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her hands on her hips, Abby surveyed the scene with a smirk of satisfaction. “Serves you right, Mr. Rourke. The next time, maybe you’ll remember to allow a lady her privacy.”
    Scooping up her damp clothes, she flounced away without giving him another glance.
    Standing in waist-deep water, Rourke let out a string of oaths and watched until her figure disappeared into the darkness. Cursing his luck, he strode from the water and removed his dripping pants. Viciously wringing the water from them, he draped them over his arm. Tomorrow’s ride would be twice as uncomfortable in wet clothes. But he had no choice now. Damn the woman. He glanced toward the wagon train through narrowed eyes. What a firebrand. He’d never expected such a temper from that little woman. The same woman who’d allowed her father to whip her. Abby Market was a contradiction. How many other surprises, he wondered, was she keeping hidden?
    When the thin, pale light began to streak the sky, he pulled on his boots, retrieved his gun, and made his way back to the train. As he passed the Market wagon, he heard the soft whispers of even breathing. By now she was probably sound asleep. He smelled the faintest scent of bayberry and was stunned by the emotions it evoked. He didn’t want to feel anything for Abby Market. Anything except dislike.
    Parker was already up and stoking the fire for coffee. Without a word, Rourke rolled his blanket and climbed into the back of the cook wagon. Troubled, he leaned against the canvas and fingered a piece of tattered fabric. The sight of Abby Market’s creamy body had brought a rush of desire that left him stunned. In itself, that wasn’t so surprising. It had been a long time since he’d held a woman’s soft body and lost himself in the delights of the flesh. What disturbed him was the feeling that she was special, different from all the others on this train. She was just a woman, he told himself. No more, no less. And a damned ornery one at that. But what had happened tonight was definitely going to be a problem for him. From now on, whenever he saw her dressed in that shabby man’s outfit, he would be able to recall the body underneath.
    Dangerous thoughts, he cautioned himself. Next thing, he’d be worrying about her. Hadn’t she told him she could take care of herself? Why then did he have this almost overpowering desire to protect her? And why this unreasonable dislike for her father?
    There was no room in his life for such feelings. Love, tenderness, concern for others. All were dead. Dead and buried. Buried with those simple pine boxes in a lush green meadow.

Chapter Four
     
    Rourke avoided the Market wagon. Each time he saw the slender driver, head bent against the sun, he thought of the scene by the river and felt his blood heat.
    If Abby was aware of him, the only indication she gave was a slight lifting of her chin. Even in her father’s cast-off clothing, with the scent of horses and sweat clinging to her, she bore herself with regal disdain.
    From her perch on the wagon’s bone-jarring seat, Abby saw the twisting Oregon Trail like strands of a rope. Leaving Independence, they paralleled the Santa Fe Trail until a simple wooden sign read Road to Oregon. Just west of the Big Blue River the strands of several trails came together into the Platte Valley. Everyone in the wagon train was eager to cross the Platte River, where they would stop for two days to take on supplies at Fort Kearny.
    When they were within sight of the river, Abby let the reins go slack in her hands. Ahead of her, shimmering in the afternoon sun, was a body of water two or three miles wide. Though the waters seemed tranquil enough, she felt her throat go dry. How would she ever hold the team on a firm, steady pace for such a great distance?
    At the river’s edge, the wagons stopped, waiting for direction from Mordecai Stump. As the older man approached on horseback, balancing his cane across the saddle, he called, “Afternoon,