Wagon Train Proposal

by Renee Ryan

  Her plea sounded casual, but Tristan recognized the desperation in the tight angle of her shoulders and the loneliness beneath her outward control.

  Perhaps that explained why he found himself agreeing to her request, much to his daughters’ glee. “Yes, we’ll sit with you.”

  She gave him a grateful smile. Drawing in a sharp breath, she took a moment to hug Abigail Black, then repeated the process with her sister, whispering something that made the other woman tear up.

  Sniffling herself, Rachel turned toward the church and, after a quick swipe at her eyes, took Daisy’s hand. She reached out and took Lily’s hand next. Tristan picked up Violet and the five of them marched down the center aisle.

  Chapter Nine

  After a short-lived argument over who would sit where, Rachel settled in the middle of the pew with Lily on her lap. Violet sat on her left, Tristan and Daisy on her right.

  They’d barely claimed their seats when Reverend Pettygrove, in his role as wedding officiator, took his place between Nathan and Ben. An expectant hush filled the air. The preacher nodded to the woman sitting at the piano. Music flooded the small building.

  As one, the congregation stood and turned their collective gazes toward the back of the church.

  Emma and Abby made their entrance.

  Rachel’s eyes immediately filled with tears. Both women were beautiful in their new dresses from Grayson’s mercantile. The designs were nearly identical, all the way down to the sloping sleeves, pointed waistlines and bell-shaped skirts. But while Emma’s gown was a pretty silvery blue, Abby’s was soft pink.

  Abby’s father stepped between the beaming brides and offered an arm to each of them. The three made the short trek down the aisle with little fanfare.

  A perfectly coordinated shuffle of positions allowed Mr. Bingham a spot on the front pew with the rest of the family. After one more bar of music everyone took their seats.

  A brief welcome and thank-you to the local preacher followed before Reverend Pettygrove delivered the opening words of the wedding ceremony.

  “Dearly beloved, Benjamin and Abigail, as well as Nathan and Emma—” he paused to smile at each couple “—have invited us to share in the celebration of their marriage. We come together not to mark the start of your relationship, but to recognize the bond that already exists...”

  As the preacher continued, Rachel dabbed surreptitiously at her eyes. Conflicting emotions rolled through her—joy and excitement, restlessness and anxiety. The combination made her strangely pensive. She didn’t feel deserted, precisely, but...all right, yes, she felt a little deserted. As if she was losing the last fragments of her family with each spoken vow.

  She was glad Tristan had agreed to sit with her. She didn’t feel comfortable around Grayson’s new wife yet, primarily because there hadn’t been much time to speak with her during the whirlwind of wedding plans. Sitting with Tristan and his precious daughters was easier, less complicated and somehow helped Rachel feel less alone.

  Unable to stop herself, she swung her gaze to meet his. Something quite wonderful passed between them, something that nearly stole her breath. Biting back a sigh, she quickly swiveled her gaze back to the front of the church.

  It would be unwise to allow her mind to wander toward something that could only end in heartache. Although Tristan had professed to wanting a wife, he was primarily interested in finding a woman to care for his daughters. There’d been no mention of anything more than a marriage in name only.

  Any woman—Rachel, for instance—could take over the children’s daily care without actually marrying Tristan. According to Grayson, Tristan wasn’t just his neighbor, he was his next door neighbor. Since she would be living in such close proximity, Rachel was in a convenient position to offer her assistance, at least temporarily.

  The idea had merit.

  Ben’s strong, steady voice broke through Rachel’s ponderings.

  “I, Benjamin Hewitt, take thee, Abigail Bingham Black, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death do us part.”

  Abby repeated the same vows, the sound of pure love in her voice. The preacher, looking especially touched, turned slightly to his left and then guided Nathan and Emma through the same litany of promises.

  From her position on the front pew, Rachel noted how Nathan’s eyes shone with the love he felt for Emma. The same look was on Ben’s face as he stared at Abby. Rachel tore her own gaze away from all that...adoration, only to confront the same look in Grayson’s eyes as he smiled down at his pretty new wife.

  Rachel’s heart lifted and sighed. Four siblings. Three happy endings. How she yearned for someone to love her with unbridled affection. How she wanted her own happy ending.

  Lowering her head, she placed a soft kiss to Lily’s head. The child cuddled closer. Tristan reached out and closed his hand over hers. Cheek resting on the little girl’s head, Rachel smiled over at him.

  He smiled back.

  Her world instantly felt a little less...gloomy.

  But then Tristan pulled his hand away and she became aware of the preacher’s voice once again.

  “...before this gathering, Benjamin and Abigail, Nathan and Emma, have promised their love and have given each other rings to wear as sign of their deep commitment.”

  Rachel gasped softly. She’d missed the part of the ceremony that had always been her favorite. The giving of rings. She firmed her chin and resolved to listen more carefully to the rest of the ceremony.

  “Marriage is a gift from God,” the preacher continued, straying slightly from the traditional service. “The union of a man and a woman is the Lord’s beautiful plan for His children. Your goal isn’t to become one. You are already one by the sacredness of your vows. I urge you to honor your commitment to one another the way the Lord intended from the beginning. Leave your family, cleave to your spouse. Be fruitful and multiply.”

  Rachel cast a quick glance in Tristan’s direction. His eyes were different now. They’d taken on a faraway, distant appearance. Was he thinking of his own wedding?

  What must he be suffering?

  The thought had barely materialized when a choked sob had Rachel glancing behind her. Clara Pressman wore an expression of loss.

  “Let love rule your household,” Reverend Pettygrove said. “Hold fast to what is good and right and true. Outdo one another in showing mercy. And...” He paused with a self-deprecating laugh. “And that’s enough preaching for one day.”

  The congregation joined in his laughter.

  “It is with great honor that I declare you husband and wife. Gentleman, you may kiss your brides.”

  Applause filled the church as they did. Someone whispered, “Lovely, simply lovely.”

  Rachel couldn’t agree more.

  The preacher nodded again to the woman at the piano.

  Fingers poised over the keys she waited for the applause to die down before pounding out a popular hymn celebrating God’s glory. The happy couples walked down the aisle. Ben and Abigail led the way, with Nathan and Emma only a few steps behind.

  Once they completed their march, Grayson stood. The rest of the congregation followed his cue. Rachel, however, remained seated. She didn’t want to let Lily go just yet. She liked having her close, and felt somehow useful. The child had other ideas and scrambled off her lap without a backward glance.

  Head bent, Tristan helped Violet to the floor. Daisy jumped off the pew on her own. Amid their excited chatter about the wedding, Rachel smiled and laughed and debated if this was the right time to broach the subject of their care.

  Unfortunately, Tristan seemed determined to avoid making eye contact with her. He also seemed to be in a hurry.

  “Come, girls.” He took V
iolet’s hand, looked meaningfully at his other two daughters. “We’ll wish the couples well and then head home.”

  Thinking she understood his shift in mood, and hurting all the more for him, Rachel followed silently after the McCullough family. She should just let them leave, she told herself. She should wait for a more appropriate time to present her idea about taking over the girls’ daily care.

  Unfortunately, Rachel had never been one to keep her mouth shut when she had a solution to a pressing problem. “Tristan, I thought you wanted to speak with me after the ceremony. In...private?”

  Still not looking at her directly, he gave a single shake of his head. “Another time.”

  He directed his daughters outside and continued guiding them to where the newly married couples stood surrounded by other well-wishers.

  Unable to let the matter drop, Rachel fell into step beside Tristan. “I don’t understand. You seemed eager to speak with me earlier. What’s changed?”

  He stopped walking and, finally, looked her in the eye. He let his gaze linger on her face a moment. And then, something astonishing happened. Everything seemed to go back to normal between them. It wasn’t anything she could pinpoint, just a sensation that she didn’t need to be on her guard around him.

  Rachel actually felt the tension drain out of her shoulders. But a loud shout from inside the church had them tensing up again.

  “Sheriff McCullough.” Reverend Pettygrove called out to him from atop the church steps. “Come quick.”

  Tristan’s gaze snapped in the preacher’s direction. “What is it?”

  “We have a...situation inside the church.”

  With one hand on Daisy, the other on Violet, Tristan and the girls retraced their steps.

  “You better come alone,” the other man suggested. “It’s a matter of some delicacy.”

  There was no mistaking the insistence in his tone or the urgency.

  “Go on,” Rachel said, reaching out to take the girls’ hands. “I’ll watch your daughters while you take care of whatever problem has occurred.”

  Without waiting for him to argue the point, she spun around and issued a question sure to garner the children’s attention. “Who wants to hear how your da saved a little boy’s life?”

  Three tiny arms shot in the air. “Me,” they shouted simultaneously.

  Tristan’s lips pressed into a thin, tight line. “Rachel, you don’t have to—”

  “Go on, Tristan.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “I have everything under control here. I promise we’ll stay close.” She looked around her. “We’ll sit right over there.”

  She pointed to a wooden bench across the street.

  “Thank you.” He gave her a half smile, told his daughters to “mind Miss Rachel” then took off toward the church at a fast jog.

  Rachel followed his progress with her gaze. Right after he disappeared inside the building, a loud female wail rent the air. Wincing, she thought she saw Clara Pressman swaying in the middle of a group of women. But then the poor woman dropped out of sight and the church doors slammed shut.

  Oh, my.

  * * *

  Tristan scanned the crowded area inside the church, assessing the situation as quickly as possible. No blood, no broken bones, no shots fired. So far so good.

  He stepped deeper into the building. The rising panic among the small gathering of mostly women hit him like an iron fist. Some internal instinct urged him to turn around and leave the premises at once. Run, don’t walk.

  He remained where he was and forced himself to continue quickly gathering information. Only after he knew what he was dealing with would he decide on a course of action.

  Another sweeping glance over the general area and his gaze landed on his neighbor Bertha Quincy. At the terror he saw in her eyes, ice slid through his veins.

  “Sheriff, help us. Please.”

  All eyes turned to him. “What’s happened? Is someone injured?

  “It’s my sister, the poor, dear girl is in the throes of—” The rest of her words were lost in the sound of a panicked, high-pitched female shriek of pain.

  Tristan knew that sound, felt his own spurt of terror deep in his bones. Another scream followed yet another and another. Clara Pressman’s obvious pain took him back in time, back to the worst day of his life, a day full of fear and helplessness and paralyzing grief.

  For a dangerous second, Tristan stood frozen in immobility. Memories of his wife’s final hours threatened to overwhelm him. Stay, go. Stay, go. He couldn’t make up his mind which action to take. There was only one choice, of course.

  Stay.

  He wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow another woman to die in childbirth, not if he was able do something to prevent such a tragedy. He shouldered through the crowd.

  By the time he managed to weave past the tangle of humanity, Bertha was already sitting on the floor, cradling her sister’s head in her lap. Every ounce of her concern showed in her shaking hands, in the quivering of her lips, in the tears swimming in her eyes.

  “Tell me what I can do,” he said, careful to keep his voice calm for all their sakes.

  “Emma,” Clara gasped between sporadic gulps of air. “Please, Sheriff. Get Emma Hewitt. She’ll know what to do.”

  Although Emma wasn’t a midwife, Tristan had seen the way she cared for the sick on the trail. She probably would know how to ease Clara’s suffering.

  He rushed out of the church, found Emma, explained what was happening in short, clipped sentences and all but dragged her back inside the building with him.

  Emma immediately collapsed onto her knees and began whispering softly to her friend. The fear in the young woman’s eyes cut Tristan to the core. His first instinct was to move her to a safer locale, where there would be fewer people creating unnecessary stress.

  Unfortunately, Clara was already deep in the birthing process, too deep. No moving her now. The best they could do was make her as comfortable as possible. First order of business, clear the premises as quickly as possible.

  Driven by resolve, Tristan located the preacher. “We need to clear the building.”

  Between the two of them, they managed to herd the majority of the crowd outside. Once that was done, Reverend Pettygrove offered up his own suggestion. “I’ll organize a prayer group.”

  Tristan held back his thoughts on the futility of such an endeavor. He simply nodded at the other man.

  Calling out Tristan’s name, Grayson joined him in the doorway. “Maggie and Abigail are collecting blankets, rags and other supplies.”

  Tristan set a hand on his friend’s shoulder. There were dark memories in the other man’s gaze, the same ones Tristan struggled with in his own mind.

  “Childbirth doesn’t always end in tragedy,” he said, as much for himself as for Grayson.

  The other man nodded, but his eyes were still haunted. They’d both lost their wives in childbirth, but Grayson had also lost his son. Tristan had no words to alleviate the other man’s pain. He would not offer the empty platitudes they’d both heard too many times to count.

  A wail of pain cut through the air.

  Grayson and Tristan both flinched.

  Thankfully, Maggie and Abigail arrived, arms overflowing with blankets and rags and, as Grayson had mentioned, other supplies. Abigail also carried a bucket of water.

  Catching a glimpse of her husband’s face, Maggie shoved her load at Tristan. She barely waited for him to secure the bundle in his arms before she took Grayson’s hands and pulled him away from the church.

  Maggie must already know what her husband had gone through before he’d arrived in Oregon City and was attempting to ease him through the terrible memories.

  At the moment, Tristan had no one to offer him such comfort.

  He f
elt momentarily lost. Empty.

  But he wasn’t truly alone. He had friends and neighbors and three precious daughters he’d left outside the church, where he hoped they couldn’t hear Clara’s screeches of pain.

  Lily had been two years old when Siobhan died giving birth to Violet, Daisy barely four. Did they remember that night?

  Panic filled his every fiber. He had to get to his daughters. Had to make sure they weren’t scared or afraid.

  He headed in their direction, then paused a few steps later when he remembered the blankets in his arms. He quickly reentered the church but paused again at the sound of Clara’s desperate moans.

  “You’re doing wonderfully,” Emma cooed. “The worst is nearly over.”

  Bertha added her own words of encouragement. “You’ll be able to push soon.”

  Unable to bear another moment, Tristan thrust his armload of blankets at Abigail. “I’ll be just outside if you need anything else.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  He beat a fast retreat and only felt a moment of relief once he shut the church doors behind him.

  Taking the steps two at a time, he strode over to Rachel and his daughters. Halfway there, his feet ground to a halt. The four of them looked...they looked like a...

  Family.

  His breath hitched in his throat. The contrast between Rachel’s cloud of dark, thick curls next to his daughters’ straight red hair actually looked...somehow...right.

  The four of them hadn’t noticed him yet. He took the opportunity to watch them a bit longer. Lily leaned heavily against Rachel, her gaze riveted on the young woman’s face. Violet sat in Rachel’s lap and had popped her thumb in her mouth.

  Daisy stood facing Rachel, her back to Tristan and the church behind him.

  It was then that he realized Rachel had positioned his daughters so that their attention stayed focused on her and away from the drama unfolding inside the church.

  He would have to thank her for that small blessing later.