For the Sake of His Children

A marriage of convenience? Rachel Hewitt couldn’t possibly accept. Not even for the sake of three adorable little girls who desperately want a new mother. Sheriff Tristan McCullough offers Rachel a home and family, but not the one thing she truly seeks—someone to love her for herself.

Tristan McCullough hoped to find a wife on the wagon train, not a nanny. The hardworking widower wants a marriage without emotional risks. But independent Rachel intrigues him. One minute she’s winning over his shy little girls, and the next she’s tackling danger head-on. She might just be Tristan’s unexpected second chance at happiness…if he’ll risk his wary heart again.

Journey West: Romance and adventure await three siblings on the Oregon Trail

“I could help you with your daughters.”

Tristan turned to face Rachel, smiled. “That’s what I came to discuss with you.”

So, he had followed her. She’d suspected as much. But just to be clear…

“You followed me out here to talk about your girls?”

He went very still and studied her face with that intensity she found so disconcerting, as if he were trying to look into the depths of her soul. “In a manner of speaking.”

She swallowed. This wasn’t supposed to be so hard. What she had to offer made sense for all of them. “So you agree I should take over for Bertha.”

“No.”

No? She waited for him to expand on that. When he didn’t she blinked at him in confusion. That’s it, she thought. Just…no. Not a single word of explanation?

She blew out a frustrated puff of air. “You realize I’m offering to take care of your daughters. It’s the perfect solution. I adore them. I’m pretty confident they like me.”

He was already shaking his head before she finished stating her case.

She frowned at him. “I don’t understand your refusal. You need help immediately. I’m available.”

“I had a more permanent solution in mind.”

Oh. Oh.

* * *

Journey West: Romance and adventure

await three siblings on the Oregon Trail

Wagon Train Reunion—

Linda Ford, April 2015

Wagon Train Sweetheart—

Lacy Williams, May 2015

Wagon Train Proposal—

Renee Ryan, June 2015

RENEE RYAN grew up in a Florida beach town where she learned to surf, sort of. With a degree from FSU, she explored career opportunities at a Florida theme park, a modeling agency and even taught high school economics. She currently lives with her husband in Nebraska, and many have mistaken their overweight cat for a small bear. You may contact Renee at reneeryan.com, on Twitter @ReneeRyanBooks, or on Facebook.

Wagon Train Proposal

Renee Ryan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

There is no fear in love;

but perfect love casteth out fear.

—1 John 4:18

To my fabulous critique partner, Cindy Kirk. Thank you for your wisdom and support through the years and, most of all, your friendship. Every book I write is stronger because of your insights. No matter what trial I face, I know you always have my back, and I have yours!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Fort Nez Perce October 1843

Exhausted, footsore and chilled to the bone from a recent rainstorm, Rachel Hewitt leaned against her family’s covered wagon. As she looked out over the organized chaos, one thought emerged. Nearly there.

At long last, the wagon train had reached the final leg of what had turned out to be an arduous, five-month trek across the Oregon Trail.

Despite the hardships along the way, spirits were high among Rachel’s fellow emigrants. A brand-new life awaited in Oregon City, with the promise of fertile soil, large land grants. Endless possibilities awaited. And yet...

A sense of quiet despair crept into her usual optimism.

Wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders, she traced her fingertip along the edges of a wooden slat. Familiar sounds filled her ears. Hammers striking iron. Saws carving through wood. The creak of wagon wheels and children’s laughter and the bleating of worn-out animals.

Soft footsteps approached from behind her. Rachel moved to the other side of the wagon. She didn’t especially want to speak with anyone right now.

Rachel’s family, along with many others, had made the decision to build rafts or buy canoes rather than risk the treacherous land route or abandon their belongings. It had seemed the wisest course of action. But as she eyed the rushing waters swollen from the recent storm, she wondered if the worst was yet to come.

The cold wind sweeping off the Cascade Range carried the scent of winter over the land. Time was running short. Little room for mistakes or wrong turns.

Rachel looked around her once again. This time, all she saw was the solitary figure standing on the riverbank.

Tristan McCullough. The handsome, widowed sheriff of Oregon City had joined their wagon train weeks ago. He’d deftly guided their weary group through the treacherous Blue Mountains, past The Dalles and on to Fort Nez Perce.

His strength of character had made an impression on everyone, including Rachel. He was the embodiment of masculine power and something far more troubling. Something her mind shied away from, refusing to acknowledge.

The sun peeked out from a seam in the clouds and wrapped Tristan in a thin, golden beam, turning his sun-kissed hair a burnished copper. And his eyes, those intelligent, compelling eyes were probably a full shade lighter now, a cool moss green against his tanned skin.

A shiver passed through her as she watched Tristan eye the rushing waters with a concerned expression.

Was he contemplating another route to Oregon City? Not likely. The only other route was along the sandy, narrow shoreline. But large boulders and steep cliffs, some rising over a hundred feet above the river, would have to be scaled or gone around.

While fraught with its own set of dangers, the Columbia River was still their best option. The one they would take.

Unless Tristan said otherwise. Unless—

“Rachel, what’s wrong?” Her sister’s soft, lilting voice fell over her. “You’re frowning.”

Rachel bit back a sigh. Of course the ever-vigilant, fundamentally caring Emma would seek her out.

“I hadn’t realized I was frowning.” She kept her voice even and her gaze averted. “I was merely lost in thought. Nothing to worry yourself over.”

“If you say so.”

Something in her sister’s voice had her looking up. A mistake. Rachel felt her smile slip the moment her eyes connected with Emma’s.

Even with her brows drawn together in worry, her sister exuded happiness. Emma had always been strikingly beautiful, with her golden brown hair and vivid blue eyes. But now that she’d fallen in love with Nathan Reed, she was even more so.

The ex-fur trader and longtime loner brought out the best in Emma. Her confidence grew with each passing day, her innate shyness dissipating with every hour she spent in Nathan’s company.

Rachel was pleased for her sister. She was. But now that Emma and their brother Ben had both found love on the Oregon Trail, Rachel was feeling a tad lost. For the first time in her life she didn’t have a clear sense of belonging.

At least she knew what to expect in her immediate future. Once the wagon train arrived in Oregon City she would take over the care of their oldest brother’s home. Surely Grayson, who’d arrived in Oregon Country nearly two years ahead of them, would welcome her help.

What if he didn’t?

“You’re frowning again.”

Rachel pulled in a deep breath. “I was thinking about Grayson.”

“What about him?”

“I...just hope he still needs me to take over his household duties when we finally arrive.”

But what if he didn’t? she wondered again. She couldn’t bear the idea of being useless in her own brother’s home, or worse, find herself a burden to him.

“Of course he’ll need your help,” Emma said. “That’s been the plan all along.”

Rachel gave a noncommittal nod, then promptly changed the subject. “I’d better get back to work. We have a lot to do before we enter the river.”

A vision flashed of their belongings stacked from floor to canvas ceiling inside their wagon. They’d unloaded most of the items already, but there was still more. Several other tasks needed accomplishing, tasks that must be complete before the men finished building their raft. She shouldn’t be wasting time feeling sorry for herself.

She started toward the back of the wagon.

Emma reached for her. Not wanting to prolong their conversation any more than necessary, Rachel sidestepped the move as casually as possible. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts, at least until she could manage a shift to a happier mood.

“You’re sure that’s the only thing on your mind?” Emma’s hand fell away. “You’re not worried about the river crossing?”

“Of course not.” She lifted her chin to punctuate her point. “I trust all will go according to plan.”

Before she could say more, a group of young children rushed past them, sized small to smallest. Their unrestrained laughter rang out as they tossed a well-worn ball between them. Rachel marveled at their capacity to find joy in the moment, in their ability to take full advantage of this short respite.

She used to recover from hardships that quickly. She used to take setbacks in stride. But her current situation proved far more difficult. For the first time in her nearly twenty years of life, Rachel was facing a solitary future. With no clear direction. No real purpose.

No one to care for but herself.

Though the youngest in the family, she’d seen to her siblings’ needs through the years. After Grayson left Missouri, Ben had worked their small ranch and Emma had nursed their father until he died. Rachel had run the household.

When Grayson sent a letter encouraging them to join him in Oregon Country, Rachel and her siblings had embarked on this journey as a family. Their individual roles had been clearly defined, their stories tightly woven together.

But now, Emma and Ben each had someone else in their lives. Someone they loved and who loved them in return. Rachel’s future was no longer linked with that of her siblings.

Not that she begrudged them their happiness. She simply wanted to know where she belonged in the family now that roles were shifting and two more people had joined them.

A sigh worked its way up her throat. This time she let it come, let it leak past her lips.

The worry deepened in Emma’s gaze. Or was that pity Rachel saw in her sister’s eyes?

Oh, no. She would not be pitied. Anything but that. “If we’re going to finish unloading the wagon before noon we better get to work.”

Not waiting for a response, she pushed around her sister.

“Rachel, wait.” Emma stopped her progress with a hand on her arm. “Why do I sense you’re hiding something from me?”

“Because you’re overprotective of your baby sister?”

“It’s not that.” Emma gave her a look of exasperation, the kind only one sibling could give another. “You’re sad.”

Rachel started to deny the shrewd observation, then decided what would be the point? Emma would see through the lie. “Maybe I am. But only a very, very little. I’ve been thinking about—” she shrugged “—Mama.”

And it was all Tristan McCullough’s fault.

Though no one spoke of it anymore, he’d joined the wagon train for another, strictly personal reason other than merely to guide them along the last leg of their journey. With Grayson’s urgings, he’d also come to determine if Emma would be a suitable mother for his three young daughters. Rachel didn’t fault him for that.

She actually admired Tristan’s commitment to his children. It was noble of him to want to provide them with a mother. Rachel knew what it was like to grow up without one. Hers had died of consumption when she was barely five years old.

What would Tristan do now that Emma was engaged to Nathan Reed? Would he seek out someone else on the wagon train to marry?

Unable to stop herself, Rachel’s gaze sought Tristan once again. As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned his head in her direction.

For a brief moment, their glances merged. The impact was like a sledgehammer ramming into her heart. She nearly gasped.

Her response to the man confounded her.

But, really, he shouldn’t be so attractive, so capable and strong, so disappointed things hadn’t worked out between him and Emma.

Why wouldn’t he be disappointed? Emma was beautiful and kind, nurturing and soft-spoken. She would have made Tristan’s daughters a good mother.

Nevertheless, Rachel didn’t regret pointing out to the good sheriff that Emma wasn’t available to become his wife. She was, after all, in love with another man.

Although, perhaps, Rachel could have chosen her words a bit more carefully. Perhaps, her delivery could have been slightly less forceful.

“...and who could forget her cinnamon rolls?” Emma’s sigh jerked Rachel back to their conversation. “I wish Mama would have shared her recipe with us, or at least written the ingredients down somewhere.”

Rachel pressed her lips tightly together. Apparently, her sister had been carrying on the conversation without her, talking about their mother’s skill in the kitchen. Rachel liked to think she’d inherited her own gift of cooking from their mother. She tried to pull up Sara Hewitt’s image from her memory.

She came away empty, as always, and felt all the more alone for trying.

“I miss her,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “So much.”

She’d been too young when her mother died to remember her face or many of her physical attributes. But she did remember her soft, sweet voice. Her warm hugs and unending kindness. And how their father had never fully recovered from her death.

“Oh, Rachel.” Emma shifted to a spot directly in front of her, a strange of sense of insistence in the bold move. “You know Mama loved you. Never forget that.”

Rachel nodded. Of course she wouldn’t forget their mother loved her. She distinctly remembered Sara Hewitt whispering in her ear every night at bedtime, Rachel, my beautiful, precious daughter. You’re my very own, special gift from God.

She hoped one day to say the same words to her own children.

“We all love you. Ben, Grayson, me.” Something strange came and went in Emma’s eyes. “Never doubt that, not for one moment of a single day.”

What a strange thing to say.

“Of course I know you love me.” A wave of peace wrapped around her like a comfortable old blanket. Family was everything to the Hewitts. So Rachel’s siblings would soon be married. That only meant their close-knit family was growing larger, with more people for her to love.

Yet Rachel still faced an uncertain future. Alone.

You aren’t alone, she reminded herself. You have your brothers and your sister. And their soon-to-be spouses.

Rachel also had the Lord.

She had to trust His plan for her life would be revealed once she arrived at Oregon City, if not sooner.

“Rachel? Emma?” Their brother’s fiancée, Abigail Bingham Black, stuck her head out of the back of the wagon. “Can one of you give me a hand? This trunk is too heavy for me to lift on my own.”

“Coming.” Welcoming the interruption, Rachel hurried around to the back of the wagon. With a flick of her wrist, she unlatched the tailgate and then lowered it with care.

Smiling her gratitude, Abby moved in behind the trunk and pushed while Rachel pulled. Emma joined in and, after a few grunts and groans, the three of them had the large case sitting on the wet, spongy ground at their feet.

Clapping her hands together in satisfaction, Abby gave the trunk one firm nod, then deftly climbed back into the wagon.

Rachel smiled at the agile move, thinking how far the petite blonde had come since the wagon train left Missouri. Had anyone suggested four months ago that the well-bred, overeducated Abigail Bingham Black would become engaged to her brother, Rachel would have openly scoffed at them. She’d considered the spoiled socialite completely unworthy of Ben, especially since Abigail had broken his heart six years prior.

Rachel had been wrong about the other woman, completely.

Abigail had pulled her weight from the very beginning of their journey. First, by singing to the wagon train children at night. Then, she’d approached Rachel for lessons in daily practicalities in exchange for music lessons. The suggestion had been mutually beneficial. Over time, they’d become friends.

Rachel couldn’t think of a better woman to marry her brother. And she liked Emma’s fiancé just as much.

A movement out of the corner of her eye pulled her attention back to the riverbank. Back to Tristan.

Their gazes locked and held once again.

A dozen unspoken words passed between them. For a moment, the world seemed to stop and pause. Rachel couldn’t catch a decent breath. Then...

Her pulse skittered back to life.

Her breathing picked up speed.

Remorse filled her.

Perhaps she’d overstepped when she’d first met the widowed sheriff.

Rachel had been so caught up in protecting Emma, insisting her sister “follow her heart” and be allowed to make her own choice, that she hadn’t considered how doing so would affect Tristan. Or his three young, motherless daughters.

She’d never met his little girls, yet Rachel still felt a connection to them and their plight.

More to the point, she owed their father an apology. Not for warning him away from Emma but for the way she’d addressed the situation.

If not now, when?

* * *

Tristan felt the corner of his mouth twitch. It was the only outward sign of his irritation as Rachel Hewitt approached him with strong, purposeful strides. She might be small, but she was certainly determined.

He couldn’t deny the young woman was pretty, in an untraditional sort of way. Her wild, curly brown hair that seemed to defy any attempts at taming and those dark brown eyes were an attractive combination. Her sweet, youthful face held no guile, and she’d proved herself to be full of life, especially when she was around, or caring for, little children.

Tristan admitted, if only in the privacy of his own mind, that he’d been a bit taken by Rachel Hewitt when they’d originally met.

Then she’d opened her mouth.

Out rolled one unwelcome opinion after another. Although she was almost always right, he wasn’t used to a woman speaking her mind with such...enthusiasm.

How like her to seek him out and share one of her opinions when he had far too many other concerns on his mind. There were countless tasks that needed addressing before the wagon train set out down the river. He wished there were a better route, but the Columbia was hemmed in by steep slopes and cliffs of hard rock on either side.

Worse still, the soggy bottomlands were flooded, leaving the west end of the gorge unsuitable for foot traffic. While several hearty men had volunteered to lead the animals over the Lolo Pass, the bulk of the wagon train had little choice but to cross the river on rafts, canoes or bateaus. If conditions held, and they put in the water today, the emigrants could make it to Oregon City in less than a week.

Tristan would soon be home. Not soon enough.

After weeks on the trail, he missed his daughters. He hated leaving them behind with his neighbor, Bertha Quincy, but he’d been eager to find a woman to marry. And now that things hadn’t worked out with Emma Hewitt, they were facing a longer future without a mother.

He had to figure out another solution quickly.

In the meantime, he had a wagon train to assist down the tumultuous Columbia.

He turned his back on Rachel and walked off in the opposite direction. There was movement everywhere. The unloading of wagons, the unhitching of oxen teams, trees being felled and dragged to the makeshift rafts in midconstruction, all created a cacophony of sights and sounds.

A profusion of odors thickened the cool October air. Oxen and horses, canvas and dry rot, quashed campfires, burned tar—and those were the more palatable smells.

Tristan longed for the journey to be complete. He longed to see his daughters again, to hold them close and tell them he loved them. He’d made a mistake, thinking he would find a suitable woman to marry on the wagon train.

There was another concern plaguing him, as well. The emigrants had a thief among them. Before leaving Missouri, nearly fifteen thousand dollars had been stolen from a fireproof safe. As the caravan continued on the Oregon Trail, various valuables had also gone missing.

The thief had yet to be discovered. Tristan wasn’t giving up hope, though.

He and the nine-man committee of overseers and regulators, along with the insurance agent from the safe company, could still catch the thief before the wagon train crossed into Oregon Country. Please, Lord, let it be so.

A familiar female voice called out his name.

He increased his pace.

“Sheriff McCullough.” The call came again, more formal this time but with an equal amount of conviction. “A quick word, if you please.”

He could keep walking. He could continue to pretend he didn’t hear the perfectly reasonable request. Or he could turn around and deal with the confounding woman.

Tristan did the only thing a man of integrity would do in such a situation. He turned around.

And faced Rachel Hewitt head-on.

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.

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.

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?”

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.

Chapter Six

Over the next three days Rachel and her fellow travelers endured an unending cycle of miserable sameness. Each morning, just before the sun peaked out from the horizon, they pushed their rafts into the river. They traveled until noon, paused only long enough to eat a quick meal, before casting off again.

The unpredictable current, coupled with the brutally fierce winds, battered Rachel’s attempts to maintain her usual optimism.

Endless bobbing and weaving. Endless hours stretching into endless days. Endless. Endless. Endless.

From atop the Hewitt raft, Rachel pressed her lips firmly together and faced out over the water. Acres upon acres of trees lined the shores. Under normal circumstances, she might have enjoyed the colors in the autumn leaves.

Under normal circumstances, she might have found the wild, untamed underbrush somewhat pretty.

These were not normal circumstances.

At least the Columbia River was behind them and they were now floating down the Willamette. One more day to go, according to Tristan.

Tristan.

Rachel felt a familiar flutter in her stomach. There’d been a moment the other night when their eyes had met over the campfire and held. She’d felt the impact of his stare all the way to her spine. Even now, days later, her heart began to thump with a curious mix of hope and despair.

Was he starting to see her as a woman in her own right, not merely as his friend’s youngest sister? Did she want him to see her that way?

Lifting onto her toes, she defied her own good sense and searched for his tall, muscular form. She caught sight of him several rafts up ahead. He traveled with James Stillwell and another emigrant. The stolen money was enclosed in the large trunk placed between the three of them.

Just then, Tristan looked over his shoulder and caught her staring at him. He smiled at her just a little, more a crooked slant of his lips, yet everything inside her trembled.

She tried to break the connection, but she could hardly move, could barely breathe. Mr. Stillwell seemed to be talking and, thankfully, Tristan looked back in the other man’s direction.

Good timing.

Another series of rapids approached.

Before Rachel could fully prepare, the raft beneath her dipped and swayed. She lost her footing, reached out and gripped a nearby box to steady herself. Once she had her balance restored, she let go. Water splashed across her face.

Sighing, she raised her hand to swipe at her cheeks but dropped it when a throaty boom of thunder rolled across the sky.

“No point,” she whispered. No point. Not with water everywhere and yet another rainstorm poised for attack.

She gave the darkening sky a cold, hard glare. No lightning yet. By now, Rachel should be used to the random downpours.

She was not.

Water beneath her, water falling from the sky above, would she ever feel warm and dry again?

At least she wasn’t seasick. Her sister wasn’t so fortunate. Poor Emma. She looked so pale, and nearly as miserable as her friend Clarence, who clung to the edge of the raft with a white-knuckle grip.

The two had been inseparable over the past three days. Oddly enough, Nathan didn’t seem concerned by the unusually close relationship Emma had with another man.

Was it because Clarence was so timid, so reluctant to connect with others? Rachel couldn’t think of a time when she’d actually seen Clarence’s face. She’d never once made direct eye contact with the man. Even now, head hung low, Clarence stared at his lap. In that slumped posture, he looked wilted and downtrodden and Rachel suspected he was as seasick as Emma.

On cue, the pitiful man leaned over the edge of the raft.

Emma, likely battling her own wave of nausea, rubbed Clarence’s back and cooed soothing words. Words that seemed out of place for a man. Maybe a young boy, or even a...

Rachel narrowed her eyes. She moved closer, dropped low enough to get a better glimpse of the man’s face but couldn’t find the proper angle.

“Just think,” Emma murmured to her friend. “When this is over, you’ll have your very own tiny blessing.”

What an odd thing to say, Rachel thought, scooting closer. Was he married?

Clarence croaked out a mumbled response in a high-pitched voice, a voice that was nearly female in nature. Female?

“Now, now, none of that,” Emma scolded. “You aren’t alone. You have Nathan and me, and you will soon have your...”

The rest of her words were swallowed up by another crash of thunder.

One more step closer and Rachel could finally see Clarence’s face. The skin was smooth, nearly poreless, like a young boy’s, or...

Rachel gasped. “You’re a woman.”

“Shh, not so loud.” Emma’s panicked gaze swung up to meet hers. “No one must know she’s not a man.”

“But why?” Rachel searched her mind for a reason, could think of none, at least none that would matter at this late date. “We’re nearly to Oregon City. Surely whatever made it necessary to disguise her gender can’t be an issue anymore.”

“Please.” The plea came from Clarence as he, or rather, she collapsed against Emma. “You can’t reveal my secret. An unattached woman isn’t allowed on the wagon train.”

“That’s not precisely true,” Rachel countered, thinking of two other unattached women who’d each hired themselves out to a family on the wagon train. “Mary Connor is unattached, as is Lucy O’Brian.”

Emma came immediately to her friend’s defense. “It’s not that simple.”

Frowning at her sister, Rachel lowered to her knees and considered Clarence more closely. No, not Clarence. “What’s your real name?”

“Clara.”

Rachel took in the rounded cheeks, bow-shaped lips and pretty brown—albeit poorly cut—hair. “You look like a Clara.” She touched the other woman’s hand in the same manner she might a frightened child. “I still don’t understand the need for all the secrecy.”

Clara glanced at Emma. Emma patted her friend’s hand.

Seeming to draw courage from the obvious support, Clara pulled in a shaky breath of air. “My husband and I sold everything we owned to join the wagon train. But Adam fell ill not long after we left Pennsylvania. He died before we reached Missouri. He...”

She stopped speaking, choked back a sob. The sound was so full of grief Rachel felt the woman’s pain as if were her own. Though she’d never been married, she knew what it was like to lose a loved one. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

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