Wagon Train Proposal

by Renee Ryan

  The little boy giggled.

  Laughing with him, she set the child on the ground and took his hand. Johnny wobbled through several unsteady steps, then plopped down on his bottom. Incredibly patient, Rachel helped him stand and encouraged him to try again.

  Watching the two together, something warm moved through Tristan. Rachel looked good leading the infant back toward his family’s wagon. She was the picture of a young, unflappable mother.

  Had he set his sights on the wrong Hewitt sister? Was the answer to the problem of his daughters’ care right in front of him? His own needs hardly mattered. He’d had his chance at love, had been blessed with a wife he’d adored with all his heart and considered his best friend. When it came to finding a woman to marry this second time around, the girls were his primary focus, his only focus, his—

  “We’ve had another robbery, Sheriff.”

  The words dragged his attention back to the problem at hand. Tristan wasn’t with the wagon train in an official capacity, only as a representative of Oregon City. The nine-man committee was technically the law, while the money missing from the safe fell in Stillwell’s jurisdiction.

  Nevertheless, the thief was heading to Oregon City, and that made him Tristan’s problem. “What’d he take this time?”

  Ben rubbed the back of his neck, frowned at something in the distance. The blue-gray eyes beneath messy, light brown hair revealed a mix of frustration and outrage. “Sally Littleton’s wedding ring.”

  Her wedding ring? “How’d the thief get it off her finger?”

  “He didn’t,” James Stillwell said, inserting himself in the conversation. An agent of Thayer & Edwards safe company, he’d joined the wagon train soon after the safe robbery in Independence.

  He’d insisted on remaining undercover. With jet-black hair, equally dark eyes and a tough, muscular build and unassuming clothing, he fit in well enough. Only the men standing in their tiny circle knew his real identity.

  “It appears Mrs. Littleton was so busy answering Amos Tucker’s questions about the best way to pack dishware, she burned the oatmeal,” Stillwell explained. “She then took off her ring to scrub out the bottom of the pot. The thief lifted the piece of jewelry when she wasn’t looking.”

  Slick, Tristan thought. Dastardly. The question remained. Were they dealing with a cunning thief, or someone who took advantage of opportunities when they presented themselves?

  Either scenario came with its own set of trouble.

  “Was anyone else near Mrs. Littleton at the time of the robbery?”

  Tristan aimed the question at Stillwell, but Ben Hewitt answered. “Mostly women from our section of the wagon train, and...Clarence Pressman.”

  Tristan’s shoulders stiffened. There was something not quite right about Mr. Pressman. He walked oddly, hunched over like a man three times his age. He rarely spoke beyond a grunt or a rough, one-syllable response. Emma Hewitt had befriended the man. She was one of the few people on the wagon train Clarence seemed to trust. Her fiancé was another.

  “Have you questioned the women and anyone else who might have seen something?”

  “Everyone but Clarence,” Stillwell said.

  Tristan absorbed this piece of information. “One of us needs to question him before we put the rafts in the river.”

  “Won’t be me.” Sam Weston lifted his hands, palms facing out. “My only job is to get the wagon train to Oregon Country.”

  “I could do it,” Stillwell said. “But I’m not sure it’s worth risking my cover.”

  Before Ben Hewitt could chime in, Tristan caught sight of Clarence. Head down, face completely covered by an ugly, floppy hat, he approached Nathan Reed near the river’s edge. Nathan set down his ax and began a hushed conversation with the man.

  “He’s over there,” Tristan said. “With your future brother-in-law.”

  Ben followed the direction of Tristan’s gaze. “I’ll speak with him. I was on my way over to assist Nathan, anyway.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  As they drew close, Nathan rose to his full height and shifted to his left. The move put his large, rangy body directly in front of Clarence.

  It was a peculiar gesture, almost protective.

  Tristan frowned.

  Clarence peered around Nathan, squeaked out something unintelligible and then scurried away.

  Staring after his retreating back, Tristan couldn’t get it out his mind that he’d seen that wide-legged walk before, a cross between a waddle and a shuffle. In fact, he’d seen that exact stride three distinct times—when his wife had carried their daughters in her belly.

  Puzzle pieces began fitting into place. Tristan’s mind was just about to shove the last one in place, when Nathan stepped in his line of vision, his face scrunched in a ruthless scowl.

  “Leave Clarence alone, Sheriff.” His voice held no emotion, his eyes equally flat.

  In a gesture similar to the one the trail boss had given, Tristan lifted his hands, palms facing toward the other man. “I just want to question—” he held the pause for emphasis “—him about the robbery this morning.”

  “Clarence didn’t take Mrs. Littleton’s ring.”

  “If you say he didn’t do it, Nathan,” Ben interjected before Tristan could respond, “we believe you. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”

  Tristan gave a single nod of his head, deciding to let the matter drop. For now. He figured Nathan’s hostility had more to do with Tristan himself than his suspicion of Clarence.

  Tristan couldn’t say he blamed the man. When he’d first arrived at the Blue Mountains Pass, he’d been eager for a quick match with Emma Hewitt.

  The moment he’d realized that Nathan and Emma were falling in love, he’d immediately backed off. Having experienced a happy, loving marriage himself, Tristan wished them well.

  Unfortunately, his daughters were still without a mother. And Tristan was no closer to finding them one than when he’d left Oregon City.

  A familiar laugh pulled his attention to a handful of children gathering near the Hewitt wagon. Rachel was organizing them in a circle, a ball in her hand, probably with the idea of keeping the boys and girls out of their parents’ way as they prepared for the trip down the Columbia.

  Abigail Black joined the group a moment later.

  Just as the women formed a makeshift circle, one of the smaller boys broke away from the others. Looking back over his shoulder, laughing at his friends, he ran flat out.

  The child wasn’t paying attention to where his feet were taking him—straight for the river.

  Tristan’s breath lodged in his throat. He moved without thinking. But not fast enough. The terrible sound of a splash rent the air. He dropped to his knees at the water’s edge and reached out, catching hold of a tiny arm.

  Heart pounding, he plucked the child from the water and set him on dry land.

  Soaking wet, water dripping off his dark hair, the little boy grinned up at him. “That was fun, Sheriff. Can I do it again? Can I, huh? Can I?”

  He had opened his mouth to explain the dangers of running off from the group when Rachel skidded to a stop beside him. By the set of her jaw, and the uneven cadence of her breathing, Tristan knew he had an ally. No matter who did the talking, the little boy would not be playing by the river anymore today.

  Chapter Three

  Lungs burning, her pulse pounding in her ears, Rachel divided her attention between Tristan and the wet child staring expectantly up at him. The sheriff appeared outwardly calm, in complete control of the situation.

  Rachel wasn’t nearly as composed.

  A slower uptake on Tristan’s part, a clumsier snatch, and the six-year-old would have been swallowed up by the river.

  She didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or scold the child for his rec
klessness.

  Tristan made the decision for her, choosing something in between the two responses. “The river is a dangerous place, Donny.” He met the boy’s gaze. “You must stay near the wagons. You will give me your promise.”

  Huffing out a sigh, Donny scuffed his foot on the grass. “I promise, Sheriff.”

  Tristan’s shoulders relaxed and he patted the boy on the back. “Good man.”

  Donny’s chest puffed out with pride, either from the praise itself or being called a man, Rachel couldn’t say. One thing she did know. From the glint of adoration in the child’s expression, Tristan was the boy’s new favorite adult.

  Unfortunately, he was becoming Rachel’s favorite adult, as well, which was rather inconvenient. She had enough to worry about without a growing admiration for a man she hardly knew, a man who was more interested in finding a woman to mother his children than a wife for himself.

  Depressing thought.

  Still, his quick reflexes had saved a young child’s life. She gave him a grateful smile.

  His lips lifted in response.

  A silent message spread between them, solidarity in their shared concern for a little boy. In that moment, Rachel felt more connected to Tristan than anyone else on the wagon train.

  She wrenched her gaze free and focused on Donny. A beat later Delores Jensen rushed across the soggy grass, calling out her son’s name. Her voice held a frantic, high-pitched note.

  “Oh, Donny.” She dropped to her knees and tugged her son against her. Complaining she was holding him too tight, the boy squirmed free.

  Attention still on her son, Mrs. Jensen regained her feet. She pressed a kiss to the boy’s head and then gave Tristan a shaky smile. “Thank you, Sheriff.” Her wide gaze was filled with equal parts terror and relief. “Donny can’t swim. You saved his life.”

  “I was merely in the right place at the right time. Rachel was only one step behind me.” His voice came out low and gruff, but his eyes were gentle as they fell on her. “I’m confident she would have caught Donny if I hadn’t gotten to him first.”

  Not true.

  Rachel had been too far behind the boy. She started to say as much, but the other woman spoke over her. “Nevertheless, your quick reflexes prevented certain disaster.”

  Donny, already losing interest in the adult conversation, asked his mother if he could go back and play with the other children again.

  All heads swung in the direction of the Hewitt wagon. Abby had taken over where Rachel had left off. Mandolin in hand, she set about organizing the boys and girls in a semicircle, their backs facing the riverbank. Clearly, she was about to sing a song for them.

  It was a perfect ploy to keep the children away from the unfolding drama at the water’s edge. Rachel smiled as one of the smaller girls climbed onto her future sister-in-law’s lap. Her brother’s fiancée would make a superb mother one day.

  Her smile slipped as a startling wave of longing took hold. She desperately wanted what her siblings had found on the trail. Family. A secure future. Love. She had to believe her time would come.

  She just needed a little faith.

  “Thank you, again, Sheriff.” Mrs. Jensen pulled her son close to her side. “Come on, baby, let’s get you into some clean, dry clothes, then you can play with the other children.”

  Mother and son ambled away, Donny grumbling over the delay.

  The moment they were alone again, Rachel became enormously attuned to the man standing beside her. She could feel his focus on her, intent and unflinching and, while he hadn’t moved, it was as though he’d grown larger, more solid.

  Aware of his presence, of his strength and big, broad shoulders, she stifled a sigh. Every one of her senses seemed unnaturally heightened, her every heartbeat full of raw emotion.

  Had to be a result of her scare with Donny, and not because the handsome sheriff was standing a little too close, a little too large and imposing.

  An uncomfortable sensation swept through her, something she’d never experienced before meeting Tristan. “We both know I wouldn’t have caught Donny in time.”

  “You would have.” There was more than just kindness in the remark. But also a certainty in her ability to save the child that had her glancing his way and taking in his handsome profile.

  He stared out over the rushing water, his expression thoughtful.

  “How can you be so sure?” she asked aloud.

  He turned his head, held her gaze. “I’ve watched you with the wagon train children. I’ve seen the lengths you go to in order to ensure their safety. If necessary, you would have jumped in the river to save that boy.”

  “Which is practically what you did, yourself.”

  He reached to the ground, picked up the hat that had fallen off in the commotion and shoved it back on his head. “I did what needed to be done.”

  He was such a good man, humble and brave, and if Rachel wasn’t very, very careful, she could find herself caring for him beyond what was wise. “It was more than that. Had you not acted with lightning speed, Donny would have drowned.”

  There. She’d said the words aloud. No more dodging the reality of the situation, no more pretending he hadn’t saved a child’s life this morning.

  “I’m glad I saw the boy heading toward the river when I did.” His gaze turned inward, his thoughts hidden from her in the shadows created by his hat. “There’s been enough loss on this journey already.”

  He was right, of course. The outbreak of measles had taken a toll on the emigrants, hitting many families hard. Not to mention the snakebite that had killed Abby’s mother, and the other mishaps along the way.

  The journey across the Oregon Trail had been truly harrowing. Yet many blessings had occurred, as well. Several potential disasters similar to the one today had been averted, and love had been found.

  Rachel promised herself she would focus on the positive aspects of the journey from this point forward. She would thank God daily. Offer up her praise for the things that had gone right rather than lament over the things that had gone wrong.

  She sneaked a glance at Tristan’s face. Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes had turned sad. Had his thoughts turned to his own loss? A loss he shared with his three precious daughters. Daughters he hadn’t seen in weeks.

  “You must miss your girls terribly.”

  The silence that followed her words seemed to last an eternity. “I do.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Violet, Lily and Daisy are the heart of me.”

  Even the girls’ names captured Rachel’s awe, inspiring thoughts of delicate petals. Soft pastel colors. Sweet, guileless faces. “They must be adorable little girls.”

  “They’re beautiful, three tiny copies of their mother.” The smile he gave Rachel was full of poignant emotion and that same look of tempered sadness. “They have Siobhan’s petite build, her red hair and pale blue eyes. They also have her personality. Most of the time, they’re like any other children their age. But at others they seem unsure of themselves. They need a mother’s love and encouragement.”

  No wonder Tristan was disappointed things hadn’t worked out with Emma. Rachel’s sister was soft-spoken, caring and would have been a perfect choice to mother three little girls.

  Wishing to offer him comfort, knowing the potential danger to her heart, she reached out to touch his arm. She immediately thought better of the move and quickly dropped her hand back to her side. “Grayson’s letter mentioned you’ve been a widower for two years. Is that correct?”

  And there she went, overstepping again, speaking out of turn, bringing up a subject that wasn’t any of her concern.

  Instead of pointing out the inappropriateness of her question, Tristan nodded. “It is.”

  The sorrow she felt for this man and his daughters made her want to weep. Thus, she contin
ued asking questions. Either that, or give in to her tears. “How old are your girls now?”

  “Daisy is six and takes her role as big sister seriously.” He let out a breath of air. “She’s far too mature for her years. Lily is four, sweet and full of imagination, a little wild at times, which I must say, I kind of love about her. Violet is but two years old.”

  Rachel did a quick mental calculation. If his youngest was only two years old that meant his wife had died in childbirth. Just like Grayson’s wife, Susannah. Both men had suffered a similar tragedy, though Tristan’s loss was newer.

  Only two years had passed since his wife died. During that time, he’d raised his daughters on his own while also serving as the town sheriff. Friends and neighbors had provided some help, but that wasn’t the same as a wife. “I’m truly sorry it didn’t work out with Emma.”

  She meant every word.

  “A match between us wasn’t meant to be.” He swung his gaze down to meet hers. “I’m confident the Lord will provide another solution, in His time.”

  Such faith. Rachel found herself admiring him even more. She had so many questions, questions about his daughters, about his life in Oregon City. Now wasn’t the time.

  She turned to go, then spun back around. “Tristan?”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope you find someone who will make a wonderful mother for your daughters.” She would add the request to her daily prayers.

  “Thank you, Rachel.”

  With nothing more to say, she left him to the various tasks he still had in front him.

  Though it took incredible strength of will, she did not look back to check if he was still on the riverbank. Not even once.

  * * *

  Tristan watched Rachel walk away, her head high, her shoulders perfectly square with the ground. She had him good and rattled, which was nothing new. The woman put him on edge. What was different this time around was the reason for his unease.

  Something about Rachel Hewitt made him want to spill his secrets. Secrets he hardly knew he carried, so deep had he buried them in his mind.

  The piercing cry of an eagle slashed through the air, jerking his attention to the sky. The clouds had disappeared, leaving a hard, brittle blue that looked ready to crack with the slightest provocation.