by Renee Ryan
Grayson bent his head to say something to the woman. She smiled, and when he straightened, Grayson wore a smile, as well. Her brother and the woman looked friendly.
No, Rachel corrected, they looked together.
Had Grayson found love since his last letter? Was he, like their siblings, no longer facing the world on his own?
Every muscle in her body tensed. If Grayson had a woman in his life, and if that woman was soon to become his wife, he wouldn’t need Rachel to take care of his household.
What if Grayson doesn’t need me?
It was a selfish, ungrateful thought, but one she couldn’t seem to shake. A sharp breath escaped her lungs. She forced herself to calm down. She was getting ahead of herself.
Firming her chin, she lifted her voice over the loud din of travelers reuniting with their loved ones. “Grayson,” she called out. “We’re over here.”
Eyes alight with pleasure, he took hold of the woman’s hand and the two ventured forward together.
Rachel rushed ahead of the rest of her family and, forgetting everyone but Grayson, flung herself into her brother’s arms. Tears she couldn’t fully attribute to joy sprang into her eyes. “Oh, Grayson, it’s so good to see you.”
Laughing, he spun her in a fast circle, then set her on the ground and stepped back. “Look at you. You’re all grown up.”
Emma moved in and took her turn hugging their brother, then introduced the man hovering by her side. “I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Nathan Reed.”
Grayson clasped Nathan’s hand, then paused. “Wait, what? Did you say your fiancé?” His confused gaze flitted from one to the other. “But what about Tristan? He and I had an understanding. He went out to meet the wagon train for you, Emma. The plan was for him to begin a proper courtship while on the trail. What happened?”
Prepared to give her brother the same speech she’d once given to Tristan, Rachel opened her mouth. But before she could begin, Ben stepped in front of her and explained the situation.
When he finished, Grayson’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Well, this is certainly unexpected. Tristan must be disappointed.”
Ben lifted a shoulder. “You’ll have to ask him about that yourself.” Smiling now, he reached behind him and pulled Abby forward. “You remember Abigail Bingham Black.”
Grayson said nothing as his eyes narrowed over Abby. “I didn’t realize you’d be on the wagon train, Mrs. Black.”
“Abby won’t be Mrs. Black much longer.” Ben smiled into his fiancée’s eyes. “We’re engaged to be married.”
Grayson’s gaze stayed locked with Abby’s. “Aren’t you already married?”
Once more, Ben presented an explanation. He told Grayson a story even Rachel hadn’t heard in its entirety. She hadn’t known that Abby had been as heartbroken as Ben when she’d agreed to marry the man her mother had chosen for her.
Nor had Rachel realized that Abby’s marriage to Frank Black had been a complete disaster. “Her husband was a wastrel and a gambler,” Ben went on to explain. “He left her penniless when he died. She was forced to move back in with her parents. By then they’d been struggling financially, as well.”
At this point, Abby’s father stepped in and explained how he’d fallen on hard times and thus had joined the wagon train. He finished with, “halfway through the crossing my wife died from complications after she was bitten by a snake.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Grayson said, his tone solemn and full of sincerity. Never let it be said that Grayson Hewitt held a grudge.
“Thank you, Mr. Hewitt.”
“Call me Grayson.”
Mr. Bingham nodded, drew in a hard breath. “Grayson, your brother and my daughter have forgiven one another for the past and are ready to start their life together. I’ve given them my blessing. I hope you will do the same.”
Grayson held the older man’s stare for several tense heartbeats, then turned his attention to Ben. “Are you happy?”
“Very.”
“Then I offer you my sincere congratulations.” His gaze merged with Abby’s. “Welcome to the family, Abigail.”
Abby gave him a shy smile. “Thank you, Grayson.”
Brows still pulled together, Grayson dropped a dark scowl onto Rachel. “Are you engaged, too?”
She sighed. “No, I am not.”
“Good. You’re far too young to marry.”
Too young? Now she was insulted. “I’m nearly twenty.”
Grayson opened his mouth to respond, but the young woman beside him laid a hand on his arm. “Grayson, aren’t you going to introduce me to your family?”
“Of course.” He closed his hand over the woman’s. “This is Maggie Hewitt, my wife.”
A beat of stunned silence met the declaration. Then, after a loud whoop from Ben, congratulations flowed between the happy couples.
Rachel stood frozen in place, unable to move. Her breathing quickened, coming in hard, painful snatches as the joyful scene unfolded before her.
Grayson was married. He didn’t need her to take care of his household.
No one in her family needed her.
What was she going to do now?
* * *
His eyes searching the general area, a habit as much as a precaution, Tristan directed James Stillwell into the heart of town. They carried the trunk of stolen money between them.
“Where we headed, Sheriff?”
“The jailhouse is the second building on your left.” With a quick nod, he indicated the plain clapboard structure. “I have a small safe in the back room where we can lock up the money until we decide our next step.”
“I fear locking up the money in the jailhouse won’t deter the Tuckers from coming back to take what they think belongs to them.”
“Probably not, but the money will be safer in there than anywhere else in town.”
Stillwell nodded his agreement. “Can’t argue with that.”
Setting down his end of the trunk, Tristan waited for the other man to do the same before unlocking the door and twisting the knob. “Safe’s located in the room behind the jail cells.”
Tristan led the way inside. Walking backward, he moved past the jail cells, past the lone desk and chair, and stopped inside the room he’d mentioned earlier. Stillwell set down his end of the trunk and looked around. Tristan did the same.
“You’re welcome to bunk in here through the winter,” he offered, knowing the insurance agent wouldn’t be able to make his way back to Missouri before spring. “Stay as long as you like, or not at all, up to you. We don’t have a hotel in town, but there’s a decent boardinghouse one block over.”
Stillwell walked past the cot, over to the potbellied stove. He swung open the door and peered inside. He then rose, spun in a tight circle and nodded. “Here is fine, at least for now. Only after we catch the Tuckers will I consider other lodging.”
“Good enough,” Tristan said.
A commotion outside drew both men’s attention. Perhaps it was talk of the Tucker brothers or just basic instinct, but both men dashed out of the jailhouse. Tristan’s feet ground to a halt when he realized the source of the shouting.
Reverend Mosby, the local preacher, stood atop a large crate. He waved his hands in the air, demanding everyone’s attention. The pastor from the wagon train, Reverend Pettygrove, moved through the dense crowd to join the other preacher. With equally tall, rail-thin builds, scraggly beards and piercing brown eyes, the two men could be brothers.
Only after a modicum of silence descended over the gathering did Reverend Mosby lower his hands. “I’d like to be the first to welcome the wagon train to Oregon City. We’re happy you made the journey and have chosen our humble town as your destination.”
As the preacher continued his welcome speech,
Stillwell muttered something about needing to go back inside and watch over the money. Tristan made an attempt to join him, but the other man told him he had it under control for now.
With a promise to return shortly, Tristan turned back to the crowd. A part of him wanted nothing more than to reunite with his girls, to hold them, kiss them and tell them how much he loved them. But another part of him hoped Bertha Quincy had kept his daughters home, safe and away from the large crowds.
Eyes meeting his, Rachel Hewitt tossed him a jaunty little wave. He found himself smiling and returning the gesture with a quick nod of his head.
The preacher droned on.
“Now, if you will bow your heads we’ll lift up a prayer of thanksgiving. Brother Pettygrove, would you do the honors?”
“I’d be delighted.”
A quick look over the crowd, and the wagon train preacher began his prayer. “Father God, we thank You for Your daily presence throughout our journey. Just as You guided the Israelites through the desert so, too, You remained with us every step of the way. We pray for Your continued mercies and protection. We ask this in Your Son’s name, Amen.”
The crowd lifted their heads.
Reverend Mosby smiled benignly over the people. “We hope to see many of you at church later today. We have a special surprise planned. The general service will begin in two hours.”
The crowd slowly dispersed, giving Tristan a direct view of the Hewitt clan. His gaze on Rachel, he watched her take a step to one side. The move wasn’t enough for anyone to notice, unless they were looking closely.
She turned her head and caught him watching her. She gave him a shy smile. In that moment, he couldn’t help thinking Rachel needed a friend. Before he could lecture himself over the wisdom of his actions, he set out.
When he was but a few steps away, she shifted to face him directly. “Hello, Tristan.”
“Rachel.” He greeted the rest of the Hewitt clan and smiled kindly at Clara Pressman, who clung to Emma and refused to meet his gaze.
“Ah, Tristan, we were just discussing living arrangements,” Grayson told him. “Rachel and Emma will stay with Maggie and me. Abby and her father can live in the space above our mercantile, and—”
“That’s going to be a problem.” Ben cut off his brother midsentence. “Now that the journey is complete, I see no need to wait any longer to make you my wife. What do you say, Abby?” He took Abigail’s hand and lowered to one knee. “Will you marry me this afternoon at the welcome service?”
She gasped at the question. “Can...can we? Is such a thing possible?”
“I spoke with Reverend Pettygrove this morning and he’s agreed not only to officiate, but to arrange all the particulars.”
“Oh, Ben.” Her hand went to her heart. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you this afternoon.”
Smiling broadly, he stood and kissed her. “Once the ceremony is over,” he said, turning to Grayson, “Abby, her father and me will stay in the cabin you built on the land you acquired when you first arrived. I want to get back to ranching and I want to do so immediately, before winter sets in.”
“If that’s what you want to do, then by all means,” Grayson said. “Nathan can bunk above the mercantile by himself.”
“Not necessary.” Nathan shook his head. “I’ll set up a tent by the river until I can acquire my own parcel of land.”
“You’re family now,” Grayson reminded him. “The Hewitts take care of their own.”
Emma urged her fiancée to accept her brother’s offer.
Still, he didn’t appear convinced.
“I’ll feel better knowing you’re living in town,” she said.
“Moreover,” Grayson added, as if sensing he was stepping on the other man’s toes. “I’d feel better knowing someone was there to watch over the shop at night. We haven’t had any trouble, but that doesn’t mean we won’t.”
Nathan seemed to consider this, then slowly nodded before turning to speak to directly to Emma. “I’ll only agree to live above the mercantile if you agree to join me there as my wife.” He took her hand and, following Ben Hewitt’s lead, lowered to one knee. “Emma Hewitt, will you marry me this afternoon?”
“Oh, Nathan.” Her pretty blue eyes filled with tears. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Of course I’m sure. I love you, Emma. I want to marry you right away.”
“What a splendid idea,” Abigail said, interrupting before Emma could give her answer. “Say yes, Emma. Then we can have a double wedding.”
Emma’s gaze locked with her future sister-in-law’s. “You wouldn’t mind sharing your special day with me and Nathan?”
“I’d consider it an honor.”
“Well, my darling?” Nathan asked from his position in front of her. “Is that a yes?”
“Yes.” Emma laughed through her tears. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
A flurry of hugs ensued. Rachel joined in the celebration, but Tristan recognized the detached look in her eyes. He opened his mouth to say something to her, not sure what, when a high-pitched squeal cut him off. “Da!”
The joy of hearing the familiar voice eclipsed all other thought. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lily launch herself in the air, straight at him, no concern for her safety.
My fearless middle daughter, he thought with his heart in his throat. She was so full of childlike faith, never once doubting that he would catch her.
He reached out and trapped her against his chest.
“My dear, sweet girl,” he said in a low, choked voice. “How I’ve missed you.”
Overcome with emotion, he buried his face in her baby-fine hair that smelled of lilacs and fresh soap. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted how his other two daughters remained dutifully beside Bertha Quincy. His youngest finally broke away, a determined look in her eyes.
Tristan set Lily on the ground and opened his arms. But instead of approaching him, Violet marched straight to Rachel and tugged on her skirt.
Rachel smiled down at the child. “Well, hello there.”
“Hello,” Violet said, then stuck her thumb in her mouth.
Tristan heaved a weighty sigh. The child had reverted to sucking her thumb in his absence. They’d have to work on that now that he was home.
Bending over so she could meet Violet at eye level, Rachel ran a hand gently over the child’s head. “My name is Rachel. What’s yours?”
Out came the thumb. “Violet.”
“Violet,” Rachel repeated, sweeping her hand over the child’s head again. The gesture was full of unconscious tenderness. “A very pretty name for a very pretty girl.”
Violet poked her thumb back in her mouth.
“You know—” Rachel lowered to her knees and placed her hands on her lap “—I’ve never met anyone named Violet before.”
Violet grinned around her thumb.
Watching the two interact, Tristan felt a sting in the back of his throat. Bertha was good with his daughters, but not like this. Not like Rachel. She spoke to Violet as though the little girl was as important as any adult.
Not one to be left out for long, Lily rushed to join her sister. “I’m Lily.”
Still kneeling, Rachel turned her attention to the other child. “Another pretty name for another pretty girl.”
Lily seemed to think over her response, then made a grand show of pronouncing, “I like you.”
“I like you, too.” Tristan could tell Rachel meant every word.
Another crack opened in his heart.
Evidently deciding she’d been obedient long enough, Daisy released Bertha’s hand, marched over to the group and shoved in between her sisters.
Tristan knew that determined look in his daughter’s eyes. He knew, and dreaded, what was about to come out of her mouth.
In an attempt to forestall the inevitable, he closed a hand over his daughter’s shoulder. “Daisy, baby, come over here and say hello to your father.”
As was often the case in situations such as these, Daisy wanted nothing to do with conversation. She wanted answers.
The little girl set her fists on her hips and stared hard at Rachel.
“Are you my new mommy?”
Chapter Eight
Rachel blinked in stunned silence at the child staring back at her. Despite the outrageous nature of her question, or perhaps because of it, she immediately felt a connection to little Daisy McCullough.
Truth be told, she saw a lot of herself in the precocious six-year-old. Not in physical appearance, but in the determined angle of her tiny shoulders. In the bold tilt of her head. In the desperate hope simmering in her big, sorrowful blue eyes.
Tristan had once remarked that his daughters were three tiny copies of his wife. Siobhan McCullough must have been a real beauty, if this child with the ruby-red hair and ivory skin favored her mother.
For a dangerous moment, Rachel had a powerful urge to tug the little girl into her arms and give her the answer she so clearly wanted.
Careful, she warned herself. Think before you speak.
“Well?” Hands still perched on her hips, Daisy’s small mouth turned down at the corners. “Are you my new mommy or not?”
Rachel shot a glance at Tristan. His chest rose and fell in a noiseless sigh, but she forestalled any response he might give his daughter with a quick shake of her head.
“I’m sorry, Daisy, no.” A wave of disappointment swept through her, the sensation so profound she would have stumbled had she not already been kneeling on the ground. “I’m not your new mommy. However, I am your new neighbor and I’ll certainly see you often, perhaps even daily.”
Tristan cut in then, touching his daughter’s shoulder to gain her attention. “Daisy, my darling girl, we’ve talked about this before. You cannot go around asking every woman you meet if she’s your mommy.”