Passage West Read Free Page A

her with the most piercing look she’d ever seen.
    “Thanks. I can manage.”
    Rourke nearly swallowed his cigar. The voice was low and husky, but definitely feminine.
    The slender figure leaned over, filling the second bucket. Rourke studied the softly rounded hips. When both oaken buckets were brimming, she stood and tugged until she had lifted both to the grass. She turned. Rourke’s gaze studied the boyish figure in a man’s oversized pants and shirt. She was slim, but had the soft contours of a woman.
    He grinned, feeling at once foolish and awkward. “I guess you aren’t James Market’s son.”
    She didn’t return the smile.
    He saw the tremendous effort it cost her to lift both buckets. As she moved past him, head high, arms straining, he saw her eyes. Green. Green as the meadows of his home.
    She never paused; never looked back. He watched her until she disappeared behind the wagons.
    Tossing the cigar aside, he strode back to his horse. Damn James Market, he thought. And damn his arrogant woman.
     
    *  *  *
     
    A scorching sun burned off the last of the mist and beat mercilessly on man and beast. Dust from the churning wagon wheels swirled in little eddies, rising up to choke the driver of the next wagon. From the front of the train it was impossible to see through the dust cloud to the last wagon in the line.
    Aunt Vi had dipped a white lace handkerchief in water and handed it to Abby to tie over her nose and mouth. Still, sand clogged her throat and burned her eyes. Pulling the brim of her hat lower on her forehead, she gritted her teeth and urged the mules on when they fought the reins. Her arms ached from the long hours of driving the wagon. Her cramped muscles protested every rut and hole along the well-worn trail.
    In the back of the wagon, Aunt Vi and Carrie lay upon their blankets, holding similarly dampened handkerchiefs to their faces and gagging on the heat and dust. Every other woman and child on the train was out walking beside their wagons. Only these two rode.
    “How can Abby stand it?” Carrie moaned.
    “I don’t know, child. It’s been hours since we stopped. She has the endurance of a mule.”
    “Like Pa.”
    The older woman leaned up on one elbow. “Don’t say that. She isn’t like your father.”
    “Is too,” Carrie pouted. “They’re two of a kind. All they know is work, work, work. And once they make up their minds, there’s no stopping them. How could Abby allow Pa to sell everything we own and head west?”
    “Your sister had no choice.” Violet dipped her handkerchief into a bucket of water and wrung it out carefully before wiping her forehead. “Your father’s running, Carrie. Running from the pain of a dead wife and baby; running from the backbreaking labor of a farm that never yielded anything but failed crops and sickly cattle.”
    Violet lay back, ready to expound on one of her favorite theories.
    “Maybe everyone in this train is running—from a land devastated by war; from shattered dreams. And everyone is expecting to build a better life.” She sighed. “But if they bring along all the old hatred, all their cherished prejudices, they’ll find themselves with the same old life in a new place.”
    “What about us, Aunt Vi? What’s going to happen to us in the west?”
    “I’ve heard the land is rich and verdant, and the weather quite hospitable.”
    “And the Indians?” Carrie chuckled at her aunt’s sudden grimace. “Maybe I’ll marry an Indian chief and live like a princess.”
    “Don’t even think such things, child. I’ve heard horrible tales about how the Indians treat their captives.”
    Carrie tossed back her golden curls and noted the soiled smudges on her once-white muslin gown. With a sideways glance, she asked, “Are Indians one of your cherished prejudices, Aunt Vi?”
    The older woman’s eyes opened wide as she contemplated her niece for long silent moments. Nodding slowly, she said, “Out of the mouths of babes