Читать книгу Wagon Train Proposal - Renee Ryan - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Midday approached with alarming speed. To Rachel’s utter dismay, the Hewitt wagon was still nearly half-full. While Abby continued entertaining the children with her singing, Rachel and Emma unloaded the rest of their belongings.

On their immediate left, Abby’s father quietly organized the contents of his own wagon. Over the past few months, Rachel had grown fond of Vernon Bingham. A short, thin man with a slight paunch, he sported a horseshoe patch of gray hair beneath a bald pate. Though not especially handsome, he had a pleasant disposition. And a ready smile.

Even with a hint of the sadness lingering in his blue eyes, he looked younger and healthier than when they’d left Missouri.

Prior to the fatal snakebite, his wife had been the heartier of Abby’s parents. Martha Bingham’s untimely death was a startling reminder that disaster could, and often did, show up at the most unexpected moments on the trail.

Rachel attributed the sting she felt in her eyes to thoughts of Mrs. Bingham’s shocking demise and the void the woman’s death had created in her family. Though no longer a child, Abby was now motherless. And Mr. Bingham was a widower.

That last thought brought to mind another widower.

Pressing a hand to her heart, Rachel glanced in the direction of the river to where Tristan worked side by side with her brother and Nathan. All three men had rolled up their sleeves, but Tristan’s forearms were especially strong and muscular.

She knew he was a carpenter by trade. That certainly explained his dexterity with hammer, chisel and rope.

Watching him now, Rachel’s stomach dipped before she had a chance to prepare for the sensation. She blinked and looked away quickly. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stifle the sigh that leaked past her lips.

“Rachel?” Emma’s concerned voice rang out from the interior of the wagon. “Is something the matter?”

“Oh, Emma, no. I’m sorry.” To her embarrassment, she realized she’d been wasting precious time staring at Tristan. “I was...just—” she swallowed “—lost in thought.”

Hoping to avoid additional questions, she took the stack of folded blankets from her sister’s arms and set the pile on top of a nearby trunk.

Emma stared at her a long moment but thankfully ducked back into the wagon without voicing her thoughts aloud.

For the next half hour they worked in silence, Emma handing Rachel items from the wagon, Rachel finding a place for them with their other possessions.

The sky up above was clearer now, mostly blue and speckled with small patches of fluffy white clouds. A sure sign they’d seen the end of the rain. At least for today.

Not that another shower would slow down the wagon train. Rachel’s fellow travelers were a tenacious, hardworking bunch. With single-minded focus, they completed their tasks quickly and efficiently.

Rachel had witnessed countless displays of teamwork throughout the arduous journey. Though, originally, neighbor helping neighbor had been necessary for survival, the emigrants had become a makeshift family in recent months, sharing highs and lows, joys and tragedies, celebrations and sorrow.

Sighing, Rachel reached for the next load from Emma, a box of dry goods and kitchen utensils. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tristan tie off a rope and then step back to study his handiwork.

Even from this distance, she could make out the furrow of concentration on his brow. Or was that concern Rachel saw in his eyes? She couldn’t quite decide.

He turned his head and focused on a spot farther down the river. He said something to Ben and, a second later, strode off in the direction he’d been looking.

He seemed to have a specific destination in mind with his ground-eating stride—very determined, very sheriff-like.

Rachel glanced ahead of him, past several clumps of men and women working, to where Grant and Amos Tucker were already loading up their raft.

She cocked her head, confused. Surely Tristan wasn’t heading toward the brothers with that hard look on his face. Everyone liked the young men, Rachel included.

Grant, tall and wiry, with dark hair, gray eyes and a thin mustache, was a charmer and very likable. Amos, equally tall but more muscular, with eyes that tended toward greenish-brown, was always the first to offer compassion when someone was hurt or possessions went missing.

“We’re nearly finished,” Emma called out from the interior of the wagon. “Only a few things left to unload.”

Realizing she was staring at Tristan again, Rachel reached out and accepted the next item from her sister.

The moment her fingers closed around the small wooden box, a sense of peace washed over her. Of all the possessions her family had packed in their wagon, the contents of this tiny keepsake held the most value for Rachel.

Perhaps packing the box had been self-indulgent on her part. Nothing inside was necessary for survival; nor did the meager contents carry any monetary value. Yet these had been her mother’s most treasured possessions and represented a connection to the woman Rachel had lost far too soon, long before she was ready to say goodbye.

Watery images of her mother swirled through her mind, moments she couldn’t quite bring into focus.

Her siblings had real memories of their mother. Rachel had only this box.

“That’s all of it. We’re officially unloaded.” Looking pleased, Emma climbed out of the wagon and brushed her hands together once, twice, three times. “I’ll let the men know we’re finished.”

Not waiting for Rachel’s response, Emma headed toward the riverbank, her gaze riveted on her fiancé.

Happy for a brief moment alone, Rachel rounded the other side of the wagon. The children were still circled around Abby, settling in as she began weaving a cautionary tale about a greedy dog and his bone.

Her mother used to tell a similar story. If Rachel closed her eyes, she could almost hear Sara Hewitt tell the tale. Her voice had been as sweet and as musical as Abby’s.

Feeling nostalgic, and maybe a bit sad, Rachel sat on the wagon’s tailgate and spread her fingertips over the lid of the keepsake box she’d insisted on packing. The wildflowers painted on the lid were all but faded. The wood was smooth to the touch.

Overwhelmed with an urge to connect with her mother, Rachel removed the lid and studied the contents inside. There wasn’t much. Several dried flowers, a miniature painting of a famous Philadelphia street, a tin rattle and matching cup, a handful of buttons that must have had significance at one time. And, lastly, the most precious possession of all—Sara Hewitt’s journal.

Rachel pressed her palm to the worn leather binding. For years, she’d wondered what her mother had written on these pages. She’d attempted to read the first entry on several occasions, but something always kept her from continuing beyond the initial opening sentences.

These were Sara Hewitt’s innermost private thoughts. Reading them seemed somehow wrong, intrusive even.

But now that her siblings were engaged to be married and Rachel was facing a future alone, she sensed her mother would understand her need to bond.

Refusing to think too hard about what she was doing, Rachel flipped open the book and read the first few lines.

At Pastor Wellborne’s continued urging, I have decided to write down the thoughts I cannot speak aloud. I find myself both compelled and revolted by the idea of revealing the contents of my heart to anyone, even the Lord Himself.

Rachel flexed her fingers beneath the journal. She’d never read beyond this point before. She didn’t know if she should continue now. In truth, she didn’t know if she could.

And yet, she wanted this connection with her mother. Bottom lip clamped between her teeth, she lowered her head and picked up where she’d left off.

We buried my precious daughter a fortnight ago, yet the pain of her loss is still fresh. I try to be brave. I try to hold back my sorrow, at least until I am alone. I do not succeed. How am I supposed to pretend all is well?

My baby is dead.

Rachel gasped at the pain she felt leaping out of those four words. My baby is dead.

“Oh, Mama.” Rachel checked the date scrawled at the top of the page. November 19, 1822. Her mother had lost the child exactly a year before her own birth.

Had Rachel known that?

She couldn’t remember ever being told about the strange coincidence. Why hadn’t anyone told her?

Why did she sense it mattered? Shrugging, she carefully shut the book, hugged it tightly to her. Her mother’s anguish was so real that Rachel’s own sorrow swelled. And her breathing came far too quickly, in hard, painful snatches.

She lowered her head, thinking to pray, needing to pray. But for whom?

For her mother? The dead sister she’d never met?

A set of raised, angry voices captured her attention. She automatically turned her head toward the river.

Grant Tucker, his arms flailing wildly in the air, was talking—arguing—with Tristan. He appeared highly agitated.

Tristan, on the other hand, held himself perfectly still. There was something in the angle of his shoulders that didn’t fit with the picture of his apparent tranquility. He was too composed, too unmoving. A storm brewed inside all that calm.

What had Grant and Amos done to garner such a reaction?

Rachel hated not knowing.

Tristan is a lawman, she reminded herself. He’s trained to handle all sorts of unpleasantness. She should let him deal with the situation as he saw fit. She should sit back, watch and wait.

The very idea went against her nature.

What harm could there be in moving a few steps closer? Just a smidge closer...

* * *

Standing toe to toe with Grant Tucker, Tristan kept his temper buried behind a bland stare and a deceptively mild tone. Against his advice, the brothers were determined to travel down the river ahead of the other emigrants.

Not only was Grant unmoved by Tristan’s repeated warnings about the dangerous rapids along the route, he didn’t have a problem vocalizing his displeasure.

Even now, as Tristan attempted to reason with the man yet again, Grant’s voice hit a decibel that could be heard at least a hundred yards away. Maybe two hundred, if the interested stares from the other emigrants was anything to go by.

“Stay out of our business, Sheriff.”

As Grant made a point to hold Tristan’s stare, Amos casually slipped the edge of their overloaded raft into the water.

Tristan caught the move anyway and frowned.

“Do not head out alone,” he warned. “It’s a mistake.”

Grant snorted. “We’ll just see about that, now won’t we?”

Tristan instincts hummed. Grant’s continued belligerence didn’t fit with his charming reputation. The man wasn’t what he seemed; nor was his brother.

Had Tristan found the wagon train thief? Or rather, thieves?

Before he made any accusation, he needed to get a better look at their possessions, primarily the large trunk situated on the port side of the raft.

Buying himself a bit of time, he studied the raft with a carpenter’s eye. “You didn’t cut those notches deep enough and you failed to secure the logs properly on the port side.”

“The raft will float.”

Possibly. However...

“It won’t withstand the rapids, or the—”

Grant cut him off midsentence. “We’ve forded a river before.”

“Even if that’s true, the Columbia can be tricky this time of year.”

“We’ll be fine.” Grant gave his brother a quick nod.

Amos shoved the rest of the raft into the water. He climbed on top, then tested the sturdiness and buoyancy with a few foot stomps.

The raft tipped dangerously to port. For a moment, Tristan thought the trunk might slip into the water, but eventually the raft settled into an unsteady bob.

Grant shot Tristan a smug grin. “Guess this is farewell.”

Not quite. Tristan eyed the large piece of luggage the brothers had foolishly placed on the far edge of the raft. “That your trunk?”

“Yeah, it’s ours.”

“Looks like it belongs to a woman.” The ivy and floral design were a dead giveaway.

“Yeah, well...” Grant maneuvered his rangy body in an attempt to block Tristan’s view. “It was our...ma’s, and now it belongs to us.”

Tristan heard the lie buried inside the hostile tone, could see the deception in the man’s shifting eyes and curled upper lip.

Amos picked up a long pole and placed it in the water, digging around until he found purchase on the rocky bottom. “Time to get a move on.”

Tristan peered around Grant. “What’s the rush?”

Amos avoided eye contact. “No rush, just don’t like to waste daylight.”

Another lie.

“Your raft is unevenly weighted,” Tristan pointed out. “I suggest moving that trunk to the middle and—”

“It stays where it is.” Amos shot out his hand and set his palm flat on top of the trunk’s lid.

The swift gesture hiked up his sleeve, revealing a long scar from wrist to elbow. From the angry red puffs at either end, the wound wasn’t fully healed yet.

Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “What happened to your arm?”

“Childhood accident.”

And the lies just kept piling up.

Again, Tristan leaned forward for a better glimpse of the trunk beneath Amos’s hand. “What you got stowed in there, anyway?”

“That’s none of your concern.” Grant waded thigh deep into the water, shoved the raft slightly forward and then hopped on board.

The additional weight threw his brother off balance. A string of muttered oaths ensued, followed by a round of weaving and bobbing. With the help of his pole, Amos regained control of the raft. Barely.

Once he found his sea legs, Grant rose to his full height and touched the brim of his hat. “See ya, Sheriff.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Tristan called out over the sound of rushing water.

The words had barely left his mouth when the current caught the back end of the raft and spun it in a quick, sharp circle. Grant dove on top of the trunk and hung on with a white-knuckled grip.

Amos frantically dug his pole into the river bottom. His efforts only added to the chaos, spinning the raft in harder, faster circles. With each turn, more of the twins’ possessions splashed into the water.

From behind him, Tristan heard the sound of footsteps pounding toward the riverbank, followed by shouts of warnings and suggestions.

Tristan cupped his palms around his mouth. “Amos, stop fighting the current. You’re better off riding it out.”

Ignoring him, Amos continued battling the rapids.

Rachel Hewitt joined the other emigrants on the shoreline. “Hold on, Grant, Amos.” She rose onto her toes. “We’ll get someone out to help you.”

The raft listed heavily to port, dumping more of the men’s possessions in the water. The pole slipped out of Amos’s hand.

The river had complete control of the raft now, carrying it straight toward a cluster of mean-looking, jagged rocks that stuck out of the water barely fifty feet up ahead.

Running on the shoreline, Tristan shouted out a warning. Ben Hewitt and James Stillwell came up beside him. The three of them kept even pace with the out-of-control raft.

Rachel was only a few steps behind them. “Look out for the rocks,” she shouted. “Grant, Amos, look out.”

Her warning came too late.

The raft smashed headlong into the rocks.

Amos immediately lost his footing and fell into the water. His shout for help was nearly lost in the sound of crashing waves. He went under fast but then popped up a few seconds later near the opposite shoreline.

Battered by rock and waves, Grant still managed to hold his position atop the raft as he clung to the trunk. Man and luggage swirled in a hard, tight circle. The second crash was as ugly as the first. This time, Grant lost his hold. He went into the water screaming for help.

Amos was close enough to reach out and grab his brother’s foot. He pulled Grant free of the raging water and dragged him to shore. Both men then fell to their hands and knees, gasping for air.

Grant recovered first. He jumped to his feet and glanced frantically around. His eyes landed on the trunk, now stuck atop a group of rocks near where Tristan stood.

He waded back into the water.

Tristan did the same on his side of the river.

“We have to get to that trunk before Grant does.” He directed his words at Ben and James Stillwell.

Neither man questioned him. They simply followed his lead.

When Rachel attempted to step into the water, as well, Tristan placed a palm in the air to stop her progress. “Stay back.”

“But Grant and Amos need our help.” Her chin tilted at a determined angle. “They need—”

“I need you to keep the crowd at bay.”

“What crowd?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, my.”

Tristan’s sentiments exactly.

Dozens of gawking men, women and children were lining up along the riverbank. At least a dozen more were in the process of abandoning their tasks and heading over.

Frowning, Rachel stretched out her arms. “Everyone step away from the river and give the sheriff room to work.”

As she herded her fellow travelers away from the river’s edge, the trail boss shouldered in next to her. The two quickly restored order.

With Ben and Stillwell’s help, Tristan wrestled the Tuckers’ trunk out of the water and onto dry land.

The latch sprung open.

“Well, well.” Tristan tossed back the heavy lid and peered inside. “What have we here?”