Wagon Train Proposal

by Renee Ryan

  “But Da.” The little girl’s lower lip jutted out. “You said you were bringing us back a new mommy when you got home.”

  Daisy’s words surprised Rachel. Tristan didn’t seem the type of man to make promises he couldn’t keep.

  “No, Daisy.” He pulled his hand away from her shoulder, then shoved it in his pocket. “I said I might bring you home a new mommy. I made no promises.”

  Unmistakable regret threaded through his words.

  Her brows knit in concentration, the child seemed to consider this new bit of information. However, Rachel suspected Daisy didn’t quite capture the difference between what she thought she’d heard her father say and what he’d actually said.

  When tears formed in the little girl’s eyes, Rachel found herself interceding. “I may not be your new mommy,” she began, taming a stray wisp of the child’s hair behind her ear. “But I can be your very good friend.”

  The little girl’s eyes lit up. At the same moment, Tristan’s youngest plopped into Rachel’s lap. No longer able to resist, Rachel wrapped her arms around the child and hugged her close. Violet snuggled against her and sighed contentedly.

  In that moment, Rachel understood what had driven Tristan to travel all the way to the Blue Mountains Pass to meet Emma. His precious children not only needed a new mother, they wanted one.

  Lily attempted to join her sister on Rachel’s lap. When Violet refused to budge, the little girl settled for pulling on Rachel’s sleeve. “You don’t want to be our new mommy?”

  The poor child sounded so despondent Rachel’s heart twisted. “Oh, Lily, it’s not a matter of want. You see, I’m already committed to—”

  She cut off her own words, realizing she had no other commitments now that Grayson was married. He didn’t need her to run his household. No one needed her. Except, maybe, this tiny family.

  Before the thought could take root, Tristan cleared his throat. All gazes swung to him. “Girls, tell Miss Rachel goodbye.” There was gravel in his voice. “It’s time to go home now.”

  The inevitable grumbling began. “Already?” Daisy asked. “We just got here.”

  “Nevertheless.” His tone brooked no argument.

  Reluctantly, Daisy held her tongue. The child’s bent head and stooped shoulders were the very picture of quashed hope. In a gesture far older than her four years, Lily reached out and patted her older sister on the back. Violet, thumb in her mouth, joined the other two and attempted to copy Lily’s movements.

  Trying not to sigh over the scene the three little girls made, Rachel stood. She understood their disappointment on a deep, personal level. She had wished for a new mommy after her own had died. Because she sympathized so completely, she should be able to find the right words to comfort the children.

  Unfortunately, nothing concrete came to mind.

  While she contemplated how best to broach the subject, a young woman approached Tristan. Her rounded belly, along with their easy familiarity with one another, suggested this was his neighbor Bertha Quincy, the woman who regularly took care of his daughters.

  Tristan confirmed her suspicions when he motioned Rachel to join them. “Let me introduce you to my neighbor, Bertha Quincy.” He turned to the other woman. “Bertha, this is Grayson Hewitt’s sister newly arrived on the wagon train.”

  They greeted each other with a smile.

  Rachel couldn’t help but think that Bertha Quincy looked familiar. Her hair was a common chestnut brown, but her eyes were a unique shade of green she’d seen before. The connection was there, just on the edge of her mind, when Violet broke away from her sisters and gazed up at Rachel with big, round eyes, her thumb still in her mouth.

  She took the little girl’s hand and squeezed gently.

  Bertha Quincy’s smile widened. “I don’t mind saying, Miss Hewitt, your arrival has been a long time coming.”

  Mildly confused, Rachel angled her head. “Oh?”

  “Indeed, yes. Your brother has told us quite a lot about you.” She looked meaningfully at the child clinging to her hand. “You are a true answer to prayer for our good sheriff and his family.”

  Rachel’s confusion vanished, only to be replaced by distress. Evidently, this woman had mistaken her for Emma.

  Not knowing quite what to say, Rachel looked to Tristan for help. His eyes were gentle as they met hers, even affectionate. Odder still, he didn’t correct his neighbor’s mistake.

  A fiber of hope eased through Rachel, followed by a heavy dose of reality. If Tristan wanted her to mother his daughters he would have already said something to her.

  Besides, he’d made his position clear when they’d discussed his situation in Fort Nez Perce. I need to know the woman I bring into my home. Moreover, I need to trust her completely.

  Rachel sighed. “I believe you have me confused with my sister, Emma.” Needing something to do with her hands, she ran her fingertips over Violet’s head. “I’m Rachel, the youngest of the family.”

  “But, you’re not... That is, I assumed...” Bertha looked from Rachel to Tristan then back again. “You’re so pretty, and clearly have a way with the girls. I would have immediately assumed you were the woman Sheriff McCullough went out to meet on the trial and...”

  The rest of her words dissolved in a puff of air as if she only just realized she had a tiny audience of three listening intently to her every word.

  Still, Rachel’s heart swelled. No one had ever mistaken her for Emma, and they’d never, never ever, called her pretty.

  She slipped a glance at Tristan from beneath her lowered lashes. An achy sort of warmth filled her heart at what she saw in his eyes—thoughtful speculation, as if he were looking at her for the very first time and liking what he saw. A delicious sort of terror filled her heart. Was he considering...

  Did he think maybe she could...

  Flustered by the direction of her own thoughts, Rachel focused once more on Bertha Quincy. She started to thank the other woman for her unexpected compliment but was cut off by an uncertain little yelp coming from behind her. Rachel looked over her shoulder in time to see Clara Pressman hurrying over, arms waving wildly in the air.

  “Bertha,” she shouted with unmitigated joy. “Bertha, it’s me, Clara.”

  Bertha’s eyelashes fluttered, her breath caught. Then, she too squealed in delight. “Oh, sister, I’ve been so worried. Praise God you made the journey, after all.”

  The two women all but leaped into each other’s arms. Unfortunately, their rounded bellies got in the way and their reunion turned into a shuffling, clumsy mess. Laughing in perfect harmony, the sisters stepped back, shifted their individual stances and tried again.

  The second attempt was far more graceful.

  Rachel rubbed at her eyes over the beautiful reunion, so similar to many others she’d witnessed since climbing off her family’s raft.

  Caught up in the excitement, Tristan’s daughters joined the celebration between Bertha and Clara, their childish giggles mixing with the women’s happy laughter.

  Emma came up beside Rachel and linked arms, her eyes riveted on Clara and her sister.

  “Another happy ending,” she whispered, a gleam of satisfaction glowing in her eyes.

  Rachel nodded as she and Emma stood silently watching the scene unfold before them. Wiping at her eyes, Emma muttered something about needing to find Nathan so she could tell him that Clara had found her sister.

  She turned to go, only to pause when she realized Rachel remained firmly rooted to the spot. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Yes.” Rachel started out after her sister, but then stopped abruptly. “I’ll be along in a moment.”

  Emma’s eyebrows pulled together. She looked about to say something but must have thought better of it because she simply shrugged and walked away.

  Trist
an gathered up his daughters and herded them over to Rachel. She said farewell to each child individually, then turned her gaze onto their father. “Thank you for your help on the trail. Goodbye, Tristan.”

  “Goodbye, Rachel.”

  His smile, slow and devastating, made her heart ache again.

  Why did the man have to be so handsome, so kind, so patient with his daughters? Maybe, if he was overly strict with them, or not so obviously in love with all three, Rachel could resist his charm.

  With nothing more to say, she turned to go.

  Tristan caught her arm with a light hold. “Will I see you at the church later this afternoon?”

  She swallowed, offered a wobbly smile, then finally found her voice. “Yes.”

  “Good. You and I need to talk.” He said this quietly, in a tone that held determination while his eyes held unspoken promises.

  Her stomach tumbled to her toes. “Oh...I, of course.”

  After one final glance over her shoulder, she hurried away from Tristan’s family and approached her own. The men were in some sort of discussion. Rachel thought she heard something about obtaining land grants before winter set in but couldn’t be sure.

  “Rachel, there you are.” Emma waved her over to where the women were huddled together in their own conversation. “Maggie has offered to help us dress for the wedding and we were thinking you could help us with our hair.”

  “I’d consider it a privilege.”

  “We have so much to do and so very little time to prepare and, and...” Emma let out a delighted laugh. “And I’m babbling. I’m just so excited, I guess, and flustered, and—”

  “Really, really happy,” Rachel supplied, letting her sister’s joy help wash away her melancholy.

  “Oh, Rachel, I am happy. Blissfully so.” Emma glanced over at the men. “Just think, in a few hours I’ll be Mrs. Nathan Reed. I’ve never wanted anything more.”

  Rachel was reminded of a favorite verse from Ecclesiastes. “To every thing there is a season, a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

  The season for hardships and suffering was over. Now it was time to look to the future with gladness. It was the end of one journey, Rachel thought, and the beginning of another. Even she was embarking on a new adventure. Would she find joy and happiness as her siblings had?

  She glanced over her shoulder, caught sight of Tristan picking up Violet and swinging her onto his shoulders. The other two girls skipped along beside him.

  Rachel swallowed, felt her heart melt at the sight of the devoted father with his daughters.

  They need me.

  The thought skittered through her mind, instantly followed by another, more disturbing revelation. And maybe, just maybe, I need them.

  * * *

  Two hours after arriving in Oregon City, Tristan guided his daughters in the direction of the church one block from their house. The girls hadn’t stopped talking since his arrival and he couldn’t be more delighted. The sweetest sound in the world was their tinkling baby voices that held the barest hint of Ireland, picked up no doubt from him.

  Their favorite topic since meeting Rachel Hewitt had been...Rachel Hewitt. She’d made quite an impression on them. Now Tristan couldn’t stop thinking about her, either. He couldn’t stop thinking that maybe, perhaps, she was the answer to his problems.

  He would know more after they spoke.

  Only a light breeze stirred the unseasonably warm afternoon. The trees were in full autumn splendor, a kaleidoscope of red, yellow, orange and green. A perfect day for a wedding.

  The first strains of piano music wafted from the plain white building on their left. He directed his daughters toward the steps leading inside the church.

  “Can we sit in the front?” Daisy asked.

  He visibly shuddered at the suggestion. Tristan preferred the back pew, where he could corral his wriggling daughters and keep some semblance of order. “We’ll sit in our usual seats.”

  “But Da.” Lily picked up the argument where her sister had left off. “Miss Bertha always lets us sit up front with her.”

  “You’re sitting with me, in the back, and that’s the end of it,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “Besides, the front pew is reserved for family members of the brides and grooms.”

  Daisy scuffed her foot. Violet sucked harder on her thumb. Lily opened her mouth to continue arguing, but one stern look from him and all three girls quieted down.

  Now that he’d dealt with his daughters’ short-lived rebellion, Tristan scanned the people gathering outside the church. He let out a quick burst of air. No sign of Grant and Amos Tucker. Perhaps they’d given up on the idea of reclaiming the stolen money.

  His gut said otherwise.

  He continued searching the assembled crowd. His gaze landed on Bertha Quincy and her husband, Algernon. A pretty young woman with a very large belly stood beside them.

  It didn’t take a trained lawman to notice that Clara Pressman had dispensed with her disguise. Her choppy brown hair wasn’t much of an improvement over the men’s cap she’d worn to conceal her identity. But at least her blue gingham dress with the lace collar was better than the ridiculously baggy pants and oversize jacket.

  Her fellow emigrants didn’t seem to notice, or care if they did, that Clarence was actually a woman named Clara. Not that surprising, Tristan thought, with all they had on their minds. Most of the new arrivals were facing a difficult winter with nothing more than a flimsy tent for shelter.

  Tristan would protect the new residents of his town to the best of his ability, but there was little he could do about the weather. Many families would have to fight for their lives on the harsh frontier.

  He prayed they found success.

  With half his mind on the long, cold months ahead, he led his daughters up the steps and into the crowded gathering area beyond the large double doors. Rachel Hewitt was already in the foyer with her sister and Abigail Black. The two brides spoke excitedly to each other, looking eager and slightly apprehensive at the same time. Head down, Rachel hustled around them, smoothing and straightening their dresses.

  “Miss Rachel!” Daisy pulled away from Tristan and rushed over to her. “You’re here already.”

  Rachel stepped away from the brides. “And now so are you.”

  Daisy smiled.

  Lily, following hard on her sister’s heels, tapped on Rachel’s arm, then lifted her own hands in the air. Clearly understanding the silent plea, Rachel picked up the child and swung her around to rest on her right hip.

  The move was so natural, so easy and ordinary, that Tristan’s gut took a hard roll. The sensation was not altogether unpleasant.

  Rachel spoke softly to Lily. The child bobbed her head up and down, then pointed to where Tristan stood holding Violet’s hand.

  Turning slightly, Rachel smiled at him. “Hello, Tristan.”

  He felt another roll, then a hard tug, this time in his heart. “Hello.”

  For some reason, he and Rachel were uncomfortable. Where was the easy camaraderie they’d shared on the trail?

  Disconcerted by the change between them, he focused on Emma Hewitt. Realizing she’d yet to meet his daughters, he made the introductions. Then he repeated the process with Abigail Black.

  Daisy eyed both women closely. A crease of concentration dug across her forehead. Tristan braced for the inevitable mommy question but his daughter surprised him. Bouncing her gaze from one bride to the other, she said, “You’re very pretty.”

  “Thank you,” Abigail said, while Emma added, “You’re very pretty, too.”

  The child responded with a tilted grin.

  “Are you the ones getting married today?” Lily asked.

  Daisy let out a big-sister huff. “Of course they’re getting married. They’re ho
lding flowers.”

  Both women smiled at the children. Their individual joy seemed to come from the depths of their souls. “We are indeed the brides,” Emma said in confirmation. “And we’re so very, very happy.”

  Tristan laughed. “It shows.”

  Emma’s smile momentarily slipped. Something like an apology, with a hint of guilt around the edges, moved in her eyes. In that, at least, he could ease her mind. “I wish you and Nathan nothing but the best, Emma.”

  She visibly relaxed. “Thank you, Tristan.”

  Grateful that was finally over, he offered similar words to Abigail Black.

  “Thank you, Sheriff McCullough.”

  As people shuffled past them, offering up their own congratulations, Lily tapped Rachel on the shoulder. “Are you getting married today, too?”

  “No, sweet girl, I’m not.” She punctuated the statement with a soft, self-conscious laugh. The sound was a little sad.

  Tristan felt his hand reaching out to her of its own accord. He wanted to offer her more than momentary comfort. He wanted to offer her a place in the world to call her own.

  Perhaps there was a way, if she agreed to his terms. Terms he wasn’t sure he had the right to impose on such a lively, spirited young woman.

  “When the ceremony is over,” he found himself saying despite his reservations, “I’d like a word with you in private.”

  “All right.”

  He held her gaze a moment longer, praying he was making the right decision, not only for him, but for her, as well. He wouldn’t know until he explained the entirety of the situation. What he could give her.

  And what he could not.

  The preacher stuck his head in the foyer. “We’re ready to begin. Those not getting married this afternoon—” he looked pointedly at Tristan “—need to find their seats.”

  Tristan had started to hustle his daughters toward the back pew when Rachel asked them to join her up front. He opened his mouth to protest, but she spoke over him.

  “Please, Tristan, with the short notice of this wedding, and the small size of the church, I have no part in the actual ceremony. Like you, I’m merely a spectator today.” Something came and went in her eyes. “I’d really like you and the girls to sit with me up front.”