Lacy Williams - Wagon Train Sweetheart

“You’ll stay in that wagon until you’re fit to get down, and not a moment less,” she retorted.

His chin jerked slightly at the familiarity of her statement and she blushed, heat filling her cheeks.

It didn’t stop her from saying, “I think it must’ve been a long time since someone looked after you, Nathan.”

“You are the first in a great while.” He didn’t seem happy to admit it to her. His jaw clenched and he turned his head to one side, no longer looking at her.

Had she irritated him with her bossiness?

“Well, I’m honored to be your first friend this decade.” She’d meant the words to be teasing, but he didn’t look back at her. Had she offended him?

She slowed her steps, picked her way over the rocky terrain as her feet carried her back toward Rachel. How she missed their ranch, with its gently rolling hills!

What was it about the rugged outsider that put her at ease, allowed her to speak as she couldn’t with anyone else of the male persuasion?

Beneath his gruff exterior—the man she’d avoided because he’d hurt her feelings—there was a living breathing person.

Was it simply because she’d prayed so deeply, from the pit of her soul, on his behalf? Because they’d been in close confines for that day and a half? Because the man carried such an air of loneliness?

Or perhaps it was because she saw in him an echo of the loneliness she felt.

How many nights of whispered conversations beneath the covers with Rachel had she missed because she’d been at Papa’s side? While it had been hard for her to watch her father decline, it had been difficult for her siblings even to visit the sickroom.

By the time Papa had passed, she’d felt isolated, as if she didn’t even know her own brother and sister. Grayson she only knew from his letters.

She hadn’t been comfortable enough to tell them she didn’t want to be uprooted and travel to Oregon.

“What’s the matter?” Rachel asked, wandering closer to Emma. Her apron was half-full of the chips.

“Nothing,” Emma answered. She put on a smile.

“Were you thinking of Tristan McCullough?”

The sound of the man’s name startled her, and Rachel must have seen it. “I suppose not, then.” She laughed.

What did that mean? Stung, Emma said, “Perhaps you’re the one thinking of Tristan McCullough too much.”

Rachel’s lips parted in a gasp, but her cheeks also pinked. As if Emma’s guess had been on the mark.

She hadn’t meant to snap at her sister. It wasn’t Rachel’s fault that she felt ill at ease, uncomfortable in her own skin. As if she was drifting with no real destination.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “Nights of little sleep must be making me grumpy.”

Rachel considered her with her cheeks still flushed. “Hmm. I forgive you. I think we’re all weary of the journey.”

It was so much more than that. And they had a long way to go.

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