Wagon Train Proposal

“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 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.