Read Online Passage West by Ruth Ryan Langan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Ryan Langan
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twice.”
“Hit anything?”
She grinned. “Hit a tree one time. Trouble is, I was aiming at a fox in our henhouse.”
Mordecai laughed good-naturedly, and the others joined in before he indicated the blanket and saddle beside him. “Here. Sit a spell, Miss Abby, while I take a closer look at this rifle.”
When she was seated, the others sat back down near the fire and began to pass the blackened coffee pot around. When it came to Abby, she poured herself a cup and passed the pot to Parker, the cook. Rourke, she noted, chose to sit a little beyond the circle of light so that his face was in shadow. Why did the man always avoid the light, like a man on the run?
“Rifle’s in good shape,” Mordecai pronounced after a thorough examination. “Shouldn’t give you any trouble. But it’s a mighty big gun for someone as small as you. Has a kick to it.” Handing it back to her, he added, “You’ll get used to it. Tomorrow, why don’t you ride ahead of the train with Brand here. When he’s not scouting, he can give you some pointers on the use of this rifle, as well as signs of trouble you ought to take notice of.”
She felt immediately relieved at Mordecai’s ready acceptance of her request. She’d half feared she might be an object of ridicule. As for riding with Brand, though she knew little about the scout, and had rarely seen him around the wagons, she valued Mordecai’s judgment. If the wagon master thought the man worthy of her trust, she wouldn’t question him.
Brand looked up from his coffee. When he spoke, his words were very precise, the result of a Boston-bred missionary who had taught his family English. “You directed me to ride ahead to Fort Laramie.”
Mordecai, reaching for a cup of coffee, paused. “So I did. Rourke, what are you up to tomorrow?”
There was a perceptible pause. The voice in the darkness sounded guarded. “You asked me to find a shallow river crossing before we make camp tomorrow night.”
“Good,” Mordecai said, pouring, then drinking. “Take Miss Abby along. There ought to be a few times in the day when you can stop to give her a lesson or two.” The Scotsman’s eyes twinkled. “Should have thought of you in the first place. Nobody handles a gun better’n you.”
Abby felt her heart sink. Not Rourke. Anyone but Rourke. How could she endure an entire day in his company? He had to be feeling just as reluctant as she. She’d heard the edge in his voice. She felt her cheeks redden and blamed the heat of the fire. “I don’t want to be any trouble. I’d …”
“Nonsense. Everybody on the train, man and woman, should be able to handle a rifle. Never know when you’ll need it.”
Trapped, she thought, wishing there were some place to hide. She was as trapped as a rabbit in a snare.
She glanced in Rourke’s direction. Except for the gleam of the tin cup in his hands and the gunbelt at his waist, he was invisible. And yet she knew that he was watching her. She could feel his look, as physical as any touch.
Mordecai leaned back against his saddle and cradled the tin cup in his hands. “I’ve known a few women in my time who could handle a gun better’n a man. I remember the time a girl no more’n ten or twelve shot my hat clear off my head. What a shot. Parted my hair without drawing a drop of blood. It was back in fifty-eight,” he said, his voice warm with the memory. “I was a rider for the Butterfield Overland Mail.”
At his tone, Abby unconsciously relaxed, hugging her arms around her drawn-up knees, tilting her head to one side to watch the older man as he reminisced.
In the shadows Rourke studied the slender figure in the dirty men’s clothes and found himself remembering the woman he had seen in the river. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t forget the milk-white flesh, the soft, womanly curves she tried so hard to hide. Never again would he be able to think of her as simply James Market’s daughter. Every time he looked at her he saw
“Hit anything?”
She grinned. “Hit a tree one time. Trouble is, I was aiming at a fox in our henhouse.”
Mordecai laughed good-naturedly, and the others joined in before he indicated the blanket and saddle beside him. “Here. Sit a spell, Miss Abby, while I take a closer look at this rifle.”
When she was seated, the others sat back down near the fire and began to pass the blackened coffee pot around. When it came to Abby, she poured herself a cup and passed the pot to Parker, the cook. Rourke, she noted, chose to sit a little beyond the circle of light so that his face was in shadow. Why did the man always avoid the light, like a man on the run?
“Rifle’s in good shape,” Mordecai pronounced after a thorough examination. “Shouldn’t give you any trouble. But it’s a mighty big gun for someone as small as you. Has a kick to it.” Handing it back to her, he added, “You’ll get used to it. Tomorrow, why don’t you ride ahead of the train with Brand here. When he’s not scouting, he can give you some pointers on the use of this rifle, as well as signs of trouble you ought to take notice of.”
She felt immediately relieved at Mordecai’s ready acceptance of her request. She’d half feared she might be an object of ridicule. As for riding with Brand, though she knew little about the scout, and had rarely seen him around the wagons, she valued Mordecai’s judgment. If the wagon master thought the man worthy of her trust, she wouldn’t question him.
Brand looked up from his coffee. When he spoke, his words were very precise, the result of a Boston-bred missionary who had taught his family English. “You directed me to ride ahead to Fort Laramie.”
Mordecai, reaching for a cup of coffee, paused. “So I did. Rourke, what are you up to tomorrow?”
There was a perceptible pause. The voice in the darkness sounded guarded. “You asked me to find a shallow river crossing before we make camp tomorrow night.”
“Good,” Mordecai said, pouring, then drinking. “Take Miss Abby along. There ought to be a few times in the day when you can stop to give her a lesson or two.” The Scotsman’s eyes twinkled. “Should have thought of you in the first place. Nobody handles a gun better’n you.”
Abby felt her heart sink. Not Rourke. Anyone but Rourke. How could she endure an entire day in his company? He had to be feeling just as reluctant as she. She’d heard the edge in his voice. She felt her cheeks redden and blamed the heat of the fire. “I don’t want to be any trouble. I’d …”
“Nonsense. Everybody on the train, man and woman, should be able to handle a rifle. Never know when you’ll need it.”
Trapped, she thought, wishing there were some place to hide. She was as trapped as a rabbit in a snare.
She glanced in Rourke’s direction. Except for the gleam of the tin cup in his hands and the gunbelt at his waist, he was invisible. And yet she knew that he was watching her. She could feel his look, as physical as any touch.
Mordecai leaned back against his saddle and cradled the tin cup in his hands. “I’ve known a few women in my time who could handle a gun better’n a man. I remember the time a girl no more’n ten or twelve shot my hat clear off my head. What a shot. Parted my hair without drawing a drop of blood. It was back in fifty-eight,” he said, his voice warm with the memory. “I was a rider for the Butterfield Overland Mail.”
At his tone, Abby unconsciously relaxed, hugging her arms around her drawn-up knees, tilting her head to one side to watch the older man as he reminisced.
In the shadows Rourke studied the slender figure in the dirty men’s clothes and found himself remembering the woman he had seen in the river. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t forget the milk-white flesh, the soft, womanly curves she tried so hard to hide. Never again would he be able to think of her as simply James Market’s daughter. Every time he looked at her he saw
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