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“Stay out of our business, Sheriff.”
As Grant made a point to hold Tristan’s stare, Amos casually slipped the edge of their overloaded raft into the water.
Tristan caught the move anyway and frowned.
“Do not head out alone,” he warned. “It’s a mistake.”
Grant snorted. “We’ll just see about that, now won’t we?”
Tristan instincts hummed. Grant’s continued belligerence didn’t fit with his charming reputation. The man wasn’t what he seemed; nor was his brother.
Had Tristan found the wagon train thief? Or rather, thieves?
Before he made any accusation, he needed to get a better look at their possessions, primarily the large trunk situated on the port side of the raft.
Buying himself a bit of time, he studied the raft with a carpenter’s eye. “You didn’t cut those notches deep enough and you failed to secure the logs properly on the port side.”
“The raft will float.”
Possibly. However...
“It won’t withstand the rapids, or the—”
Grant cut him off midsentence. “We’ve forded a river before.”
“Even if that’s true, the Columbia can be tricky this time of year.”
“We’ll be fine.” Grant gave his brother a quick nod.
Amos shoved the rest of the raft into the water. He climbed on top, then tested the sturdiness and buoyancy with a few foot stomps.
The raft tipped dangerously to port. For a moment, Tristan thought the trunk might slip into the water, but eventually the raft settled into an unsteady bob.
Grant shot Tristan a smug grin. “Guess this is farewell.”
Not quite. Tristan eyed the large piece of luggage the brothers had foolishly placed on the far edge of the raft. “That your trunk?”
“Yeah, it’s ours.”
“Looks like it belongs to a woman.” The ivy and floral design were a dead giveaway.
“Yeah, well...” Grant maneuvered his rangy body in an attempt to block Tristan’s view. “It was our...ma’s, and now it belongs to us.”
Tristan heard the lie buried inside the hostile tone, could see the deception in the man’s shifting eyes and curled upper lip.
Amos picked up a long pole and placed it in the water, digging around until he found purchase on the rocky bottom. “Time to get a move on.”
Tristan peered around Grant. “What’s the rush?”
Amos avoided eye contact. “No rush, just don’t like to waste daylight.”
Another lie.
“Your raft is unevenly weighted,” Tristan pointed out. “I suggest moving that trunk to the middle and—”
“It stays where it is.” Amos shot out his hand and set his palm flat on top of the trunk’s lid.
The swift gesture hiked up his sleeve, revealing a long scar from wrist to elbow. From the angry red puffs at either end, the wound wasn’t fully healed yet.
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “What happened to your arm?”
“Childhood accident.”
And the lies just kept piling up.
Again, Tristan leaned forward for a better glimpse of the trunk beneath Amos’s hand. “What you got stowed in there, anyway?”
“That’s none of your concern.” Grant waded thigh deep into the water, shoved the raft slightly forward and then hopped on board.
The additional weight threw his brother off balance. A string of muttered oaths ensued, followed by a round of weaving and bobbing. With the help of his pole, Amos regained control of the raft. Barely.
Once he found his sea legs, Grant rose to his full height and touched the brim of his hat. “See ya, Sheriff.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Tristan called out over the sound of rushing water.
The words had barely left his mouth when the current caught the back end of the raft and spun it in a quick, sharp circle. Grant dove on top of the trunk and hung on with a white-knuckled grip.
Amos frantically dug his pole into the river bottom. His efforts only added to the chaos, spinning the raft in harder, faster circles. With each turn, more of the twins’ possessions splashed into the water.
From behind him, Tristan heard the sound of footsteps pounding toward the riverbank, followed by shouts of warnings and suggestions.
Tristan cupped his palms around his mouth. “Amos, stop fighting the current. You’re better off riding it out.”
Ignoring him, Amos continued battling the rapids.
Rachel Hewitt joined the other emigrants on the shoreline. “Hold on, Grant, Amos.” She rose onto her toes. “We’ll get someone out to help you.”
The raft listed heavily to port, dumping more of the men’s possessions in the water. The pole slipped out of Amos’s hand.
The river had complete control of the raft now, carrying it straight toward a cluster of mean-looking, jagged rocks that stuck out of the water barely fifty feet up ahead.
Running on the shoreline, Tristan shouted out a warning. Ben Hewitt and James Stillwell came up beside him. The three of them kept even pace with the out-of-control raft.
Rachel was only a few steps behind them. “Look out for the rocks,” she shouted. “Grant, Amos, look out.”
Her warning came too late.
The raft smashed headlong into the rocks.
Amos immediately lost his footing and fell into the water. His shout for help was nearly lost in the sound of crashing waves. He went under fast but then popped up a few seconds later near the opposite shoreline.
Battered by rock and waves, Grant still managed to hold his position atop the raft as he clung to the trunk. Man and luggage swirled in a hard, tight circle. The second crash was as ugly as the first. This time, Grant lost his hold. He went into the water screaming for help.
Amos was close enough to reach out and grab his brother’s foot. He pulled Grant free of the raging water and dragged him to shore. Both men then fell to their hands and knees, gasping for air.
Grant recovered first. He jumped to his feet and glanced frantically around. His eyes landed on the trunk, now stuck atop a group of rocks near where Tristan stood.
He waded back into the water.
Tristan did the same on his side of the river.
“We have to get to that trunk before Grant does.” He directed his words at Ben and James Stillwell.
Neither man questioned him. They simply followed his lead.
When Rachel attempted to step into the water, as well, Tristan placed a palm in the air to stop her progress. “Stay back.”
“But Grant and Amos need our help.” Her chin tilted at a determined angle. “They need—”
“I need you to keep the crowd at bay.”
“What crowd?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, my.”
Tristan’s sentiments exactly.
Dozens of gawking men, women and children were lining up along the riverbank. At least a dozen more were in the process of abandoning their tasks and heading over.
Frowning, Rachel stretched out her arms. “Everyone step away from the river and give the sheriff room to work.”
As she herded her fellow travelers away from the river’s edge, the trail boss shouldered in next to her. The two quickly restored order.
With Ben and Stillwell’s help, Tristan wrestled the Tuckers’ trunk out of the water and onto dry land.
The latch sprung open.
“Well, well.” Tristan tossed back the heavy lid and peered inside. “What have we here?”
Chapter Five (#ulink_ffb3d99b-1a80-5d53-9347-78be8ebcc535)
The trail boss proved far more skillful at crowd control than Rachel. Not that this surprised her. Sam Weston had considerable experience managing disasters along the trail. Throughout the hazardous five-month journey he’d employed whatever technique was necessary to keep the emigrants calm, focused and, as was the case today, out of the way.
“Let’s get back to work, people.” He stalked back and forth among the concerned onlookers. “We leave in one hour.”
Amid grumbles and rapid-fire questions concerning the Tuckers’ accident and the potential for more calamities on the water, he remained firm.
“One hour,” he repeated. “We wait for no one.”
Sam Weston never issued empty threats. Therefore, despite obvious concern over the next leg of their journey, the crowd dispersed.
At last, Rachel was free to return to the water’s edge. By the time she had picked her way across the rocky beach, Ben and James had rescued most of the twins’ possessions from the river.
Tristan rifled through a large trunk that Rachel recognized as belonging to the Tucker brothers. The expression in his sharp green eyes was solemn, even a little austere. With that tight jawline and rigid set of his shoulders, he looked pure male, all lawman.
Every ounce the dedicated sheriff.
Curiosity drove Rachel closer, close enough to peer at the contents inside the trunk.
Her throat tightened in outrage.
For several long seconds she couldn’t speak. There were so many familiar items, items that had randomly disappeared in recent months.
Mind reeling, she took a quick mental inventory. There, atop a pale gray blanket, sat the lace shawl that had once belonged to Abby’s mother. And there, smashed up against the far right corner, was Mrs. Jenson’s silver hairbrush.
Torn between shock and utter dismay, Rachel counted at least twenty pieces of jewelry. Necklaces, bracelets, a lovely cameo and—she gasped—Sally Littleton’s wedding ring that had gone missing just this morning. There was also money inside the trunk, so much of it her mind boggled.
As if all that wasn’t bad enough, her gaze landed on her sister’s missing hair combs. The very ones Nathan Reed had been accused of stealing before he and Emma had fallen in love. He’d even been brought to trial by the wagon train committee and had only been cleared when new thefts occurred while he was incapacitated.
Anger surged, blurring Rachel’s vision. She opened her mouth, closed it, felt her cheeks grow hot. Lips pressed in a grim line, Rachel reached out, ran her fingertip across the combs.
All this time, all these months, Grant and Amos Tucker had been the thieves. They’d remained silent throughout Nathan’s trial. They’d been willing to allow an innocent man to take the blame for their treachery.
The vile reprobates.
A fresh spurt of fury rushed through Rachel. Her cheeks grew hotter still. She practically trembled with the dark emotion.
“Where are they?” She spit out the question even as she searched the river. “Where are Grant and Amos?”
“Over there.” Tristan angled his head toward the opposite side of river.
Rachel looked in the direction Tristan indicated. The moment her gaze swept over the Tuckers, she opened her mouth, but again nothing came out. Not a whisper, not a squeak.
All she could do was watch in stunned silence as the twins faced off with each other. They seemed to be engaged in a verbal battle, which quickly escalated to pushing and shoving.
Amos slammed his hands against Grant’s shoulders. Grant returned the favor, sending his brother back several steps.
“Hey, boys, looks like you left a few things behind.”
Pausing midshove, Grant pulled away from his brother and stomped to the river’s edge. The thunderous expression on his face distorted his features, giving him a twisted, almost sinister look. “You got no right searching through our stuff.”
“Your stuff? Now see, that’s where you’re wrong. This does not belong to you.” Tristan waved the hairbrush, then reached inside the trunk and retrieved the cameo. “Nor does this.”
He picked up Mrs. Bingham’s shawl, studied the design with casual slowness. “Or this.”
Grant shouted out something foul concerning Tristan’s heritage. Rachel gasped at the venom in the other man’s words, could only marvel at Tristan’s calm demeanor as he carefully returned the stolen items to the trunk, then prowled like a large menacing cat to the water’s edge.
Feet planted in a wide-legged stance, his expression turned so hard, so threatening, that Rachel shivered.
“Come over here and say that to my face,” Tristan said through gritted teeth.
