Читать книгу Wagon Train Proposal - Renee Ryan - Страница 13

Chapter Five

The trail boss proved far more skillful at crowd control than Rachel. Not that this surprised her. Sam Weston had considerable experience managing disasters along the trail. Throughout the hazardous five-month journey he’d employed whatever technique was necessary to keep the emigrants calm, focused and, as was the case today, out of the way.

“Let’s get back to work, people.” He stalked back and forth among the concerned onlookers. “We leave in one hour.”

Amid grumbles and rapid-fire questions concerning the Tuckers’ accident and the potential for more calamities on the water, he remained firm.

“One hour,” he repeated. “We wait for no one.”

Sam Weston never issued empty threats. Therefore, despite obvious concern over the next leg of their journey, the crowd dispersed.

At last, Rachel was free to return to the water’s edge. By the time she had picked her way across the rocky beach, Ben and James had rescued most of the twins’ possessions from the river.

Tristan rifled through a large trunk that Rachel recognized as belonging to the Tucker brothers. The expression in his sharp green eyes was solemn, even a little austere. With that tight jawline and rigid set of his shoulders, he looked pure male, all lawman.

Every ounce the dedicated sheriff.

Curiosity drove Rachel closer, close enough to peer at the contents inside the trunk.

Her throat tightened in outrage.

For several long seconds she couldn’t speak. There were so many familiar items, items that had randomly disappeared in recent months.

Mind reeling, she took a quick mental inventory. There, atop a pale gray blanket, sat the lace shawl that had once belonged to Abby’s mother. And there, smashed up against the far right corner, was Mrs. Jenson’s silver hairbrush.

Torn between shock and utter dismay, Rachel counted at least twenty pieces of jewelry. Necklaces, bracelets, a lovely cameo and—she gasped—Sally Littleton’s wedding ring that had gone missing just this morning. There was also money inside the trunk, so much of it her mind boggled.

As if all that wasn’t bad enough, her gaze landed on her sister’s missing hair combs. The very ones Nathan Reed had been accused of stealing before he and Emma had fallen in love. He’d even been brought to trial by the wagon train committee and had only been cleared when new thefts occurred while he was incapacitated.

Anger surged, blurring Rachel’s vision. She opened her mouth, closed it, felt her cheeks grow hot. Lips pressed in a grim line, Rachel reached out, ran her fingertip across the combs.

All this time, all these months, Grant and Amos Tucker had been the thieves. They’d remained silent throughout Nathan’s trial. They’d been willing to allow an innocent man to take the blame for their treachery.

The vile reprobates.

A fresh spurt of fury rushed through Rachel. Her cheeks grew hotter still. She practically trembled with the dark emotion.

“Where are they?” She spit out the question even as she searched the river. “Where are Grant and Amos?”

“Over there.” Tristan angled his head toward the opposite side of river.

Rachel looked in the direction Tristan indicated. The moment her gaze swept over the Tuckers, she opened her mouth, but again nothing came out. Not a whisper, not a squeak.

All she could do was watch in stunned silence as the twins faced off with each other. They seemed to be engaged in a verbal battle, which quickly escalated to pushing and shoving.

Amos slammed his hands against Grant’s shoulders. Grant returned the favor, sending his brother back several steps.

“Hey, boys, looks like you left a few things behind.”

Pausing midshove, Grant pulled away from his brother and stomped to the river’s edge. The thunderous expression on his face distorted his features, giving him a twisted, almost sinister look. “You got no right searching through our stuff.”

“Your stuff? Now see, that’s where you’re wrong. This does not belong to you.” Tristan waved the hairbrush, then reached inside the trunk and retrieved the cameo. “Nor does this.”

He picked up Mrs. Bingham’s shawl, studied the design with casual slowness. “Or this.”

Grant shouted out something foul concerning Tristan’s heritage. Rachel gasped at the venom in the other man’s words, could only marvel at Tristan’s calm demeanor as he carefully returned the stolen items to the trunk, then prowled like a large menacing cat to the water’s edge.

Feet planted in a wide-legged stance, his expression turned so hard, so threatening, that Rachel shivered.

“Come over here and say that to my face,” Tristan said through gritted teeth.

“Maybe I will.” Grant splashed into the water up to his knees. He looked prepared to dive into the river, but Amos grabbed his arm and yanked him backward.

Struggling against his brother’s grip, Grant fought for release.

Amos refused to let him go. He muttered frantically to him about something Rachel couldn’t quite make out.

Finally, Grant broke free of Amos. But instead of jumping into the water, he stayed put. “This ain’t over, Sheriff. You’ll pay for interfering in our business.” Grant shook his clenched fist in the air. “I’ll see to it personally.”

Tristan smiled at the threat. “You’re welcome to try.”

One last foul oath, then Grant spun around and headed in the direction of the Cascade Mountains.

Amos trailed closely behind him.

At some point during the heated exchange, Rachel’s brother and James Stillwell had commandeered a canoe.

The two approached the river, discussing various strategies for apprehending the brothers. Tristan joined them, adding his own opinions and a sense of urgency to the discussion.

As a section leader and one of the elected committee members for the wagon train, Ben’s involvement made sense. What Rachel couldn’t understand was why Mr. Stillwell had insinuated himself into the matter.

She voiced her confusion aloud.

“I’m an agent with Thayer & Edwards safe company,” he said simply.

Rachel wasn’t quite sure what that had to do with his desire to apprehend the Tucker twins. Then she remembered right before the wagon train left Missouri someone had broken into a special heavy-duty safe containing a considerable amount of money belonging to several local merchants.

“You’re here because of the robbery back in Independence,” she said. “The safe that was broken into was made by your company?”

“That’s right,” he confirmed. “I joined the wagon train when I discovered evidence that suggested the thief, or rather thieves,” he corrected, glaring across the river, “were using the journey to hide their escape.”

“Oh, does that mean...you—” Rachel paused, considered the man through narrowed eyes “—aren’t meeting up with family in Oregon City?”

“Correct.” He reached inside the trunk and picked up a handful of loose bills. “My job was to recover the stolen money, no matter how long it took.”

Rachel dropped her gaze to the interior of the trunk. “There must be hundreds of dollars in there.”

“Thousands,” he said, his eyes troubled. “The Tucker brothers have gone to a lot of trouble transporting this trunk across miles of difficult, rugged land.”

Rachel sighed. Grant and Amos had seemed so charming, so likable. In reality, they were nothing but liars and thieves. Now her brother and Tristan were leading the charge to capture them.

Rachel’s heart tightened with fear. Ben had been keeping order and breaking up fights since their first day on the trail. Tristan was a town sheriff. She had to trust they could handle themselves in this situation.

Still, she lifted up a prayer for their safety, then added, Lord, bring Grant and Amos to swift justice.

The moment she finished the prayer, she caught sight of Tristan climbing into the canoe with Ben.

Tristan’s a lawman, she reminded herself. Of course he would set out to apprehend the Tucker brothers. Nevertheless, she lifted up yet another prayer for Tristan’s safety.

James attempted to join the two men in the canoe, but Tristan waved him off. “We’ll pursue the brothers,” he said. “You stay with the money.”

The agent looked prepared to argue, then seemed to think better of it. “Good plan.”

Ben and Tristan navigated the rapids quickly, but the twins had covered a lot of ground already.

Another rush of fear rose to the back of Rachel’s throat and stuck. No amount of swallowing dislodged the sensation.

James Stillwell’s voice dropped over her. “I should probably determine which of these items were stolen and which actually belong to the Tuckers.”

The suggestion was exactly what Rachel needed to distract her from worrying about Tristan and her brother. “I can help with that.”

“I was hoping you would say that.” They shared an awkward smile, then simultaneously dropped their gazes to the trunk.

Rachel sighed again. “I find it hard to believe Grant and Amos could be so, so...” She shook her head. “Deceitful.”

“They fooled everyone, Miss Hewitt, including me.”

Bottom lip caught between her teeth, Rachel watched Ben and Tristan pull the canoe onto the opposite shore and set down their oars.

A short nod passed between them, and then off they went, Tristan leading the way over the first ridge.

Refusing to allow her fears to overwhelm her, Rachel reached inside the trunk and picked up the first item. The silver hairbrush. “This belongs to Delores Jensen.”

Better, she thought, now that she had something to do with her hands.

What seemed like hours passed. In actuality, Ben and Tristan returned barely twenty minutes later.

They were alone.

Eyes locked with hers, Tristan climbed out of the canoe.

Pleased to see him, and mildly surprised by the depth of her reaction, Rachel went to meet him. She desperately wanted to touch his face, to assure herself that he was unscathed, but that wouldn’t be proper. Or appropriate.

She settled for searching his features with only her gaze.

“What happened?” she asked, somewhat alarmed at how breathless she sounded.

Lifting his hat a moment, Tristan ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “We lost them in the cliffs.”

“We could see them, but couldn’t get to them.” Ben wiped sweat off his brow. “They had too much of a head start on us.”

James slapped his hand on the trunk’s lid. “I doubt they’ll leave all this without a fight. We’d be smart to come up with a plan to keep the money safe and—”

“Ben! Oh, Ben, I heard the Tucker brothers are the thieves and that you went after them.” Eyes slightly wild, Abby lifted her hand to touch Ben’s face. “Are you all right? Are you hurt anywhere?”

“I’m fine, Abby.” He cradled her small hand inside his. “Frustrated. No, make that angry, but fine.”

The two leaned in close and spoke in hushed whispers. Pulling back slightly, Abby took Ben’s hand, pressed a kiss to the inside of his palm.

The gesture was brief, even casual, yet somehow intimate, as well. Rachel felt like an intruder, watching Abby fuss over Ben while he attempted to soothe away her concerns with soft words and gentle touches.

Turning her back on the two, Rachel tried to stifle a sigh.

Tristan looked up at the sound. For a moment, his eyes softened and the stiffness in his shoulders eased. She tried to smile at him, but her mouth wobbled instead. A rush of...something spread through her, a brief, unexpected need to belong to someone, to anyone.

To Tristan?

Too soon, her mind told her. It was entirely too soon to fall for the man, to think about belonging to him, to wish for something that might never be possible.

She must be logical.

She must remember to guard her heart.

Too late, her traitorous heart whispered. Too, too late.

Giving in to that sigh, after all, she pressed her hands tightly together. Either that or go to Tristan and...and...

She cut off the rest of her thoughts. “I have to go.”

“Go?” He tilted his head to one side. “Go where?”

“I have to...” Think, Rachel, think. “I have to return these stolen items to their rightful owners.”

Not waiting for his response, she gathered up an armload of objects that belonged to fellow travelers and hurried away.

* * *

Later that afternoon, just before sunset, Tristan decided that Sam Weston was the most competent, efficient trail boss he’d ever met. Despite the trouble with Grant and Amos Tucker and the shock among the emigrants over the twins’ deception, the wagon train left Fort Nez Perce at high noon. Right on schedule.

Now, with the sun bumping up against the horizon and leaving a spectacular array of color in its wake, Weston waved his hand above his head.

The day’s travel had come to an end.

More than ready for a break, Tristan guided the raft he shared with James Stillwell and another emigrant through the rough current toward the shoreline.

Hopping onto the rocky beach, he looked around, fought off a surge of dark foreboding. His encounter with the Tuckers had put him on edge, making him feel scraped raw on the inside. He hated that they’d escaped, hated knowing they would show up again yet not knowing when.

When they returned, and they would return for the items they wrongfully believed belonged to them, they would probably be desperate. Desperate equaled reckless. Reckless equaled innocents being harmed. That was the most troublesome part of all.

With Abby and her father’s assistance, Ben Hewitt guided the Bingham raft to shore next to where Tristan stood.

Nathan Reed guided the Hewitts’ raft in beside the Binghams’. Rachel, Emma and Clarence Pressman rode with him, but only Rachel appeared to be of any help.

Emma, usually the more graceful of the two Hewitt sisters, couldn’t find her balance without assistance. Her face had taken on a greenish tint. Clearly, the woman wasn’t meant to travel by water. By the looks of her, Tristan doubted she would find her sea legs before the wagon train arrived in Oregon City.

Rachel, on the other hand, was poetry in motion. Tristan couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her strength and ease of movement belied her small stature. The moment the raft was secure on dry land, she immediately focused on her sister.

“Emma.” She took the other woman’s arm and carefully guided her to a large flat rock beyond the shoreline. “Sit down and rest.”

“But we have to unload our supplies for the night, and then start supper, and—”

“I’ll take care of everything from here. All you need to do is focus on catching your breath.”

She looked over her shoulder, barely glanced at Clarence and said, “You there, I need your help.”

“M-m-me?”

“Yes, you. Come here.”

Tristan bit back a smile at Rachel’s curt order. She might be a little bossy, but no one could accuse her of failing to get the job done.

Case in point, Clarence obeyed Rachel’s command without question.

“Don’t let Emma move from this rock until Nathan and I are finished unloading the raft.”

“O-okay.” Not meeting Rachel’s gaze, Clarence tugged a floppy hat over his—her—eyes, then sat on the ground beside Emma.

Seemingly satisfied the two would stay put, Rachel went to work unloading the Hewitts’ raft.

Tristan offered to assist.

“Oh, I...” She paused, as if just realizing he’d been standing there watching her. “Yes, thank you, Tristan. I could use your help.”

For the next half hour they worked side by side, unloading only what the family would need for the night. They functioned in perfect harmony, silently anticipating each other’s move without the need for words.

Tristan couldn’t help sneaking a glance at Rachel out of the corner of his eye. Her hair had come loose from her braid, spilling past her shoulders in coffee-colored spirals.

Something clutched at his heart, something soft and tender, making him pause to take in the view of her working. Rachel Hewitt really was quite pretty, even after a full afternoon of uncomfortable travel. She was also competent and unafraid to exert herself, loyal to a fault and clearly loved her family with a ferocity he admired.

For weeks, Tristan had convinced himself he’d joined the wagon train to find a mother for his daughters. Now he wondered—did he want a wife for himself, as well?

The thought brought a pang of something sharp and sad in his gut. Not quite guilt, not quite loneliness, and he realized two years had come and gone since Siobhan’s death. Two long, lonely years. He missed having someone in his life, missed sharing the ups and downs, the hardships and the triumphs.

No, that wasn’t completely true. He had someone in his life. Three very special, very precious little girls who needed his full attention, his protection, his daily love and support. Something vaguely like homesickness spread within him.

A soft female voice slid over him. “Tristan?”

He found Rachel staring up at him, her dark eyes searching his face. He immediately smoothed out his expression, evened out his tone. “Yes?”

“You’re welcome to join me, I mean...my family tonight for supper. I often make too much food, no need to let it go to waste.”

The invitation itself didn’t catch him by surprise, but rather the way Rachel issued it, with a shyness he didn’t often attribute to her. He cleared his throat, hooked his hands behind his back, looked out over the mountains in the near distance. The idea of sharing a meal with her felt...somehow...right.

And yet completely and utterly wrong.

Allowing himself to become too close to her, even over a simple meal, could prove a mistake.

Or the wisest decision you’ve made in years.

He shook his head.

“I appreciate the offer,” he began carefully, fighting off a fresh wave of loneliness and an unwanted surge of longing. “But I must decline.”

She didn’t understand his response. He could tell by the way her eyebrows pulled together.

“I have too many duties pressing in on me,” he found himself explaining, “and...”

He faltered, made another attempt to explain himself, but words failed him and so he just stood there, hands still clasped behind his back, feeling stubborn and awkward and far too out of control for his liking.

“I tell you what.” Rachel’s fingers closed over his arm, squeezed gently, then dropped away. “I’ll make you a plate and keep it warm until you have time to eat.”

The offer was given casually yet again carried a hint of shyness in the tone that he didn’t usually associate with this woman.

Instantly charmed, he relented. “Thank you, Rachel. I’d appreciate that.”

“Well, then, consider it done.” She locked gazes with him, smiled. Warmth wrapped around his heart and gently caressed the ache there, an ache he’d lived with for so long he’d nearly grown used to the sensation.

This small, outspoken, opinionated woman had somehow slipped beneath his guard, made him wish for things he’d forgotten existed. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Breaking eye contact, he said a few quick words of farewell. It wasn’t until twilight turned the big open sky a deep lavender hue that he made his way back to Rachel, er, the Hewitt family. All around him crickets chirped, fires snapped, conversations buzzed. The sound of a mandolin accompanied pretty female voices singing a favorite hymn of his from childhood. Tristan could pick out Rachel’s above the others.

He realized he actually liked Rachel Hewitt.

Would his daughters like her, as well?

Although they needed a mother, Tristan wasn’t sure Rachel was the woman he wanted to fill that role. Something about her put him on guard. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow just anyone into his home. Especially a woman who made him think as much about himself as his daughters.

No good would come from mistaking what he needed in a wife, or what he was able to provide a woman in return. He’d already had his chance at love. He didn’t want another. Somehow, he doubted a marriage in name only would satisfy a young woman like Rachel Hewitt.

He approached the Hewitt campfire. As if she’d been watching for his arrival, Rachel rose to meet him.

Eyes glittering in the firelight, she handed him a tin plate. He bit back a grin at the large helping of salt-cured ham, beans and three—three!—biscuits. “Looks good.”

“Sit.” She motioned to an empty spot next to her future brother-in-law. “Eat.”

Dangerously charmed by her no-nonsense manner, Tristan settled on the ground and, avoiding eye contact with the disturbing woman, dug into his food.

“Where’s Ben?” he asked when his plate was nearly empty.

Abby’s father answered. “He and my daughter are out walking. It’s become a tradition of theirs.”

Tradition. The word stuck in Tristan’s mind, swirled there a moment, tugging at him, nagging at his composure. Siobhan had been one for traditions. His thoughts turned to his daughters and the Spartan existence the four of them lived. He had his hands full caring for them. He didn’t think much beyond getting from one day to the next.

What new traditions had he given his daughters? None, he realized, and decided a few changes were in order.

His gaze found Rachel. Perhaps, he thought with a slice of panic, the changes had already begun.