Читать книгу Wagon Train Proposal - Renee Ryan - Страница 10

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.

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.