Free Passage West by Ruth Ryan Langan Page B

lips with color. He felt a sudden sexual pull that left him dazed.
    Abby saw his eyes darken from slate to molten lead. Confused, she withdrew her hand and turned her head away, pretending to watch the herd.
    He fought to keep his tone even. “For the thrill of the hunt. There are men like that in this world. Their only concern is their own pleasure, their own sense of power. They give no thought to the beautiful creatures they destroy in the process.”
    Abby heard the underlying pain in his voice and wondered about it. Was Rourke still talking about the bison? Or had there been something—or someone—else to cause such intense feeling?
    The tone of his voice changed. “There should be a river in about a mile or so. We’ll stop there for lunch.” He wheeled his horse.
    Abby gave a last look at the magnificent herd, then turned her horse and followed his lead.
    Lunch was dried meat, hard biscuits, and some precious coffee and chicory boiled over the fire until it was the consistency of molasses. Abby thought it tasted better than some of the meals her aunt and sister had prepared.
    While they ate, Rourke pointed out landmarks. A cluster of rocks. A deformed tree, bent and gnarled from wind and sand. Ruts worn deeply into the sandstone from hundreds of wagon wheels.
    “Notice where you’re heading. Mark where you’ve been. Watch the sky for wisps of smoke. They could be signals from Indian scouts.”
    “What would the signals tell?”
    Rourke pulled his hat lower on his forehead to block the sun overhead. “In your case they’d tell of a woman traveling alone. They’d give your location and probable destination. They’d say if you were on foot or riding. Carrying a weapon or unarmed. Within safe distance of a wagon train, or too far away to reach safety.”
    Abby shivered despite the heat. “An Indian could tell all that from smoke?”
    “It appears so. If they choose to, they can pretty much know everything going on in their territory.”
    She peered around, wondering what might be hidden behind the rocks and trees. “Is this hostile Indian territory?”
    Rourke grinned. “We’re the hostiles. They’re just trying to defend what is theirs.”
    “But we don’t mean them any harm.”
    “Don’t we?” Rourke doused the fire, scattering the ashes, then covering them with dirt until no trace remained of their presence. “A few bison can feed a small tribe for an entire winter. How do you think the Indians feel when they see white men destroying entire herds just for the fun of killing?”
    Abby’s gaze swept the plain. For the first time she began to see this land as someone’s home. To the people who were born here, it was as cozy and familiar as the old springhouse at her family farm. The thought of the farm brought a twinge of homesickness she hadn’t felt in days.
    Seeing her frown, Rourke paused. “Something wrong?”
    “No.” She pulled herself into the saddle, then waited until he mounted. “Where are you from, Rourke?”
    “Maryland.”
    “What’s it like?”
    He flicked the reins, and she moved her mount into position beside him. “Green,” he murmured. “Everything so green.” His eyes took on a faraway look. All his features relaxed, until she thought he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. “Gentle rolling hills, clear bubbling streams, and a climate perfect for growing crops.”
    “Why’d you leave?”
    His smile fled. “Beyond those rocks I spotted a deer. Let’s see how well you can handle that rifle.”
    As he urged his horse forward, Abby watched him with a puzzled frown. She wished she hadn’t spoiled the moment. Rourke was obviously a man who didn’t care to answer too many questions. She’d remember that next time.
    At the top of a ridge, he halted and waited for her to reach his side. Climbing down, they left their horses and proceeded on foot. Scrambling through rocks, Rourke suddenly paused and pointed. Standing quietly, his head lifted to the slight breeze,