Wagon Train Proposal

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?”

Chapter Five (#ulink_ffb3d99b-1a80-5d53-9347-78be8ebcc535)

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 that had gone missing just this morning. There was also money inside the trunk, so much of it her mind boggled.

As if all that wasn’t bad enough, her gaze landed on her sister’s missing hair combs. The very ones Nathan Reed had been accused of stealing before he and Emma had fallen in love. He’d even been brought to trial by the wagon train committee and had only been cleared when new thefts occurred while he was incapacitated.

Anger surged, blurring Rachel’s vision. She opened her mouth, closed it, felt her cheeks grow hot. Lips pressed in a grim line, Rachel reached out, ran her fingertip across the combs.

All this time, all these months, Grant and Amos Tucker had been the thieves. They’d remained silent throughout Nathan’s trial. They’d been willing to allow an innocent man to take the blame for their treachery.

The vile reprobates.

A fresh spurt of fury rushed through Rachel. Her cheeks grew hotter still. She practically trembled with the dark emotion.

“Where are they?” She spit out the question even as she searched the river. “Where are Grant and Amos?”

“Over there.” Tristan angled his head toward the opposite side of river.

Rachel looked in the direction Tristan indicated. The moment her gaze swept over the Tuckers, she opened her mouth, but again nothing came out. Not a whisper, not a squeak.

All she could do was watch in stunned silence as the twins faced off with each other. They seemed to be engaged in a verbal battle, which quickly escalated to pushing and shoving.

Amos slammed his hands against Grant’s shoulders. Grant returned the favor, sending his brother back several steps.

“Hey, boys, looks like you left a few things behind.”

Pausing midshove, Grant pulled away from his brother and stomped to the river’s edge. The thunderous expression on his face distorted his features, giving him a twisted, almost sinister look. “You got no right searching through our stuff.”

“Your stuff? Now see, that’s where you’re wrong. This does not belong to you.” Tristan waved the hairbrush, then reached inside the trunk and retrieved the cameo. “Nor does this.”

He picked up Mrs. Bingham’s shawl, studied the design with casual slowness. “Or this.”

Grant shouted out something foul concerning Tristan’s heritage. Rachel gasped at the venom in the other man’s words, could only marvel at Tristan’s calm demeanor as he carefully returned the stolen items to the trunk, then prowled like a large menacing cat to the water’s edge.

Feet planted in a wide-legged stance, his expression turned so hard, so threatening, that Rachel shivered.

“Come over here and say that to my face,” Tristan said through gritted teeth.