Wagon Train Proposal. Renee Ryan
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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?”
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