Читать книгу Wagon Train Proposal - Renee Ryan - Страница 11

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 recklessness.

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 continued 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.

Lowering his gaze to the fast-flowing water swollen from the morning’s rainstorm, a belated sense of relief nearly buckled his knees.

Not only had he saved a little boy’s life but he feared he’d saved Rachel’s, as well. Tristan knew enough about the youngest Hewitt’s personality to know she would have jumped in the river to save the child. Though she’d proved herself anything but fragile, she was a small woman, with fine bones and delicate features. Regardless of her intent, the rapids were strong at this juncture in the river. She would have been carried her away with Donny.

Tristan’s gut twisted at the thought. He instinctively rolled his shoulders, as if the gesture alone could shrug off his agitation.

Frowning, he surveyed the immediate area, left to right, right to left, widening the arc with each additional pass. Fort Nez Perce was busy with motion. Fatigued yet hopeful emigrants readied themselves for the final leg of their long journey.

The noise was constant, sounds of people coming and going, bartering for one last load of supplies, striking deals, negotiating bargains.

A thief was among them and headed straight for Oregon City.

Tristan snatched a quick breath of air.

Though still small by American standards, Oregon City was growing rapidly. Set on the east side of the Willamette River, just below the falls, the town boasted several businesses, including a blacksmith, a cooper, a general store and the new mercantile Grayson Hewitt had opened several months ago. They also had a small sawmill and a recently built flour mill.

Most of the residents were farmers working their own homesteads. But more and more people were choosing to live in town. Tristan had worked hard making Oregon City safe for its residents. Even without the threat of a thief, this current influx of emigrants would change the face of his town.

He prayed it would be for the better.

Mind on the future, he wove his way around the perimeter of the fort. The intense bartering dragged him back to the past, to his early days in Oregon Country. He and Siobhan had arrived with their two young daughters, with nearly no money and unspeakable hope in their hearts. So optimistic, both of them. So naive.

He missed Siobhan desperately. They’d weathered many storms together. The loss of her was like a gaping hole in his soul.

There’d been a dangerous moment when he’d nearly told Rachel how Siobhan’s death had nearly destroyed him. If it hadn’t been for his daughters, he didn’t know if he would have survived the grief. For the girls’ sake, he’d put aside his sorrow and had done what needed to be done. One step at a time.

One day at a time.

It hadn’t been easy at first. It still wasn’t. Most days were just plain difficult. With Siobhan it had been the two of them against the world. They’d grown up on neighboring farms in Ireland. Had fallen in love at nearly the same moment. Had left for America with the promise of a better life compelling them.

Tristan had acquired a piece of property east of the falls with the idea of farming the fertile land. But Siobhan’s third pregnancy, fraught with problems, had necessitated abandoning the property and moving to town. Things had started to look up. And then she’d gone into labor.

Darkness filled Tristan’s soul at the memory. He shut his eyes momentarily and shoved aside his bleak thoughts.

“Sheriff, can you give us a hand?”

Welcoming the distraction from the depressing memories, he strode over to the raft where Ben Hewitt and Nathan Reed were laying out logs. He counted ten of equal length resting side by side. Matching triangular dovetail notches had already been cut on either end of each log.

Tristan took a quick count, grimaced. They would need at least six more logs if the Hewitts hoped to put all of their belongings on the finished raft.

“What can I do to help?”

“After we set this support beam in place, we need you to go behind us and secure each log with this.” Ben tossed him a thick, sturdy length of rope. “Once we’re through here, we’ll start on the next raft.”

Tristan looked at the pile of raw timber, realizing the men had cut down enough trees for two complete rafts, one for their family and one for Ben’s fiancée and her father, or so he assumed.

Taking the rope, Tristan started securing the crossbeam to the first log, cinching each knot tighter than the one before. The Littleton and Jensen men worked on their own rafts a little farther down the river.

Amos and Grant Tucker were another hundred yards beyond that point, already loading their belongings onto their raft. A favorite among the other emigrants, the fraternal twins presented the picture of honor and Christian integrity.

Although their loyalty to each other was without question, something about the two didn’t sit right with Tristan.

His instincts hummed a warning. Perhaps he was on edge because of Donny’s near-drowning, or perhaps it was more.

Tristan narrowed his eyes.

Amos and Grant had already finished building their raft and were almost done loading up their considerable belongings—a lot of material possessions for two young, single men.

Once he was through here, Tristan would make it a priority to have a word with the Tucker brothers. He predicted a very interesting conversation.