Wagon Train Proposal. Renee Ryan
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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