‘Let me pass.’ A sob strangled in her throat. Two dirt-ingrained hands reached from behind her and caught at the strings of her cloak. Before she could raise her hands to prevent him, he had wrenched her cloak open and tugged it from her shoulders so that it fell in deep folds at her feet.
Clay whistled appreciatively through his teeth. ‘Those Mormons sure know how to pick women, Ed.’ In the dim light of the store her pale gold hair shone silkily. Because of her fear, her breasts rose and fell beneath the cambric of her gown, up-thrusting and sharply defined.
‘No … Please …’
She was caught around the waist from behind and as she struggled wildly, the obscenity in front of her moved forward. He wound a hand in her hair, wrenching her head back painfully. And then, as she kicked and sobbed, he brought thick, wet lips down on hers.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Her wrists were caught in a vice-like grip and as a foul tongue probed the depths of her mouth, a hand covered her right breast, kneading and squeezing. She was going to be sick. She was going to faint. She struggled wildly and at last freed her head enough to bite savagely at the loathesome face. She was rewarded by a blow that would have sent her reeling across the room if it had not been for the cruel hands holding her fast.
There was blood on her tongue and she could no longer see clearly. Her small, booted feet kicked out in vain and then, as Ed’s hands reached the neck of her gown and tore the material apart, she screamed and kept on screaming.
Another blow sent her head sharply sideways and she was barely conscious, aware only that defiling hands were no longer on the cambric of her gown but on her bare flesh.
At first Polly thought it was a gunshot, the door was kicked in so violently. She was sent sprawling to the ground as the men leaped forward to meet their adversary. Dart sprang through the door like an eagle in flight. The lumbering, ox-like Ed was circled by the neck as he charged at the spoiler of his fun, and his head was rammed into the wall so hard that the wood splintered.
Clay, jubilant reaction at the prospect of a fight with the returning Mormons changing instantly at the sight of a uniform, was scrambling for the gun and holster hung on the far wall.
‘No …’ Polly hurled herself bodily after him, catching hold of his legs, sending him sprawling against the counter, a boot kicking cruelly into her face as he rid himself of her restraining grasp.
He struggled to his feet, his hands reaching out for the gun a second too late. Another hand, darker and well-shaped, wrenched it away and a clenched fist connected with Clay’s jaw, sending him reeling across the counter top. As Clay slipped over the far side of the counter, Dart dived after him. There was the sound of bone against bone and again and again Clay went sprawling, his face a bloodied mask.
At last, panting harshly, Dart kicked the unresisting body contemptuously with his foot. Clay groaned, rolled on to his belly and retched. At the other side of the room Ed sprawled senseless, the connection of the wall and his head too much for even his thick skull. Polly felt giddy and nauseous as she stumbled to her feet and half sank. Immediately his arms were around her, and she clung to him, shaking convulsively.
‘It’s all over. You’re safe now.’ His voice was gentle and the hands that had just laid two men unconscious stroked her hair tenderly.
The most curious longing swept through him. He wanted her to remain in his arms and he wanted to tilt her heart-shaped face to his. He wanted to kiss her long and lingeringly and he wanted her to respond to him. He wanted what he could not have. Miss Polly Kirkham was only clinging to him now out of shock and relief at being saved from a fate she could barely comprehend.
He smiled grimly to himself. He doubted if she yet realised it, but she was naked down to the waist and her bare breasts were even now pressed tantalisingly against his chest. If he had known the situation in advance, he would have removed his jacket in order to enjoy the experience more. He stifled his desire with the iron will that had become second nature to him.
‘It’s time for us to go, before any of their friends arrive and delay us further.’
‘Yes. Of course.’
She released her hold on him. She had imagined the tenderness, for his near-black eyes were as coolly indifferent as his voice. She stood dazedly while he lifted her cloak and placed it around her shoulders. As he fastened it at her throat, she was aware for the first time of the torn material of her gown and her exposed breasts. Her face flamed, but the Major had already covered her nakedness. How long had she been exposed to his gaze? She remembered that his enigmatic eyes had never left her face. Her cheeks burned with fresh shame. She had told herself that he was not a gentleman. Now she knew that she was wrong, as she had been about so many other things. The black stallion pawed the trampled snow outside the saloon. Silent spectators stood in small, isolated groups. The Major ignored them and swung Polly up easily in his arms, placing her on his horse. Then he mounted behind her and she had no option but to lean against his chest as they cantered down Corrington’s lone street and towards the waiting wagons beside the Fox River.
When she could trust herself to speak, she said:
‘Brother Spencer and Brother Cowley. What happened to them?’
‘They returned without provisions and Brother Spencer had a few cuts and bruises to show for their venture. Fortunately he entered the store alone and for a God-fearing man is useful with his fists. If Brother Cowley had entered with him it might have been a quite different tale. No man can fight one-handed.’
‘When did you … How did you …’ She did not know how to phrase the question.
‘Nephi and Josiah returned speedily and not by the same route they had taken. We were all ready to break camp when Sister Marriot told us that you had left for Corrington on foot.’
‘I see.’
‘It was a very foolish thing to have done.’ He was once more master of his feelings and his voice cut like ice.
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve wasted a good three hours’travelling time.’ She remained silent. For good measure he added, ‘And you’ve blooded my uniform.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her stiff little voice did not sound sorry. That he was more concerned about his uniform than her was mortifying.
She tried to move so that she was not resting against his chest, and as she did so the piece of cloak she had been holding against her cut cheek shifted and brushed his hand. He reined the horse in sharply.
‘You’re bleeding!’
‘It will stop in a little while,’ she said, trying not to give in to the faintness that threatened to overwhelm her.
He turned her face to his and gazed horrified at the gash on her cheek where the vicious boot had gouged the skin. He had been so busy stifling his desire for her, so conscious of the rose-tipped breasts, that he had not realised the extent of the wound. If she had not acted as quick-wittedly as she had done, he might very well be a dead man and he was complaining of the damage done to his uniform!
‘Here, let me,’ he said, and a soft linen handkerchief was pressed gently against her cheek. The horse remained still; dusk had fallen. In a wood of trees nearby the wind soughed softly through the branches. Her mouth was only a fraction away from his. Slowly he bent his head, his lips barely touching hers. She did not move away. The pressure of his lips increased and she did what she had yearned to do for so long. She lifted her arms and circled his neck, parting her lips softly and willingly beneath his.
She could feel the breath catch in his throat and then he was kissing her long and deeply and her whole body responded. She clung to him, pressing her body nearer and nearer to his in a need that was primeval.
In the distance came the faint sound of a hymn being sung, not joyfully, but fearfully. The Saints were anxiously awaiting their safe return. The sound penetrated Dart’s consciousness and was the only thing that restrained him from swinging her to the ground and imprisoning her body beneath the weight of his. She would not have protested. The passion he
had sensed the first time he had held her had been fully awakened.
He shut his eyes tight, steeling himself to regain control. She had just endured a traumatic experience and he was taking advantage of her innocence and vulnerability. He opened his eyes and firmly disengaged his lips from hers. Then, just as firmly, he removed her arms from around his neck. In the growing darkness she looked up at him in bewilderment.
‘Our friends will be waiting for us,’ he said. His voice betrayed nothing and it was now too dark to see the expression in his eyes. Uncomprehending she turned away from him as he flicked the reins and the horse began again to canter forward.
Her cheeks burned. His kiss had been nothing but the reaction of a man after a dangerous fight. She had shown herself to be shameless, eager for the kisses of a man who was indifferent to her. She remained stiff-backed, her lips burning and bruised, fighting back tears of humiliation.
The faint singing grew louder and Polly struggled to compose herself. Hating Dart Richards. Hating herself. Hating everybody.
‘They’re back! They’re back!’ Little Jamie Spencer was running across the snow towards them. Relieved, welcoming faces greeted and surrounded them. With her eyes firmly averted from Major Richards’ face she allowed herself to be lifted to the ground, immediately stepping backwards, away from his blue-uniformed figure.
Lucy’s arm was around her shoulders and she went willingly with the older woman to their wagon. She had no desire for the rest of the Saints to see her torn gown or the extent of her bruises. As she climbed the step she could hear Nephi asking anxiously.
‘You caught up with her before she reached Corrington? There was no harm done?’
‘None’ Dart lied and then, changing the subject, ‘That broth smells good, Sister Lyman. I am more than ready for it.’
Polly felt weak with relief. For all his faults he was not going to tell what had happened in the hateful little dry goods store in Corrington. Nor would he tell what had happened on the journey back. Why should he? To him it had meant nothing. His kisses were freely and easily given. With trembling hands she bathed her face and bundled the torn gown away until it could be stitched. Then, in the darkness, she began to cry, his linen handkerchief clutched tightly in her hand.
Chapter Six
In the morning the first thing she did was to tend anxiously to her face. She gave a cry of horror when she saw the damage that the flailing boot had inflicted. Her right cheekbone was bruised and to Polly’s eyes the cut was so deep it would surely leave a scar. She bathed it, put salve on it and when an anxious Lucy asked how it had been inflicted she said only that it was of no moment and would soon heal. Lucy knew better than to press her. Tom was rapidly recovering his strength and insisted that he take the reins for the day’s drive. She turned her attention to him, beseeching him not to be so rash. Polly had lived with them for five years and Lucy loved her dearly, but she was still a stranger to her in many ways. It was obvious from her attitude that she had no intention of divulging what had happened to her in the hours that she had been absent from the camp. That something had happened was patently obvious.
Polly stared aghast at herself in her treasured hand mirror. It had been dark last night when he had kissed her. He could not have seen how swollen her cheek was, how damaged. If he had he would not have done so. Would his contempt of her shamelessness be touched with distaste when he saw her? Would he flinch or turn his head away?
She lingered in the wagon and allowed the other women to prepare breakfast.
‘See what eggs we have this morning,’ Lucy called from outside.
The hen coop was so placed that it was virtually impossible to reach it from inside the wagon. Polly tried and failed. She could hear the Major’s lazy deep voice in conversation with Nephi. He sounded remarkably good-humoured.
‘The eggs, Polly,’ Lucy called.
Polly gritted her teeth. She would have to emerge sooner or later. With as much carelessness as she could affect, she jumped down on to the snow and walked briskly to the rear of the wagon and the hen coop. She was aware of Susannah’s quick intake of breath. No one, the previous night, had been aware of her injury. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nephi’s horrified expression and his quick movement in her direction. She also saw a blue-uniformed arm restraining him. Despite her warring emotions she felt grateful to him. He had known, without being told, that she did not want what had happened in Corrington to become public knowledge.
Her hands trembled as she lifted the eggs. He was still with Nephi, only yards behind her. She would have to turn eventually.
‘How many eggs?’ Lucy called impatiently.
‘Five,’ Polly answered, with forced light-heartedness. She could delay no longer. She lifted her chin and turned, a falsely bright smile on her face. His eyes were on her, but she would not meet them.
She crossed to the fire and, at a warning glance from Nephi, Susannah and Eliza averted their eyes from her face and continued their conversation without questioning her or making any remarks.
Wherever she went she was aware of him. A brilliant winter sun was beginning to melt the packed snow and the Saints’spirits were high as they breakfasted. He was sitting directly opposite her on the other side of the fire. Her lowered head could see black hessian boots and dark blue breeches. When he put his plate to the ground, her heart seemed to turn in her breast at the sight of the olive-skinned, strong hands. Hands that had held her and fought for her. Hands that had coldly removed hers from around his neck.
‘The weather’s on the turn,’ Josiah said cheerfully. ‘The going should be easier.’
‘Nothing will be easy until the snow has thawed completely,’ Nephi replied practically. ‘The sooner we’re on our way, the better.’
The women took the hint and rose to their feet, carrying the dishes towards a bowl of melted snow.
Polly rose hastily, anxious not to be left on her own. Dart watched as she hurried towards the Marriot wagon, his near-black eyes narrowing, his good humour gone. He had made a fatal error of judgment. Polly Kirkham was showing him that what had happened yesterday was meaningless in the light of day. Her eyes had never once met his. Her manner had been as frosty as the snow around them. With even more curtness than usual he ordered the men to prepare to break camp.
Miserably Polly sat beside Tom Marriot as the wagons rolled onwards. Susannah Spencer began to sing a rousing hymn, but Polly could not bring herself to join in. Her mind was full of darker thoughts, trying to understand the reactions of her heart and body to a man who showed passion one moment, and indifference the next. A man who could be crushingly cruel and yet exceptionally kind. Her head ached. She knew too little of men even to begin to understand him, yet she could sense his inner unhappiness. It did nothing to alleviate her own. He rode at the head of the wagons, his broad back firmly turned to her. Eliza Cowley began to sing an old English song taught her by her mother, and the early March sun continued to shine down and soften the hard-packed snow.
Dart eyed it, mentally estimating how long it would be before it melted and flooded the creeks and made their way impassible. He did not have long to wonder. Ahead of them a creek roared, bursting its banks with the rush of melted snow from higher up the valley. The Cowley wagon stopped abruptly and Polly had to rein in the horses and veer to the side to avoid a collision.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Lucy asked anxiously from the interior of the wagon.
‘A flood,’ Jamie Spencer ran down to tell them, an expression of immense satisfaction on his face.
‘But the creeks are not until after Richardson Point,’ Tom Marriot protested as he sat beside Polly.
They waited. When Dart rode up to them he was grim-faced.
His eyes flicked over Polly as if she didn’t exist. He said curtly to Tom,
‘One of the creeks is bursting its banks with melted snow. Normally the water would be no more than two feet deep, now it’s a raging torrent.’
‘What do we
do?’ Tom Marriot’s face was ashen. The floods would increase before they subsided. They could not survive in such a small party and endure a camp that could stretch into weeks. That could only be achieved with their friends at Richardson Point.
‘We cross it,’ Dart replied grimly, ‘though the Lord alone knows how.’
‘He’s even beginning to talk like a Mormon,’ Sister Schulster said with irritating complacency from the back of the Cowley wagon. The others paid her no attention.
They had known of the Chariton River and the Locust and Modkine Creeks that lay after Richardson Point. It had not occurred to them that they would be held up by a flooding creek before then.
Silently all four wagons drew slowly up to the banks of the offending and nameless creek. Polly’s heart sank within her. A creek conjured up a stream. What faced them was a river, rushing and surging with tremendous force into the broad waters of the Fox.
‘It isn’t possible,’ Susannah Spencer whispered. ‘We’d be swept away.’
Eliza’s face was white, her lips moved in silent prayer. It was their first big obstacle. She had known there would be difficulties and had prayed she would not let her companions down when faced with them. The fear that gripped her was almost paralysing. Tom and Lucy Marriot silently clasped hands. Sister Fielding poked her head out from between the flaps of canvas and said:
‘Moses’s faith parted the Red Sea. I can’t see why twenty foot of water should disturb us!’
Dart and Nephi stood on the bank, Dart’s brows pulled close together.
‘What would you have done if you’d been alone?’ Nephi asked quietly.
‘Ride it. It’s broad, but I doubt if it’s more than four feet deep at the centre.’
‘Then why can’t we do the same?’
‘Because of the current. Wagons are cumbersome and easily tipped over. Not even being able to swim would help the women and children in a torrent like that.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘The first thing to do is to make quite sure how deep that flood water is.’
A Many-Splendoured Thing Page 8