Free Passage West by Ruth Ryan Langan

the real beauty she tried to disguise. Noting the way the firelight touched her cheeks and put a glow in her eyes, he decided to stop fighting it and just enjoy watching her. It gave him real pleasure. Despite the hat, tiny wisps of fiery hair broke free from the fat braid to kiss her brow. He glanced at the hands locked around her knees. The fingers were long and tapered. Her hands were meant to hold a fragile teacup. Or a cooing baby, he thought, the muscles of his stomach suddenly tightening. Dismissing such alarming thoughts, he forced himself to face the facts. Abby Market’s hands were rough and callused from handling the reins of an unruly team. And the only thing she’d hold for the next thousand miles was a rifle and a team of mules.
    Rourke forced himself out of his reverie to concentrate on Mordecai’s musings.
    “That was the year we began twice-weekly runs between the Mississippi River and California. Twenty-eight hundred miles in twenty-five days. I ate so much dust, I figure I got more sand in me than blood.”
    The others laughed.
    “What about the girl?” Abby asked.
    “Rode up to my usual stop along the route. A young fellow, his wife, and three little kids were trying to carve a ranch out of some god-awful wilderness. This day, just as I get within sight of the sod shack, a shot rings out. I holler that I dunna’ mean anybody any harm. I start up again and a second shot rings out. Takes my hat, parts my hair, and leaves me shaking in my boots. Then this little mite of a lass steps out from behind a tree and says in a squeaky little voice, ‘Your name Stump?’ When I say yes, she says, ‘You ride for the Butterfield Overland Mail?’ Again I say yes. She drops the rifle and says, ‘My pa said I could trust you. You have to take me with you.’ In the house I find her mama, papa, and two younger sisters all dead. Pawnee.
    “How did she manage to survive?” Abby had become so caught up in his narrative, she forgot about Rourke.
    “That’s the most amazing part of it. There had been a party of six. All six lay dead around the house. The little girl admitted that her father managed to kill the first three before he died. But she killed the other three after they’d slit the throats of her mother and little sisters.”
    “Whatever happened to her?” Abby asked.
    “I took her with me as far as St. Louis. I heard she went east to live with her mother’s people.” Mordecai chuckled. “Lord help the man who expects her to be a docile little wife.”
    “If he tried something funny with that one, he’d probably find his throat slit or his hands chopped off before he could blink,” Parker intoned.
    The others chuckled, and Abby realized with a twinge of discomfort that she didn’t belong here. These were men, eager to relax with man’s talk. For these few minutes, she had felt a companionship she had rarely known. If she could have picked any man in the world to be her father, Abby thought, it would have been Mordecai Stump. He could be as mean and frightening as a rampaging bull with anyone who questioned his authority. Yet in her presence he was always respectful, even gentle. It was comfortable to sit with these men, listening to their easy conversation. It was something she had never shared with her father.
    When she stood, Mordecai and the others stood, making her once again feel awkward. They treated her like a lady, but she didn’t know how to act like one. She wanted to be one of them, but their private jokes and knowing smiles warned her that she could never completely fit in. Yet they tried to make her feel special. All except Rourke. With him, she simply felt … clumsy.
    She offered her hand to Mordecai. “Good night, Mr. Stump.”
    “Night, Miss Abby. Be sure to look for Rourke tomorrow morning.”
    As she turned away, she couldn’t see Rourke’s face. It was still hidden in shadow. But from the prickly feeling along her spine, she was certain he was still watching her, as