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Though it took incredible strength of will, she did not look back to check if he was still on the riverbank. Not even once.
* * *
Tristan watched Rachel walk away, her head high, her shoulders perfectly square with the ground. She had him good and rattled, which was nothing new. The woman put him on edge. What was different this time around was the reason for his unease.
Something about Rachel Hewitt made him want to spill his secrets. Secrets he hardly knew he carried, so deep had he buried them in his mind.
The piercing cry of an eagle slashed through the air, jerking his attention to the sky. The clouds had disappeared, leaving a hard, brittle blue that looked ready to crack with the slightest provocation.
Lowering his gaze to the fast-flowing water swollen from the morning’s rainstorm, a belated sense of relief nearly buckled his knees.
Not only had he saved a little boy’s life but he feared he’d saved Rachel’s, as well. Tristan knew enough about the youngest Hewitt’s personality to know she would have jumped in the river to save the child. Though she’d proved herself anything but fragile, she was a small woman, with fine bones and delicate features. Regardless of her intent, the rapids were strong at this juncture in the river. She would have been carried her away with Donny.
Tristan’s gut twisted at the thought. He instinctively rolled his shoulders, as if the gesture alone could shrug off his agitation.
Frowning, he surveyed the immediate area, left to right, right to left, widening the arc with each additional pass. Fort Nez Perce was busy with motion. Fatigued yet hopeful emigrants readied themselves for the final leg of their long journey.
The noise was constant, sounds of people coming and going, bartering for one last load of supplies, striking deals, negotiating bargains.
A thief was among them and headed straight for Oregon City.
Tristan snatched a quick breath of air.
Though still small by American standards, Oregon City was growing rapidly. Set on the east side of the Willamette River, just below the falls, the town boasted several businesses, including a blacksmith, a cooper, a general store and the new mercantile Grayson Hewitt had opened several months ago. They also had a small sawmill and a recently built flour mill.
Most of the residents were farmers working their own homesteads. But more and more people were choosing to live in town. Tristan had worked hard making Oregon City safe for its residents. Even without the threat of a thief, this current influx of emigrants would change the face of his town.
He prayed it would be for the better.
Mind on the future, he wove his way around the perimeter of the fort. The intense bartering dragged him back to the past, to his early days in Oregon Country. He and Siobhan had arrived with their two young daughters, with nearly no money and unspeakable hope in their hearts. So optimistic, both of them. So naive.
He missed Siobhan desperately. They’d weathered many storms together. The loss of her was like a gaping hole in his soul.
There’d been a dangerous moment when he’d nearly told Rachel how Siobhan’s death had nearly destroyed him. If it hadn’t been for his daughters, he didn’t know if he would have survived the grief. For the girls’ sake, he’d put aside his sorrow and had done what needed to be done. One step at a time.
One day at a time.
It hadn’t been easy at first. It still wasn’t. Most days were just plain difficult. With Siobhan it had been the two of them against the world. They’d grown up on neighboring farms in Ireland. Had fallen in love at nearly the same moment. 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.
Chapter Four (#ulink_13b656d4-b9d3-5864-b5be-c0261606e43e)
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 mind, moments she couldn’t quite bring into focus.
Her siblings had real memories of their mother. Rachel had only this box.
“That’s all of it. We’re officially unloaded.” Looking pleased, Emma climbed out of the wagon and brushed her hands together once, twice, three times. “I’ll let the men know we’re finished.”
Not waiting for Rachel’s response, Emma headed toward the riverbank, her gaze riveted on her fiancé.
Happy for a brief moment alone, Rachel rounded the other side of the wagon. The children were still circled around Abby, settling in as she began weaving a cautionary tale about a greedy dog and his bone.
Her mother used to tell a similar story. If Rachel closed her eyes, she could almost hear Sara Hewitt tell the tale. Her voice had been as sweet and as musical as Abby’s.
Feeling nostalgic, and maybe a bit sad, Rachel sat on the wagon’s tailgate and spread her fingertips over the lid of the keepsake box she’d insisted on packing. The wildflowers painted on the lid were all but faded. The wood was smooth to the touch.
Overwhelmed with an urge to connect with her mother, Rachel removed the lid and studied the contents inside. There wasn’t much. Several dried flowers, a miniature painting of a famous Philadelphia street, a tin rattle and matching cup, a handful of buttons that must have had significance at one time. And, lastly, the most precious possession of all—Sara Hewitt’s journal.
Rachel pressed her palm to the worn leather binding. For years, she’d wondered what her mother had written on these pages. She’d attempted to read the first entry on several occasions, but something always kept her from continuing beyond the initial opening sentences.
These were Sara Hewitt’s innermost private thoughts. Reading them seemed somehow wrong, intrusive even.
But now that her siblings were engaged to be married and Rachel was facing a future alone, she sensed her mother would understand her need to bond.
Refusing to think too hard about what she was doing, Rachel flipped open the book and read the first few lines.
At Pastor Wellborne’s continued urging, I have decided to write down the thoughts I cannot speak aloud. I find myself both compelled and revolted by the idea of revealing the contents of my heart to anyone, even the Lord Himself.
Rachel flexed her fingers beneath the journal. She’d never read beyond this point before. She didn’t know if she should continue now. In truth, she didn’t know if she could.
And yet, she wanted this connection with her mother. Bottom lip clamped between her teeth, she lowered her head and picked up where she’d left off.
We buried my precious daughter a fortnight ago, yet the pain of her loss is still fresh. I try to be brave. I try to hold back my sorrow, at least until I am alone. I do not succeed. How am I supposed to pretend all is well?
My baby is dead.
Rachel gasped at the pain she felt leaping out of those four words. My baby is dead.
“Oh, Mama.” Rachel checked the date scrawled at the top of the page. November 19, 1822. Her mother had lost the child exactly a year before her own birth.
Had Rachel known that?
She couldn’t remember ever being told about the strange coincidence. Why hadn’t anyone told her?
Why did she sense it mattered? Shrugging, she carefully shut the book, hugged it tightly to her. Her mother’s anguish was so real that Rachel’s own sorrow swelled. And her breathing came far too quickly, in hard, painful snatches.
She lowered her head, thinking to pray, needing to pray. But for whom?
For her mother? The dead sister she’d never met?
A set of raised, angry voices captured her attention. She automatically turned her head toward the river.
Grant Tucker, his arms flailing wildly in the air, was talking—arguing—with Tristan. He appeared highly agitated.
Tristan, on the other hand, held himself perfectly still. There was something in the angle of his shoulders that didn’t fit with the picture of his apparent tranquility. He was too composed, too unmoving. A storm brewed inside all that calm.
What had Grant and Amos done to garner such a reaction?
Rachel hated not knowing.
Tristan is a lawman, she reminded herself. He’s trained to handle all sorts of unpleasantness. She should let him deal with the situation as he saw fit. She should sit back, watch and wait.
The very idea went against her nature.
What harm could there be in moving a few steps closer? Just a smidge closer...
* * *
Standing toe to toe with Grant Tucker, Tristan kept his temper buried behind a bland stare and a deceptively mild tone. Against his advice, the brothers were determined to travel down the river ahead of the other emigrants.
Not only was Grant unmoved by Tristan’s repeated warnings about the dangerous rapids along the route, he didn’t have a problem vocalizing his displeasure.
Even now, as Tristan attempted to reason with the man yet again, Grant’s voice hit a decibel that could be heard at least a hundred yards away. Maybe two hundred, if the interested stares from the other emigrants was anything to go by.
