Passage West by Ruth Ryan Langan

was struck from behind by a boulder. He swung around to find Carrie, her dress hanging in shreds, bending down to retrieve another weapon.
    “Two little she-cats. Now ain’t this going to be fun.” Swinging the club, he caught Carrie at the back of the head, sending her sprawling in the dirt. When she didn’t move, Abby let out a cry.
    “You’ve killed her.” In a frenzy, she bent and picked up a flaming stick from the fire and threw it at her attacker. With a scream of pain, Flint Barrows caught the fiery missile against his chest, setting his shirt on fire.
    Rolling around in the grass, he put out the flames, then turned all his fury on the girl who was bent over her younger sister.
    “You’re going to pay for what you just did, girlie.”
    As he advanced on Abby, he heard the click of a revolver and felt cold steel pressed against his temple.
    A voice as chilling as death said, “You have five seconds to get out of my sight. Or you’ll be dead.”
    Barrows froze, then turned and stared into Rourke’s hard slate eyes. As he started to speak, Rourke cut him off.
    “I’d relish the chance to kill you, Barrows. Now you’ve got three seconds.”
    Without a word, Flint Barrows turned and ran into the darkness beyond the circle of light.
    Tears stung Abby’s eyes as she bent over her younger sister. “Carrie. Oh Carrie, please be all right.”
    The girl moaned, and Abby clutched at her, then felt the warm, sticky mass of blood on the back of her head.
    Instantly Rourke was at her side. With an efficiency of movement, he lifted the girl in his arms and placed her on a blanket in the back of the wagon. Probing the wound, he said, “Bring me some water and a clean cloth.”
    As he washed the blood from her head, he felt the swollen mass at the base of her skull. “It’s bloody, but nothing serious. She’ll have a hell of a pain in her head tomorrow.”
    Kneeling beside him, Abby took the cloth from his hand. “I’ll tend my sister now.”
    Rourke glanced around the neat wagon. “Where’s your father?”
    Abby shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all day. I suppose he’s at the post drinking with the men.”
    Or sleeping it off somewhere, Rourke thought.
    As he climbed down from the wagon, Abby followed him. All her earlier anger at this man had disappeared. Extending her hand, she swallowed and said softly, “Thank you, Rourke. For saving Carrie and me.”
    “You were doing a pretty good job of it yourself.” He glanced at the figure of her sister, lying so still.
    As she followed the direction of his look, her voice choked with anger. “She’s just a little girl.”
    “That won’t matter to a man like Barrows.” Rourke thought of some of the men he’d met in the war. Something had snapped inside them. Whatever goodness or decency they’d once had was gone. Now they knew only anger and killing and revenge. “Stay close to her.”
    Abby nodded. “I won’t let her out of my sight.” She stared up at his face, half hidden in shadow, and couldn’t think of anything more to say.
    As she climbed into the wagon, he realized for the first time that she was wearing a dress instead of her usual men’s clothes. He wondered if she knew how small and delicate she looked. Not at all like the kind of woman who drove a team and brandished a club at a man twice her size.
    Rourke glanced at the whiskey bottle he had dropped beneath the tree. All he’d wanted tonight was to be left alone, to drink away his memories and find relief in blessed sleep. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in Abby Market’s life. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the moon. These women were alone. Alone and vulnerable. He let out a string of oaths. With reluctance he bent, picked up the bottle, and corked it. He’d need a clear head if he was going to keep watch on the Market wagon for the rest of the night. Not that he wanted to get involved in their troubles, be told himself. But if James Market