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Miss Abby. Where’s your father?”
    “He said he was going hunting with Flint Barrows.”
    Mordecai frowned. Hunting, was it? More like crawling into the shade of a big rock and draining their jug while the others did their share of the work. He had no use for James Market, but he felt sorry for his three women. If it weren’t for this tenacious little creature, they wouldn’t have survived the first hundred miles. And as for Flint Barrows … Mordecai’s frown deepened. He could always smell a troublemaker, and Barrows reeked of it.
    “Will we be crossing soon?” Abby asked, breaking through the older man’s reverie.
    “Aye. As soon as we round up everyone.”
    “Look at her,” Thompson said, riding up and pointing to the river. “Damned mud flat’s too thick to drink, too thin to plow.” He squinted through the white glare of the sun.
    Seeing Abby’s look of concern, Mordecai sought to calm her. “I’m sorry, Miss Abby. It’s just the usual lament of a tired man. Dunna’ worry about the size of the Platte. Though there are strong currents in places, and pockets of quicksand, the river is only knee deep.”
    Instead of feeling reassured, she felt the panic tighten her throat. “Quicksand?”
    “It is easy enough to spot, if you know what to look for. I’ll cross first and find a safe passage. Once done, the other wagons will follow close together. As long as no one strays from the route I lay out, we’ll have no problems.”
    As he and Thompson rode away, she pushed her hat back on her head and passed a hand over her forehead. No problems. Just strong river currents and quicksand. And her father nowhere in sight.
    While drivers climbed down from their wagons to stretch stiff muscles, and family members drew together to watch from the shore, Mordecai and Parker began to cross the river in the chow wagon. With her hand shielding the sun from her eyes, Abby watched as the wagon slowly eased across the vast stretch of water.
    “The water is quite shallow, it seems,” Aunt Vi said, coming up beside her.
    “Yes.”
    “It should prove a simple matter to get across.”
    “Guess so.” There was no sense mentioning her fears to this gentle woman.
    “Then I’ll let Carrie sleep through it. All that bouncing and jostling gave her a headache.”
    Abby turned, about to remind Violet that a better way to cure Carrie’s headache might be to find her a few chores. Noting her aunt’s spotless yellow gown, she felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips. “You look just like a pretty little buttercup, Aunt Vi.”
    The older woman touched a hand to her throat in a disconcerted gesture Abby had come to recognize. “Why, what a sweet thing to say. Why don’t you take some refreshment while we wait to cross?”
    Abby nodded. Her throat was parched. Her stomach growled for food.
    “Go wash up, child. I’ll have something ready in a minute.”
    While the older woman started a small fire and placed a kettle over the flame, Abby filled a basin with water and scrubbed the dust and grime from her face and neck. Bending her head forward, she ran a comb through the long hair matted with tangles and sweat, then shook her head upward, sending the hair drifting like a fine red veil about her back and shoulders. Glancing up, she was startled to see Rourke standing beside a tree, staring at her. For one breathless moment, their eyes met and held. Then, breaking contact, Abby twisted her hair into a fat knot, smashed the dirty hat onto her head, and pivoted away. Despite the refreshing wash, she felt sweat bead her upper lip. Why did Rourke have to look at her like that? And why did his look affect her so? She would have to steel herself to feel nothing for him. Nothing but contempt.
    Abby sipped the scalding tea her aunt handed her, and burned her tongue. She felt almost relieved. It gave her something besides Rourke to think about.
    When the call came to line up the wagons for the river crossing, Abby pulled herself up to