Wagon Train Proposal

by Renee Ryan

  Rachel had been wrong about the other woman, completely.

  Abigail had pulled her weight from the very beginning of their journey. First, by singing to the wagon train children at night. Then, she’d approached Rachel for lessons in daily practicalities in exchange for music lessons. The suggestion had been mutually beneficial. Over time, they’d become friends.

  Rachel couldn’t think of a better woman to marry her brother. And she liked Emma’s fiancé just as much.

  A movement out of the corner of her eye pulled her attention back to the riverbank. Back to Tristan.

  Their gazes locked and held once again.

  A dozen unspoken words passed between them. For a moment, the world seemed to stop and pause. Rachel couldn’t catch a decent breath. Then...

  Her pulse skittered back to life.

  Her breathing picked up speed.

  Remorse filled her.

  Perhaps she’d overstepped when she’d first met the widowed sheriff.

  Rachel had been so caught up in protecting Emma, insisting her sister “follow her heart” and be allowed to make her own choice, that she hadn’t considered how doing so would affect Tristan. Or his three young, motherless daughters.

  She’d never met his little girls, yet Rachel still felt a connection to them and their plight.

  More to the point, she owed their father an apology. Not for warning him away from Emma but for the way she’d addressed the situation.

  If not now, when?

  * * *

  Tristan felt the corner of his mouth twitch. It was the only outward sign of his irritation as Rachel Hewitt approached him with strong, purposeful strides. She might be small, but she was certainly determined.

  He couldn’t deny the young woman was pretty, in an untraditional sort of way. Her wild, curly brown hair that seemed to defy any attempts at taming and those dark brown eyes were an attractive combination. Her sweet, youthful face held no guile, and she’d proved herself to be full of life, especially when she was around, or caring for, little children.

  Tristan admitted, if only in the privacy of his own mind, that he’d been a bit taken by Rachel Hewitt when they’d originally met.

  Then she’d opened her mouth.

  Out rolled one unwelcome opinion after another. Although she was almost always right, he wasn’t used to a woman speaking her mind with such...enthusiasm.

  How like her to seek him out and share one of her opinions when he had far too many other concerns on his mind. There were countless tasks that needed addressing before the wagon train set out down the river. He wished there were a better route, but the Columbia was hemmed in by steep slopes and cliffs of hard rock on either side.

  Worse still, the soggy bottomlands were flooded, leaving the west end of the gorge unsuitable for foot traffic. While several hearty men had volunteered to lead the animals over the Lolo Pass, the bulk of the wagon train had little choice but to cross the river on rafts, canoes or bateaus. If conditions held, and they put in the water today, the emigrants could make it to Oregon City in less than a week.

  Tristan would soon be home. Not soon enough.

  After weeks on the trail, he missed his daughters. He hated leaving them behind with his neighbor, Bertha Quincy, but he’d been eager to find a woman to marry. And now that things hadn’t worked out with Emma Hewitt, they were facing a longer future without a mother.

  He had to figure out another solution quickly.

  In the meantime, he had a wagon train to assist down the tumultuous Columbia.

  He turned his back on Rachel and walked off in the opposite direction. There was movement everywhere. The unloading of wagons, the unhitching of oxen teams, trees being felled and dragged to the makeshift rafts in midconstruction, all created a cacophony of sights and sounds.

  A profusion of odors thickened the cool October air. Oxen and horses, canvas and dry rot, quashed campfires, burned tar—and those were the more palatable smells.

  Tristan longed for the journey to be complete. He longed to see his daughters again, to hold them close and tell them he loved them. He’d made a mistake, thinking he would find a suitable woman to marry on the wagon train.

  There was another concern plaguing him, as well. The emigrants had a thief among them. Before leaving Missouri, nearly fifteen thousand dollars had been stolen from a fireproof safe. As the caravan continued on the Oregon Trail, various valuables had also gone missing.

  The thief had yet to be discovered. Tristan wasn’t giving up hope, though.

  He and the nine-man committee of overseers and regulators, along with the insurance agent from the safe company, could still catch the thief before the wagon train crossed into Oregon Country. Please, Lord, let it be so.

  A familiar female voice called out his name.

  He increased his pace.

  “Sheriff McCullough.” The call came again, more formal this time but with an equal amount of conviction. “A quick word, if you please.”

  He could keep walking. He could continue to pretend he didn’t hear the perfectly reasonable request. Or he could turn around and deal with the confounding woman.

  Tristan did the only thing a man of integrity would do in such a situation. He turned around.

  And faced Rachel Hewitt head-on.

  Chapter Two

  With Tristan’s impatient gaze locked on her, Rachel’s footsteps faltered and she slowed to a near crawl. Now that she’d secured his attention, she wasn’t quite sure what to say to the man. I’m sorry seemed too simple, too easy and thoroughly inadequate, given the circumstances.

  He was, after all, heading back to Oregon City without a bride or a mother for his daughters. Rachel had played a role in that. Although...

  The situation wasn’t entirely her fault. In truth, it wasn’t even a little bit her fault. She’d merely pointed out what should have been obvious. By discouraging him from pursuing her sister, Rachel had saved everyone—including Tristan himself—a whole lot of trouble, possibly even heartache.

  But that wasn’t the point.

  Rachel drew in a tight breath, forced her feet to move quickly over the sodden grass.

  Why, why had Grayson told Tristan about Emma and then suggested a match between them? Now, Tristan had a glimpse of what might have been. No other woman could hope to rival Emma’s serene beauty and soft, caring nature, especially not Rachel.

  Not that she was interested in becoming Tristan’s wife. No matter how connected she felt to his three motherless little girls, Rachel would not serve as Emma’s stand-in. Not nearly as beautiful as her sister, Rachel had spent most of her life falling short in most people’s eyes. She’d always been considered second-best, the other sister.

  No more.

  When Rachel eventually married, she would be first in her future husband’s heart, or not at all. And...and...

  She was stalling.

  With a clipped stride, she closed the distance between them. If only Tristan weren’t so tall. If only she didn’t have to crane her neck to look into his eyes, eyes full of intensity.

  Get on with it, Rachel.

  She took another step toward him, just one, and immediately regretted the move. The smell of spicy bergamot mixed with leather and something indescribably male washed over her.

  “I...I’ve come to...” Her words trailed off. She immediately firmed her chin and blurted out the rest in a rush. “I’ve come to apologize.”

  A winged eyebrow rose.

  Better, she supposed, than a verbal response. Tristan’s gravelly Irish brogue was entirely too attractive. Once he started talking, Rachel could very possibly lose the remaining scraps of her nerve.

  She’d made a mistake, approaching him like this without a plan in mind.

  Every instinct told her to forget
this conversation, to leave at once and never broach the subject again.

  But Rachel Hewitt was made of sterner stuff.

  “I...that is, I quite possibly, maybe...” She swallowed. “That is—” she swallowed again “—I spoke in haste when we first met.”

  Silence met her words, followed by a slow, thoughtful scowl. Then came a long, tense moment when Tristan’s gaze roamed Rachel’s face.

  His inspection was altogether too thorough, too disconcerting.

  She forgot to be uncomfortable, forgot her nervousness and jammed her fists on her hips. “You could make this easier for me.”

  “I could,” he drawled, that Irish brogue as appealing as she’d feared. “But I find I’m quite charmed at the moment. It’s so rare to see you tongue-tied.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You’re enjoying my discomfort?”

  “On the contrary, I’m attempting to lighten the mood.” A slow, attractive grin slid across his lips. “I suspect, Miss Hewitt, apologies do not come easy for you.”

  “You have no idea,” she muttered, her shoulders stiffening.

  “It’s a trait that I must regretfully admit—” he leaned in close, so close their noses nearly touched “—we share.”

  She couldn’t help it. She laughed. The man wasn’t supposed to make her laugh, while also—mildly—insulting her. “I’m trying to do the right thing here, be the bigger person and all that.”

  “I’m well aware.”

  “I...” She trailed off, blew out a puff of air and tried again. “I can’t seem to find the proper words.”

  “I’m sorry is always a good place to start.”

  Wasn’t he oh-so-helpful? Rachel would be annoyed with the man if he wasn’t also oh-so-right.

  She puffed out another breath. “I’m sorry, Sheriff McCullough, I may have—”

  “Tristan.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Considering our history, you should probably call me Tristan.”

  Oh. Oh. “I’m sorry...Tristan.”

  He smiled.

  Unfair. The man was far too handsome when he looked at her like that. Her heart took an extra beat. “When I warned you to stay away from my sister, I may have spoken a bit more harshly than the situation warranted.”

  There went that eyebrow again, traveling the same path as before. “May have?”

  Rachel sighed. Of course he would latch on to that part of her awkward little speech.

  “I spoke too harshly,” she amended, eliminating the qualifier this time around. “I could have used more grace with my delivery and less disapproval in my tone.”

  “You were attempting to protect your sister. Your loyalty does you credit.”

  The unexpected compliment sent a bolt of pleasure straight through her, catching her completely off guard.

  This was the point in the conversation where she was supposed to say farewell and walk away. But no. She had to keep talking, had to make a point of being painfully, brutally honest. “I am not sorry for warning you away from Emma, you understand, only for my delivery of the message.”

  As soon as she said the words, she regretted them. Let your conversation be always full of grace. Why did she seem to forget her manners around this man?

  He chuckled softly, shaking his head in wry amusement. “You really are bad at apologies.”

  She didn’t disagree. “What I meant to say—”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “I’m not sure you do.”

  He chuckled again.

  She considered walking away. But, again, she held her ground. “My sister has spent most of her life caring for everyone else. For once, I wanted to ensure she made a choice with only herself in mind. She deserves a chance at love. Everyone deserves a chance at love.”

  “Yes, they do.” For a brief moment, his gaze turned unreadable, distant, as if he was somewhere else. Lost in the past perhaps? A split second later his smile returned, lightning quick and even more devastating than before. “Let me save us both some time and accept your apology.”

  She sighed. “I didn’t mean to overstep, Tristan. It was unconsciously done.”

  “I know that, Rachel.”

  She liked the way her name sounded wrapped inside his Irish brogue, liked it perhaps a bit too much. She sighed again. When had she become the sighing sort? “I’m also sorry you won’t be bringing home a mother for your daughters. My intention wasn’t to make matters worse for you, or them.”

  “I know that, as well.” Looking up at the sky, he lifted the brim of his hat off his head then shoved it back in place.

  The gesture was so thoroughly...him.

  “What will you do now?” she asked.

  It wasn’t really her concern. And yet, Rachel felt as though his daughters’ care was her concern. She couldn’t explain why, precisely, except that she’d insinuated herself into the matter and now she was invested in the outcome.

  “I’ll come up with another solution.” He rolled a shoulder. “Eventually.”

  Let it go, she told herself. Walk away.

  She pressed on. “Who watches your daughters now?”

  “My neighbor, Bertha Quincy. She’s exceptional. But she’s due to give birth to her own child in a few months and won’t have the time or, I predict, the inclination to care for my girls.”

  Rachel’s heart filled with distress. This widowed father was about to find himself in a very difficult situation, with no easy answer in sight, save one.

  “You could always find someone else on the wagon train to marry.” She made a vague gesture toward the bulk of the activity behind her. “There are several available women besides my sister.”

  Including me.

  He was already shaking his head before she finished speaking. “As much as I’d like to find a mother for my daughters, I have to think of their welfare and safety first. I need to know the woman I bring into my home. Moreover, I need to trust her completely.”

  Did he not hear the contradiction in his own words? “You were willing to consider Emma, sight unseen.”

  “Your brother is my closest neighbor and friend. I trust Grayson’s judgment unequivocally.”

  Rachel wondered why Grayson hadn’t considered her as a possible candidate for Tristan’s wife. Had her brother thought her too young? Or was it because Emma was the more beautiful of the two Hewitt sisters?

  A spurt of bitterness tried to take root. Rachel shoved it aside. Her days of living in Emma’s beautiful shadow were over. She was unique and special in her own way, a treasured child of God, worthy of her own happy ending. One day.

  Some day.

  Tristan looked as though he had something else to say, when the trail boss, Sam Weston, trotted over.

  “Sheriff McCullough.” Ignoring Rachel completely, the tall, lanky man reached up and tugged on his thick, bushy brown mustache. The gesture implied distress. “Mr. Stillwell and I have a matter of grave importance we need to discuss with you.”

  Tristan looked to Rachel before answering.

  “There’s just one more thing I wish to say,” she informed him. “It’ll only take a moment.”

  He turned to Mr. Weston. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

  The trail boss started to argue, but something in Tristan’s piercing gaze must have made him reconsider. He shrugged and went back the way he came.

  Once they were alone again, Rachel spoke quickly, before she lost her nerve. “When we arrive in Oregon City, if you ever find yourself in need of someone to watch your daughters, I’d be happy to do so.”

  He looked at her oddly and started to speak but was cut off by another person calling out his name.

  The sheriff was a popular man this morning.

  “I’ll let you know.” A
short nod in her general direction and he was gone.

  Rachel stared after him a full ten seconds, wondering why she suddenly felt more alone than ever before.

  Thankfully, Johnny Littleton waddled into view. The one-year-old was just learning to walk. A triumph, considering he’d faced death twice already on the crossing. He was nearly killed the day before the wagon train left Missouri when a bunch of young rabble-rousers had taken it in their minds to shoot off their guns in a crowd of people. It was a blessing the baby wasn’t killed, only nicked. But then he’d taken ill during the measles epidemic and the concern for his life had been far worse.

  Rachel scooped the child off the ground and cuddled him close. She’d discovered recently that if her hands were idle for too long, an odd sense of loneliness crept over her. Perhaps that explained the emptiness she struggled to contain now.

  No, no. She would not give in to self-pity. Squaring her shoulders, she reminded herself she was a Hewitt, born and bred. Strength of character was in her blood, as well as the fortitude to face any challenge with unwavering courage. Even an uncertain future, in an unknown land.

  Attitude adjusted, she shifted the baby in her arms. “Come on, Johnny, let’s find your mother.”

  * * *

  Tristan headed over to the spot near the river where the trail boss stood in conversation with James Stillwell and Ben Hewitt. By their pinched expressions, he had a good idea what they wanted to discuss with him.

  Another robbery had occurred.

  He wondered what had been stolen this time. With his mind sorting through possible scenarios, he joined the other men. Just as he pulled to a stop, he caught sight of Rachel out of the corner of his eye. She was holding the Littleton boy, whispering something in the child’s ear. She lifted her head slightly, then pressed a kiss on the light brown hair.