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
