai could feel the coiled tension in the muscled shoulder beneath his hand.
    Rourke’s eyes narrowed. “And what if I am?”
    “I wouldna’. In my years, I’ve found it best to let families solve their own problems. You step between those two, you’ll have them both scratching at your eyes.”
    “You’d stand by and let a man whip his own kin?”
    Mordecai shrugged and removed his hand from Rourke’s shoulder. In his anger, his Scottish burr was even thicker. “I’ve no use for a man who would do such a thing. But life has a way of evening the score.”
    “Maybe.” Rourke glanced at the Market wagon. His fist clenched and unclenched in impotent fury.
    The two men stared at each other for long silent minutes. Mordecai heard the man beside him suck air into his lungs. Slowly Rourke unclenched his fist and clamped his fingers around the horn of the saddle. Almost as if, the Scotsman thought, he was clamping the lid on his own emotions.
    As Mordecai’s horse moved away through the lifting shadows, Rourke wondered what would have happened if the old man hadn’t stopped him. He might have ended up killing Market in front of his kid’s eyes. Stump was right. Better to stay out of it. It wasn’t his fight.
    Gradually the mule settled down, and the team was hitched to the wagon. All the while he worked, James Market unloaded a stream of oaths on the slight figure who worked closely beside him. When they were finished, Market began lashing the last of their belongings to the wagon floor. The youth hurried to the stream with two buckets nearly as big as he was.
    Pulling a cigar from his pocket, Rourke bit the end and struck a match. Puffing lightly, he emitted a stream of smoke, blew out the match, and slid from the saddle. He wasn’t going to meddle, he promised himself. He was just going to satisfy his curiosity.
    As he made his way toward the stream, he glanced at the sky. It was so light now he could make out the faces of the people around him.
    The figure was kneeling at the edge of the stream, dipping the first bucket into the icy water. From the back, Rourke could see where the whip had split the shirt neatly open from the top of the shoulder to a spot where it was tucked into the waistband of faded britches. A narrow ribbon of blood trickled, leaving the shirt clinging in sticky red patches.
    “Need some help, boy?”
    A head swiveled. Two eyes rounded in surprise. Leaning against the trunk of a tree was a tall stranger, with a stream of smoke swirling above his head. His hair was dark and shaggy, curling over the collar of his shirt. His shoulders were broad; the muscles of his arms visible beneath the sleeves of his shirt. He had one booted foot crossed over the other in a careless pose. But there was nothing careless or relaxed about this man. A gun and holster rested against a muscular thigh. Dressed all in black, he looked like the devil himself. The handsomest devil Abby had ever seen. Without blinking, he met her gaze. It was his eyes that held her. Gray, almost silver in the morning mist, they were fixed on