Wagon Train Proposal

Slick, Tristan thought. Dastardly. The question remained. Were they dealing with a cunning thief, or someone who took advantage of opportunities when they presented themselves?

Either scenario came with its own set of trouble.

“Was anyone else near Mrs. Littleton at the time of the robbery?”

Tristan aimed the question at Stillwell, but Ben Hewitt answered. “Mostly women from our section of the wagon train, and...Clarence Pressman.”

Tristan’s shoulders stiffened. There was something not quite right about Mr. Pressman. He walked oddly, hunched over like a man three times his age. He rarely spoke beyond a grunt or a rough, one-syllable response. Emma Hewitt had befriended the man. She was one of the few people on the wagon train Clarence seemed to trust. Her fiancé was another.

“Have you questioned the women and anyone else who might have seen something?”

“Everyone but Clarence,” Stillwell said.

Tristan absorbed this piece of information. “One of us needs to question him before we put the rafts in the river.”

“Won’t be me.” Sam Weston lifted his hands, palms facing out. “My only job is to get the wagon train to Oregon Country.”

“I could do it,” Stillwell said. “But I’m not sure it’s worth risking my cover.”

Before Ben Hewitt could chime in, Tristan caught sight of Clarence. Head down, face completely covered by an ugly, floppy hat, he approached Nathan Reed near the river’s edge. Nathan set down his ax and began a hushed conversation with the man.

“He’s over there,” Tristan said. “With your future brother-in-law.”

Ben followed the direction of Tristan’s gaze. “I’ll speak with him. I was on my way over to assist Nathan, anyway.”

“I’ll join you.”

As they drew close, Nathan rose to his full height and shifted to his left. The move put his large, rangy body directly in front of Clarence.

It was a peculiar gesture, almost protective.

Tristan frowned.

Clarence peered around Nathan, squeaked out something unintelligible and then scurried away.

Staring after his retreating back, Tristan couldn’t get it out his mind that he’d seen that wide-legged walk before, a cross between a waddle and a shuffle. In fact, he’d seen that exact stride three distinct times—when his wife had carried their daughters in her belly.

Puzzle pieces began fitting into place. Tristan’s mind was just about to shove the last one in place, when Nathan stepped in his line of vision, his face scrunched in a ruthless scowl.

“Leave Clarence alone, Sheriff.” His voice held no emotion, his eyes equally flat.

In a gesture similar to the one the trail boss had given, Tristan lifted his hands, palms facing toward the other man. “I just want to question—” he held the pause for emphasis “—him about the robbery this morning.”

“Clarence didn’t take Mrs. Littleton’s ring.”

“If you say he didn’t do it, Nathan,” Ben interjected before Tristan could respond, “we believe you. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”

Tristan gave a single nod of his head, deciding to let the matter drop. For now. He figured Nathan’s hostility had more to do with Tristan himself than his suspicion of Clarence.

Tristan couldn’t say he blamed the man. When he’d first arrived at the Blue Mountains Pass, he’d been eager for a quick match with Emma Hewitt.

The moment he’d realized that Nathan and Emma were falling in love, he’d immediately backed off. Having experienced a happy, loving marriage himself, Tristan wished them well.

Unfortunately, his daughters were still without a mother. And Tristan was no closer to finding them one than when he’d left Oregon City.

A familiar laugh pulled his attention to a handful of children gathering near the Hewitt wagon. Rachel was organizing them in a circle, a ball in her hand, probably with the idea of keeping the boys and girls out of their parents’ way as they prepared for the trip down the Columbia.

Abigail Black joined the group a moment later.

Just as the women formed a makeshift circle, one of the smaller boys broke away from the others. Looking back over his shoulder, laughing at his friends, he ran flat out.

The child wasn’t paying attention to where his feet were taking him—straight for the river.

Tristan’s breath lodged in his throat. He moved without thinking. But not fast enough. The terrible sound of a splash rent the air. He dropped to his knees at the water’s edge and reached out, catching hold of a tiny arm.

Heart pounding, he plucked the child from the water and set him on dry land.

Soaking wet, water dripping off his dark hair, the little boy grinned up at him. “That was fun, Sheriff. Can I do it again? Can I, huh? Can I?”

He had opened his mouth to explain the dangers of running off from the group when Rachel skidded to a stop beside him. By the set of her jaw, and the uneven cadence of her breathing, Tristan knew he had an ally. No matter who did the talking, the little boy would not be playing by the river anymore today.

Chapter Three (#ulink_170e787d-e733-5044-9589-96a737cc59e5)

Lungs burning, her pulse pounding in her ears, Rachel divided her attention between Tristan and the wet child staring expectantly up at him. The sheriff appeared outwardly calm, in complete control of the situation.

Rachel wasn’t nearly as composed.

A slower uptake on Tristan’s part, a clumsier snatch, and the six-year-old would have been swallowed up by the river.

She didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or scold the child for his recklessness.

Tristan made the decision for her, choosing something in between the two responses. “The river is a dangerous place, Donny.” He met the boy’s gaze. “You must stay near the wagons. You will give me your promise.”

Huffing out a sigh, Donny scuffed his foot on the grass. “I promise, Sheriff.”

Tristan’s shoulders relaxed and he patted the boy on the back. “Good man.”

Donny’s chest puffed out with pride, either from the praise itself or being called a man, Rachel couldn’t say. One thing she did know. From the glint of adoration in the child’s expression, Tristan was the boy’s new favorite adult.

Unfortunately, he was becoming Rachel’s favorite adult, as well, which was rather inconvenient. She had enough to worry about without a growing admiration for a man she hardly knew, a man who was more interested in finding a woman to mother his children than a wife for himself.

Depressing thought.

Still, his quick reflexes had saved a young child’s life. She gave him a grateful smile.

His lips lifted in response.

A silent message spread between them, solidarity in their shared concern for a little boy. In that moment, Rachel felt more connected to Tristan than anyone else on the wagon train.