Wagon Train Proposal. Renee Ryan
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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