Wagon Train Proposal. Renee Ryan
Had left for America with the promise of a better life compelling them.
Tristan had acquired a piece of property east of the falls with the idea of farming the fertile land. But Siobhan’s third pregnancy, fraught with problems, had necessitated abandoning the property and moving to town. Things had started to look up. And then she’d gone into labor.
Darkness filled Tristan’s soul at the memory. He shut his eyes momentarily and shoved aside his bleak thoughts.
“Sheriff, can you give us a hand?”
Welcoming the distraction from the depressing memories, he strode over to the raft where Ben Hewitt and Nathan Reed were laying out logs. He counted ten of equal length resting side by side. Matching triangular dovetail notches had already been cut on either end of each log.
Tristan took a quick count, grimaced. They would need at least six more logs if the Hewitts hoped to put all of their belongings on the finished raft.
“What can I do to help?”
“After we set this support beam in place, we need you to go behind us and secure each log with this.” Ben tossed him a thick, sturdy length of rope. “Once we’re through here, we’ll start on the next raft.”
Tristan looked at the pile of raw timber, realizing the men had cut down enough trees for two complete rafts, one for their family and one for Ben’s fiancée and her father, or so he assumed.
Taking the rope, Tristan started securing the crossbeam to the first log, cinching each knot tighter than the one before. The Littleton and Jensen men worked on their own rafts a little farther down the river.
Amos and Grant Tucker were another hundred yards beyond that point, already loading their belongings onto their raft. A favorite among the other emigrants, the fraternal twins presented the picture of honor and Christian integrity.
Although their loyalty to each other was without question, something about the two didn’t sit right with Tristan.
His instincts hummed a warning. Perhaps he was on edge because of Donny’s near-drowning, or perhaps it was more.
Tristan narrowed his eyes.
Amos and Grant had already finished building their raft and were almost done loading up their considerable belongings—a lot of material possessions for two young, single men.
Once he was through here, Tristan would make it a priority to have a word with the Tucker brothers. He predicted a very interesting conversation.
Midday approached with alarming speed. To Rachel’s utter dismay, the Hewitt wagon was still nearly half-full. While Abby continued entertaining the children with her singing, Rachel and Emma unloaded the rest of their belongings.
On their immediate left, Abby’s father quietly organized the contents of his own wagon. Over the past few months, Rachel had grown fond of Vernon Bingham. A short, thin man with a slight paunch, he sported a horseshoe patch of gray hair beneath a bald pate. Though not especially handsome, he had a pleasant disposition. And a ready smile.
Even with a hint of the sadness lingering in his blue eyes, he looked younger and healthier than when they’d left Missouri.
Prior to the fatal snakebite, his wife had been the heartier of Abby’s parents. Martha Bingham’s untimely death was a startling reminder that disaster could, and often did, show up at the most unexpected moments on the trail.
Rachel attributed the sting she felt in her eyes to thoughts of Mrs. Bingham’s shocking demise and the void the woman’s death had created in her family. Though no longer a child, Abby was now motherless. And Mr. Bingham was a widower.
That last thought brought to mind another widower.
Pressing a hand to her heart, Rachel glanced in the direction of the river to where Tristan worked side by side with her brother and Nathan. All three men had rolled up their sleeves, but Tristan’s forearms were especially strong and muscular.
She knew he was a carpenter by trade. That certainly explained his dexterity with hammer, chisel and rope.
Watching him now, Rachel’s stomach dipped before she had a chance to prepare for the sensation. She blinked and looked away quickly. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stifle the sigh that leaked past her lips.
“Rachel?” Emma’s concerned voice rang out from the interior of the wagon. “Is something the matter?”
“Oh, Emma, no. I’m sorry.” To her embarrassment, she realized she’d been wasting precious time staring at Tristan. “I was...just—” she swallowed “—lost in thought.”
Hoping to avoid additional questions, she took the stack of folded blankets from her sister’s arms and set the pile on top of a nearby trunk.
Emma stared at her a long moment but thankfully ducked back into the wagon without voicing her thoughts aloud.
For the next half hour they worked in silence, Emma handing Rachel items from the wagon, Rachel finding a place for them with their other possessions.
The sky up above was clearer now, mostly blue and speckled with small patches of fluffy white clouds. A sure sign they’d seen the end of the rain. At least for today.
Not that another shower would slow down the wagon train. Rachel’s fellow travelers were a tenacious, hardworking bunch. With single-minded focus, they completed their tasks quickly and efficiently.
Rachel had witnessed countless displays of teamwork throughout the arduous journey. Though, originally, neighbor helping neighbor had been necessary for survival, the emigrants had become a makeshift family in recent months, sharing highs and lows, joys and tragedies, celebrations and sorrow.
Sighing, Rachel reached for the next load from Emma, a box of dry goods and kitchen utensils. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tristan tie off a rope and then step back to study his handiwork.
Even from this distance, she could make out the furrow of concentration on his brow. Or was that concern Rachel saw in his eyes? She couldn’t quite decide.
He turned his head and focused on a spot farther down the river. He said something to Ben and, a second later, strode off in the direction he’d been looking.
He seemed to have a specific destination in mind with his ground-eating stride—very determined, very sheriff-like.
Rachel glanced ahead of him, past several clumps of men and women working, to where Grant and Amos Tucker were already loading up their raft.
She cocked her head, confused. Surely Tristan wasn’t heading toward the brothers with that hard look on his face. Everyone liked the young men, Rachel included.
Grant, tall and wiry, with dark hair, gray eyes and a thin mustache, was a charmer and very likable. Amos, equally tall but more muscular, with eyes that tended toward greenish-brown, was always the first to offer compassion when someone was hurt or possessions went missing.
“We’re nearly finished,” Emma called out from the interior of the wagon. “Only a few things left to unload.”
Realizing she was staring at Tristan again, Rachel reached out and accepted the next item from her sister.
The moment her fingers closed around the small wooden box, a sense of peace washed over her. Of all the possessions her family had packed in their wagon, the contents of this tiny keepsake held the most value for Rachel.
Perhaps packing the box had been self-indulgent on her part. Nothing inside was necessary for survival; nor did the meager contents carry any monetary value. Yet these had been her mother’s most treasured possessions and represented a connection to the woman Rachel had lost far too soon, long before she was ready to say goodbye.
Watery images of her mother swirled through her