Renee Ryan - Wagon Train Proposal

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 into Oregon Country. Please, Lord, let it be so.

A familiar female voice called out his name.

He increased his pace.

“Sheriff McCullough.” The call came again, more formal this time but with an equal amount of conviction. “A quick word, if you please.”

He could keep walking. He could continue to pretend he didn’t hear the perfectly reasonable request. Or he could turn around and deal with the confounding woman.

Tristan did the only thing a man of integrity would do in such a situation. He turned around.

And faced Rachel Hewitt head-on.

Chapter Two

With Tristan’s impatient gaze locked on her, Rachel’s footsteps faltered and she slowed to a near crawl. Now that she’d secured his attention, she wasn’t quite sure what to say to the man. I’m sorry seemed too simple, too easy and thoroughly inadequate, given the circumstances.

He was, after all, heading back to Oregon City without a bride or a mother for his daughters. Rachel had played a role in that. Although...

The situation wasn’t entirely her fault. In truth, it wasn’t even a little bit her fault. She’d merely pointed out what should have been obvious. By discouraging him from pursuing her sister, Rachel had saved everyone—including Tristan himself—a whole lot of trouble, possibly even heartache.

But that wasn’t the point.

Rachel drew in a tight breath, forced her feet to move quickly over the sodden grass.

Why, why had Grayson told Tristan about Emma and then suggested a match between them? Now, Tristan had a glimpse of what might have been. No other woman could hope to rival Emma’s serene beauty and soft, caring nature, especially not Rachel.

Not that she was interested in becoming Tristan’s wife. No matter how connected she felt to his three motherless little girls, Rachel would not serve as Emma’s stand-in. Not nearly as beautiful as her sister, Rachel had spent most of her life falling short in most people’s eyes. She’d always been considered second-best, the other sister.

No more.

When Rachel eventually married, she would be first in her future husband’s heart, or not at all. And...and...

She was stalling.

With a clipped stride, she closed the distance between them. If only Tristan weren’t so tall. If only she didn’t have to crane her neck to look into his eyes, eyes full of intensity.

Get on with it, Rachel.

She took another step toward him, just one, and immediately regretted the move. The smell of spicy bergamot mixed with leather and something indescribably male washed over her.

“I...I’ve come to...” Her words trailed off. She immediately firmed her chin and blurted out the rest in a rush. “I’ve come to apologize.”

A winged eyebrow rose.

Better, she supposed, than a verbal response. Tristan’s gravelly Irish brogue was entirely too attractive. Once he started talking, Rachel could very possibly lose the remaining scraps of her nerve.

She’d made a mistake, approaching him like this without a plan in mind.

Every instinct told her to forget this conversation, to leave at once and never broach the subject again.

But Rachel Hewitt was made of sterner stuff.

“I...that is, I quite possibly, maybe...” She swallowed. “That is—” she swallowed again “—I spoke in haste when we first met.”

Silence met her words, followed by a slow, thoughtful scowl. Then came a long, tense moment when Tristan’s gaze roamed Rachel’s face.

His inspection was altogether too thorough, too disconcerting.

She forgot to be uncomfortable, forgot her nervousness and jammed her fists on her hips. “You could make this easier for me.”

“I could,” he drawled, that Irish brogue as appealing as she’d feared. “But I find I’m quite charmed at the moment. It’s so rare to see you tongue-tied.”

Her mouth fell open. “You’re enjoying my discomfort?”

“On the contrary, I’m attempting to lighten the mood.” A slow, attractive grin slid across his lips. “I suspect, Miss Hewitt, apologies do not come easy for you.”

“You have no idea,” she muttered, her shoulders stiffening.

“It’s a trait that I must regretfully admit—” he leaned in close, so close their noses nearly touched “—we share.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. The man wasn’t supposed to make her laugh, while also—mildly—insulting her. “I’m trying to do the right thing here, be the bigger person and all that.”

“I’m well aware.”

“I...” She trailed off, blew out a puff of air and tried again. “I can’t seem to find the proper words.”

“ I’m sorry is always a good place to start.”

Wasn’t he oh-so-helpful? Rachel would be annoyed with the man if he wasn’t also oh-so-right.

She puffed out another breath. “I’m sorry, Sheriff McCullough, I may have—”

“Tristan.”

“Excuse me?”

“Considering our history, you should probably call me Tristan.”

Oh. Oh. “I’m sorry... Tristan .”

He smiled.

Unfair. The man was far too handsome when he looked at her like that. Her heart took an extra beat. “When I warned you to stay away from my sister, I may have spoken a bit more harshly than the situation warranted.”

There went that eyebrow again, traveling the same path as before. “May have?”

Rachel sighed. Of course he would latch on to that part of her awkward little speech.

“I spoke too harshly,” she amended, eliminating the qualifier this time around. “I could have used more grace with my delivery and less disapproval in my tone.”

“You were attempting to protect your sister. Your loyalty does you credit.”