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
