by Renee Ryan
Not waiting for his response, she gathered up an armload of objects that belonged to fellow travelers and hurried away.
* * *
Later that afternoon, just before sunset, Tristan decided that Sam Weston was the most competent, efficient trail boss he’d ever met. Despite the trouble with Grant and Amos Tucker and the shock among the emigrants over the twins’ deception, the wagon train left Fort Nez Perce at high noon. Right on schedule.
Now, with the sun bumping up against the horizon and leaving a spectacular array of color in its wake, Weston waved his hand above his head.
The day’s travel had come to an end.
More than ready for a break, Tristan guided the raft he shared with James Stillwell and another emigrant through the rough current toward the shoreline.
Hopping onto the rocky beach, he looked around, fought off a surge of dark foreboding. His encounter with the Tuckers had put him on edge, making him feel scraped raw on the inside. He hated that they’d escaped, hated knowing they would show up again yet not knowing when.
When they returned, and they would return for the items they wrongfully believed belonged to them, they would probably be desperate. Desperate equaled reckless. Reckless equaled innocents being harmed. That was the most troublesome part of all.
With Abby and her father’s assistance, Ben Hewitt guided the Bingham raft to shore next to where Tristan stood.
Nathan Reed guided the Hewitts’ raft in beside the Binghams’. Rachel, Emma and Clarence Pressman rode with him, but only Rachel appeared to be of any help.
Emma, usually the more graceful of the two Hewitt sisters, couldn’t find her balance without assistance. Her face had taken on a greenish tint. Clearly, the woman wasn’t meant to travel by water. By the looks of her, Tristan doubted she would find her sea legs before the wagon train arrived in Oregon City.
Rachel, on the other hand, was poetry in motion. Tristan couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her strength and ease of movement belied her small stature. The moment the raft was secure on dry land, she immediately focused on her sister.
“Emma.” She took the other woman’s arm and carefully guided her to a large flat rock beyond the shoreline. “Sit down and rest.”
“But we have to unload our supplies for the night, and then start supper, and—”
“I’ll take care of everything from here. All you need to do is focus on catching your breath.”
She looked over her shoulder, barely glanced at Clarence and said, “You there, I need your help.”
“M-m-me?”
“Yes, you. Come here.”
Tristan bit back a smile at Rachel’s curt order. She might be a little bossy, but no one could accuse her of failing to get the job done.
Case in point, Clarence obeyed Rachel’s command without question.
“Don’t let Emma move from this rock until Nathan and I are finished unloading the raft.”
“O-okay.” Not meeting Rachel’s gaze, Clarence tugged a floppy hat over his—her—eyes, then sat on the ground beside Emma.
Seemingly satisfied the two would stay put, Rachel went to work unloading the Hewitts’ raft.
Tristan offered to assist.
“Oh, I...” She paused, as if just realizing he’d been standing there watching her. “Yes, thank you, Tristan. I could use your help.”
For the next half hour they worked side by side, unloading only what the family would need for the night. They functioned in perfect harmony, silently anticipating each other’s move without the need for words.
Tristan couldn’t help sneaking a glance at Rachel out of the corner of his eye. Her hair had come loose from her braid, spilling past her shoulders in coffee-colored spirals.
Something clutched at his heart, something soft and tender, making him pause to take in the view of her working. Rachel Hewitt really was quite pretty, even after a full afternoon of uncomfortable travel. She was also competent and unafraid to exert herself, loyal to a fault and clearly loved her family with a ferocity he admired.
For weeks, Tristan had convinced himself he’d joined the wagon train to find a mother for his daughters. Now he wondered—did he want a wife for himself, as well?
The thought brought a pang of something sharp and sad in his gut. Not quite guilt, not quite loneliness, and he realized two years had come and gone since Siobhan’s death. Two long, lonely years. He missed having someone in his life, missed sharing the ups and downs, the hardships and the triumphs.
No, that wasn’t completely true. He had someone in his life. Three very special, very precious little girls who needed his full attention, his protection, his daily love and support. Something vaguely like homesickness spread within him.
A soft female voice slid over him. “Tristan?”
He found Rachel staring up at him, her dark eyes searching his face. He immediately smoothed out his expression, evened out his tone. “Yes?”
“You’re welcome to join me, I mean...my family tonight for supper. I often make too much food, no need to let it go to waste.”
The invitation itself didn’t catch him by surprise, but rather the way Rachel issued it, with a shyness he didn’t often attribute to her. He cleared his throat, hooked his hands behind his back, looked out over the mountains in the near distance. The idea of sharing a meal with her felt...somehow...right.
And yet completely and utterly wrong.
Allowing himself to become too close to her, even over a simple meal, could prove a mistake.
Or the wisest decision you’ve made in years.
He shook his head.
“I appreciate the offer,” he began carefully, fighting off a fresh wave of loneliness and an unwanted surge of longing. “But I must decline.”
She didn’t understand his response. He could tell by the way her eyebrows pulled together.
“I have too many duties pressing in on me,” he found himself explaining, “and...”
He faltered, made another attempt to explain himself, but words failed him and so he just stood there, hands still clasped behind his back, feeling stubborn and awkward and far too out of control for his liking.
“I tell you what.” Rachel’s fingers closed over his arm, squeezed gently, then dropped away. “I’ll make you a plate and keep it warm until you have time to eat.”
The offer was given casually yet again carried a hint of shyness in the tone that he didn’t usually associate with this woman.
Instantly charmed, he relented. “Thank you, Rachel. I’d appreciate that.”
“Well, then, consider it done.” She locked gazes with him, smiled. Warmth wrapped around his heart and gently caressed the ache there, an ache he’d lived with for so long he’d nearly grown used to the sensation.
This small, outspoken, opinionated woman had somehow slipped beneath his guard, made him wish for things he’d forgotten existed. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Breaking eye contact, he said a few quick words of farewell. It wasn’t until twilight turned the big open sky a deep lavender hue that he made his way back to Rachel, er, the Hewitt family. All around him crickets chirped, fires snapped, conversations buzzed. The sound of a mandolin accompanied pretty female voices singing a favorite hymn of his from childhood. Tristan could pick out Rachel’s above the others.
He realized he actually liked Rachel Hewitt.
Would his daughters like her, as well?
Although they needed a mother, Tristan wasn’t sure Rachel was the woman he wanted to fill that role. Something about her put him on guard. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow just anyone into his home. Especially a woman who made him think as much about himself as his daughters.
No good would come from mistaking what he needed in a wife, or what he was able to provide a woman in return. He’d already had his chan
ce at love. He didn’t want another. Somehow, he doubted a marriage in name only would satisfy a young woman like Rachel Hewitt.
He approached the Hewitt campfire. As if she’d been watching for his arrival, Rachel rose to meet him.
Eyes glittering in the firelight, she handed him a tin plate. He bit back a grin at the large helping of salt-cured ham, beans and three—three!—biscuits. “Looks good.”
“Sit.” She motioned to an empty spot next to her future brother-in-law. “Eat.”
Dangerously charmed by her no-nonsense manner, Tristan settled on the ground and, avoiding eye contact with the disturbing woman, dug into his food.
“Where’s Ben?” he asked when his plate was nearly empty.
Abby’s father answered. “He and my daughter are out walking. It’s become a tradition of theirs.”
Tradition. The word stuck in Tristan’s mind, swirled there a moment, tugging at him, nagging at his composure. Siobhan had been one for traditions. His thoughts turned to his daughters and the Spartan existence the four of them lived. He had his hands full caring for them. He didn’t think much beyond getting from one day to the next.
What new traditions had he given his daughters? None, he realized, and decided a few changes were in order.
His gaze found Rachel. Perhaps, he thought with a slice of panic, the changes had already begun.
Chapter Six
Over the next three days Rachel and her fellow travelers endured an unending cycle of miserable sameness. Each morning, just before the sun peaked out from the horizon, they pushed their rafts into the river. They traveled until noon, paused only long enough to eat a quick meal, before casting off again.
The unpredictable current, coupled with the brutally fierce winds, battered Rachel’s attempts to maintain her usual optimism.
Endless bobbing and weaving. Endless hours stretching into endless days. Endless. Endless. Endless.
From atop the Hewitt raft, Rachel pressed her lips firmly together and faced out over the water. Acres upon acres of trees lined the shores. Under normal circumstances, she might have enjoyed the colors in the autumn leaves.
Under normal circumstances, she might have found the wild, untamed underbrush somewhat pretty.
These were not normal circumstances.
At least the Columbia River was behind them and they were now floating down the Willamette. One more day to go, according to Tristan.
Tristan.
Rachel felt a familiar flutter in her stomach. There’d been a moment the other night when their eyes had met over the campfire and held. She’d felt the impact of his stare all the way to her spine. Even now, days later, her heart began to thump with a curious mix of hope and despair.
Was he starting to see her as a woman in her own right, not merely as his friend’s youngest sister? Did she want him to see her that way?
Lifting onto her toes, she defied her own good sense and searched for his tall, muscular form. She caught sight of him several rafts up ahead. He traveled with James Stillwell and another emigrant. The stolen money was enclosed in the large trunk placed between the three of them.
Just then, Tristan looked over his shoulder and caught her staring at him. He smiled at her just a little, more a crooked slant of his lips, yet everything inside her trembled.
She tried to break the connection, but she could hardly move, could barely breathe. Mr. Stillwell seemed to be talking and, thankfully, Tristan looked back in the other man’s direction.
Good timing.
Another series of rapids approached.
Before Rachel could fully prepare, the raft beneath her dipped and swayed. She lost her footing, reached out and gripped a nearby box to steady herself. Once she had her balance restored, she let go. Water splashed across her face.
Sighing, she raised her hand to swipe at her cheeks but dropped it when a throaty boom of thunder rolled across the sky.
“No point,” she whispered. No point. Not with water everywhere and yet another rainstorm poised for attack.
She gave the darkening sky a cold, hard glare. No lightning yet. By now, Rachel should be used to the random downpours.
She was not.
Water beneath her, water falling from the sky above, would she ever feel warm and dry again?
At least she wasn’t seasick. Her sister wasn’t so fortunate. Poor Emma. She looked so pale, and nearly as miserable as her friend Clarence, who clung to the edge of the raft with a white-knuckle grip.
The two had been inseparable over the past three days. Oddly enough, Nathan didn’t seem concerned by the unusually close relationship Emma had with another man.
Was it because Clarence was so timid, so reluctant to connect with others? Rachel couldn’t think of a time when she’d actually seen Clarence’s face. She’d never once made direct eye contact with the man. Even now, head hung low, Clarence stared at his lap. In that slumped posture, he looked wilted and downtrodden and Rachel suspected he was as seasick as Emma.
On cue, the pitiful man leaned over the edge of the raft.
Emma, likely battling her own wave of nausea, rubbed Clarence’s back and cooed soothing words. Words that seemed out of place for a man. Maybe a young boy, or even a...
Rachel narrowed her eyes. She moved closer, dropped low enough to get a better glimpse of the man’s face but couldn’t find the proper angle.
“Just think,” Emma murmured to her friend. “When this is over, you’ll have your very own tiny blessing.”
What an odd thing to say, Rachel thought, scooting closer. Was he married?
Clarence croaked out a mumbled response in a high-pitched voice, a voice that was nearly female in nature. Female?
“Now, now, none of that,” Emma scolded. “You aren’t alone. You have Nathan and me, and you will soon have your...”
The rest of her words were swallowed up by another crash of thunder.
One more step closer and Rachel could finally see Clarence’s face. The skin was smooth, nearly poreless, like a young boy’s, or...
Rachel gasped. “You’re a woman.”
“Shh, not so loud.” Emma’s panicked gaze swung up to meet hers. “No one must know she’s not a man.”
“But why?” Rachel searched her mind for a reason, could think of none, at least none that would matter at this late date. “We’re nearly to Oregon City. Surely whatever made it necessary to disguise her gender can’t be an issue anymore.”
“Please.” The plea came from Clarence as he, or rather, she collapsed against Emma. “You can’t reveal my secret. An unattached woman isn’t allowed on the wagon train.”
“That’s not precisely true,” Rachel countered, thinking of two other unattached women who’d each hired themselves out to a family on the wagon train. “Mary Connor is unattached, as is Lucy O’Brian.”
Emma came immediately to her friend’s defense. “It’s not that simple.”
Frowning at her sister, Rachel lowered to her knees and considered Clarence more closely. No, not Clarence. “What’s your real name?”
“Clara.”
Rachel took in the rounded cheeks, bow-shaped lips and pretty brown—albeit poorly cut—hair. “You look like a Clara.” She touched the other woman’s hand in the same manner she might a frightened child. “I still don’t understand the need for all the secrecy.”
Clara glanced at Emma. Emma patted her friend’s hand.
Seeming to draw courage from the obvious support, Clara pulled in a shaky breath of air. “My husband and I sold everything we owned to join the wagon train. But Adam fell ill not long after we left Pennsylvania. He died before we reached Missouri. He...”
She stopped speaking, choked back a sob. The sound was so full of grief Rachel felt the woman’s pain as if were her own. Though she’d never be
en married, she knew what it was like to lose a loved one. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Adam was my whole world. He took care of everything and made all our decisions. When he died, I had no idea what to do or where to turn, especially those first few days. Afraid someone would try to take advantage of a woman traveling alone, I dressed as a man, in his clothes, and continued on as planned.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t attempt to hire yourself out to a family.”
“By the time I made it to Missouri all the available positions had been filled.”
Ah. “So you continued on as Clarence.”
Clara nodded. “It seemed the only option. My sister and her husband are all the family I have left. They live in Oregon City and are awaiting my arrival.”
What a tragic tale. Though she couldn’t imagine making the same choices as Clara, Rachel couldn’t be sure. She’d never been alone and desperate and without family close by. Knowing Clara’s sister awaited her arrival in Oregon City, Rachel couldn’t deny there was an odd sort of logic to her decisions.
Rachel glanced over at Nathan, only now realizing he was watching the three of them in silence. His protective behavior of Clarence—Clara—made better sense, as did his encouragement of a friendship between Emma and the other woman.
“Who else, besides the people on this raft, knows your secret?” Rachel asked.
“No one,” Emma said. “We must keep it that way, at least until we arrive in Oregon City.”
At this, Nathan broke his silence. “I fear we aren’t the only people who know about Clara.”
The woman’s eyes filled with terror. “Someone else knows I’m a woman?”
“Sheriff McCullough has it figured out.” Nathan looked out over the water, connected his gaze with the man in question. “Nothing gets past him.”
The hard tone in Nathan’s voice disturbed Rachel. She understood Nathan’s original distrust of Tristan. After all, they’d been pursuing the same woman, at least at first. But when Tristan had discovered the truth about Nathan and Emma’s feelings for each other, he had done the right thing and backed off. He’d behaved with honor and integrity.
