by Renee Ryan
Rachel stopped reading, her hand hovering over the page. What circumstances did her mother mean?
Shaking her head, she read on.
Grayson already takes his role as big brother to the child seriously.
The child? What an odd reference.
Shrugging, Rachel continued reading the rest of the entry, which was nothing more than a retelling of the day’s events. She read two more entries, both full of her mother’s love for her and anecdotes of interactions with her siblings.
Feeling less alone and closer to the woman who’d given her birth, Rachel marked her place, then put the journal atop the Bible on her nightstand. She would continue reading tomorrow night, one entry at a time. She wanted to savor every moment of this new connection she felt with her mother.
Rachel thought of the three sweet little girls next door.
She knew she could never replace their mother. It would be wrong of her to try. But she would do everything she could to give them the same tenderness and affection she’d received as a child herself. She would care for Tristan’s daughters as if they were her own.
If some of that kindness and tending spilled onto their father, well, that wasn’t necessarily a terrible thing. Tristan could use someone on his side, someone to lighten his load, who understood the depths of his grief.
Rachel had a new purpose for the coming days, one she would embrace with joy and happiness for as long as it lasted. All she had to do was guard her heart around Tristan. Easy enough. She would simply think of him as nothing more than a friend. It was a good plan, a wise plan.
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Twelve
To Tristan’s complete and utter relief, a knock sounded on the front door only moments after the first golden rays of sunlight peeked through the gray dawn. The corners of his lips lifted. Rachel Hewitt was a woman of her word. She’d said she would arrive at sunup, and so she had.
After the first wash of relief passed, he realized he was standing in the middle of his house, frozen, blinking at the shut door. It won’t open itself. Right. He made quick work of moving across the room when Lily’s squeal of delight had him nearly stumbling over his own two feet.
“Miss Rachel is here! Miss Rachel is here!” The child chanted this while bouncing on her toes. “Miss Rachel is here!”
Violet mimicked her older sister, but with one notable exception. Her squeals were garbled by the thumb in her mouth.
They really needed to work on that, Tristan reminded himself, making a mental note to discuss the problem with Rachel.
Daisy danced and skipped around him in small, tight circles, breaking into one of her made-up songs that lacked specific words other than la-la-la followed by a la-la-dee-da-da-da.
A laugh bubbled in Tristan’s chest.
For the span of two full heartbeats, he looked from one beloved daughter to the other.
Another knock came at the door, this one more insistent, followed by a muffled, “Anyone going to let me in? It’s cold out here.”
Striding around his daughters, Tristan swung open the door and connected gazes with his children’s new nanny. The prickle of awareness caught him off guard and he felt his heart catch hard. His reaction made little sense. This was the woman who only last night had turned down his marriage proposal.
She twisted her hands together in front of the waist of her plain pale blue dress, watching him as a rabbit might watch a circling hawk. “H-hello, Tristan.”
“Rachel.”
When he continued staring at her, one hand on the door, he watched her nervousness vanish as if it had never been there, replaced by a wide, appealing grin. Lightning quick and just as powerful as a punch to his gut.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Hurriedly stepping aside, he gestured for her to enter ahead of him.
The girls rushed to greet her. She opened her arms and pulled them close. Childish giggles mingled with her deeper, throatier laugh.
While the four of them got reacquainted, Tristan took his time shutting the door behind him. His chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm with his quickening heartbeat. As impossible as it would seem, Rachel Hewitt had become prettier overnight. Why hadn’t he remembered how lovely her hair was, how engaging her smile?
That smile. It had nearly knocked him off his feet just now. He’d actually felt a tangible impact in his gut, the kind that made him think of things he had no right thinking.
He put an immediate halt to his thoughts.
Nothing had changed since last night. Rachel had agreed to help him out on a temporary basis until he could find a woman to marry who would accept his terms. Terms he would not be amending, ever.
Even if he suggested a compromise, it wouldn’t be enough. Rachel wanted what amounted to a love match. Tristan had married the love of his life. She’d died because of him.
Blessedly unaware of his troubling thoughts, Rachel released the girls. They flitted and twirled around her, their hands flapping so quickly they reminded Tristan of three little hummingbirds. His head grew dizzy watching them.
“Girls.” His voice came out gruffer than he’d intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Let’s everyone step back and give Miss Rachel room to breathe.”
He turned his attention to her.
She favored him with another one of her smiles.
He looked quickly away.
“Miss Rachel.” Daisy tugged on her arm. “We’ve been waiting for you for hours.”
“Hours and hours and hours,” Lily confirmed.
Since when had his daughters become prone to exaggeration? Tristan assumed it must have happened when he was on the wagon train.
“Well, now that I’m here let’s have a look at your house.” Rachel spun in a slow circle. “Oh...my.”
Tristan attempted to view his home from her fresh perspective. He cringed at what he saw—unnatural amounts of clutter, layers of dust on the tabletops, a complete lack of order.
“I’m not much for keeping house,” he admitted, but made no further excuses. There were, after all, only so many hours in the day.
“It’s perfectly fine, Tristan.” Rachel’s tone was gentle. “This is why you hired me, to take care of you...I mean, your household.”
They exchanged smiles—his tentative, hers full of warmth.
Violet shoved in between them. “I’m glad you’re here with us.”
Smile firmly in place, Rachel glanced down at the child. “Oh, me, too, Violet. We’re going to have lots of fun together.”
The girls cheered.
“After we finish our chores.”
The declaration reminded Tristan of his own work waiting for him across town. “That, I believe, is my cue to depart.”
He kissed each of his daughters on the head and told them to. “Mind Miss Rachel today.”
A nod in her direction and he set out to meet up with James Stillwell at the jail. They had to come up with a schedule for guarding the stolen money. Once they figured out the various rotations they’d formulate a plan to lure the Tucker brothers out of hiding.
With his head on possible scenarios, Tristan walked the five blocks from his house to the jail. At this early hour there was usually very little activity on the streets. Not today. Because of the significant size of the most recent wagon train, the large influx of emigrants had already changed the face of his town.
The sights and sounds that accompanied Tristan on his walk to work were similar to what he’d encountered on the trail. He could hear the snap of campfires in the distance, babies crying, hammers striking iron. With winter rapidly approaching, the new arrivals had to erect their shelter quickly. Some would end up with leaky shacks and tents. Others, like the Hewitt clan, would fare much better by sharing homes with f
amily members already settled in the area.
Unfortunately, the wet and cold of the next few months would take its toll. There would be illness and death.
He knew he couldn’t save everyone, but he would try. What was the point of becoming sheriff if he didn’t attempt to protect and defend the people of his town?
“Tristan.” A familiar voice called out from an open doorway. “Got a minute?”
“Not much more than that.” He changed direction and strode toward Grayson Hewitt’s mercantile.
The moment he entered the store, the pleasant aroma of spices and lavender filled his nose. He was also able to pick out the scent of oats and—his daughters’ favorite—licorice.
A quick glance around told him there were no customers milling about. Too early. But there was an astonishing amount of merchandise stacked atop shelves or in neat piles from floor to ceiling. Clearly, Grayson anticipated an increase in business due to the new arrivals from the wagon train. Smart.
“So...” He shot his friend a questioning look. “What can I do for you?”
Grayson leaned against the counter at his back and crossed his arms over his chest. “After significant fishing for information, Rachel admitted that you asked her to marry you and she said no.”
Tristan made a sound of annoyance deep in his throat. “Did you call me in here to gloat?”
“Not at all.” Grayson surprised him with a sympathetic grimace. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out between you and Rachel. The more I thought about you two getting married the more I realized it’s not such a terrible idea, after all.”
“Yeah, well...” He gave the other man a wry twist of his lips. “I’m growing used to disappointment when it comes to the Hewitt women.”
Grayson chuckled softly. “Apparently, I have two very strong willed sisters who seem to know their own minds.”
“Apparently, you do.”
Impatient to get to the jail, Tristan waited one beat, then two, but Grayson seemed content to continue shaking his head in frustration over his sisters.
Tristan lifted his eyebrows. “Was there anything else you needed from me?”
Something hard came into Grayson’s eyes. “Ben told me about the robberies on the trail.”
A muscle shifted in Tristan’s jaw. He swept his gaze over the interior of the mercantile, seeing the vast quantities of merchandise from a thief’s perspective. “You’ll want to think about tightening security until we catch the Tucker brothers.”
“Already done. Ben and I have agreed that one of us will always be in the store during the day.”
“What about at night?” If Grant and Amos attempted a break-in, they would probably do so during the evening hours when there weren’t a lot of people around.
“Now that Nathan and Emma are living temporarily in the rooms upstairs, Nathan has agreed to keep an eye on things after we close up for the night.”
Tristan pondered this new piece of information. As a former trapper Nathan Reed had spent years alone in the dangerous wilderness. He’d faced down wild animals, flash floods and many other unthinkable threats. He could handle Grant and Amos Tucker if they showed up unexpectedly.
“Tell me what you know about the Tucker brothers,” Grayson requested.
Tristan considered his response. He’d done a lot of thinking about Grant and Amos over the past week since he’d discovered their treachery. He had a good idea who they were—and who they were not.
“They aren’t hardened criminals. They’re opportunists. They steal what’s easy and accessible.” He glanced around at all the easy and accessible items in the store. “That’s not to say you should underestimate them. They’re unpredictable and that makes them dangerous. Be prepared, Grayson.”
Even as he spoke the words, Tristan knew the mercantile wouldn’t be their first—or their only—stop. The Tuckers would want to retrieve the money they’d lost, money they believed was rightfully theirs.
“Nathan and Ben had a similar assessment of the two. We’ll take the necessary precautions. Hewitts protect their own.”
“I’d like to speak with both your brother and brother-in-law, just to make sure we’re all in agreement.”
“I’m here.” Nathan Reed stepped out of a back room. “We can speak now.”
From the glint in the other man’s eyes it was clear he had very strong opinions about Grant and Amos Tucker. Still, Tristan needed to be absolutely certain the entire Hewitt family understood who—and what—they were up against.
The brothers had collected a sizable quantity of valuable items while on the wagon train. They would not only be destitute now that they’d lost everything, but desperate and dangerous, as well.
Tristan had no doubt they would be looking for ways to reclaim their booty. They would probably attempt to steal from businesses in town, all of which needed to be warned.
He had a long day ahead of him.
“I’m heading over to the jail to discuss the situation with James Stillwell,” Tristan said, dividing a look between both men. “I’d like both of you to join us.”
A customer entered the store before either man could respond. Grayson hesitated, clearly torn.
“Take care of business,” Nathan told him. “I’ll go with Tristan and report back what we discussed.”
“Good enough.”
While Grayson tended to his customer, Nathan followed Tristan outside. They fell into step together, their strides eating up the ground at an identical pace.
Nathan broke the silence first. “I understand you hired Rachel to watch your daughters.”
Not liking what he heard in the other man’s tone, Tristan fought back a wave of impatience. He had enough to worry about without having to defend his relationship with Rachel. “She’s good with the girls and has agreed to help me out with them temporarily. I will pay her fairly for her time.”
The explanation was short and truthful but didn’t seem to satisfy Nathan’s concerns. “Rachel is family now. I won’t stand by and watch you hurt her.”
Tristan bit back a hiss. He could tell the other man he had no plans to hurt Rachel but realized that wouldn’t satisfy him any more than his previous response. Tristan didn’t fault Nathan’s devotion to his sister-in-law. He actually admired his loyalty. Thus, in the same spirit as before, he kept his response simple and to the point. “Understood.”
“Good.” Nathan fell silent.
Tristan did, as well, fully aware tension still simmered between them. He knew why and decided to be forthright about the cause. “I never congratulated on your marriage to Emma. I wish you years of happiness together.”
Nathan’s feet ground to a halt. Eyes narrowed, he studied Tristan with a hard glare. After a moment, his entire bearing relaxed. “I believe you mean that.”
“I am sincere.”
“Thank you,” Nathan said, and actually smiled around the words.
“You’re welcome.”
They resumed walking. The hostility between them dissipated one step at a time. A block later, they arrived at their destination. Taking the lead, Tristan opened the door to the jailhouse and called out to James Stillwell.
It was time to set a trap for two slippery rats.
* * *
Rachel glanced around Tristan’s house, feeling a sense of accomplishment now that she’d restored some order to the chaos she’d encountered this morning. The decor was simple, if somewhat austere, and could use a few feminine touches. She’d make curtains first. Maybe hang wallpaper. Add a couple of doilies here and there.
Despite the Spartan conditions, Rachel had spent a delightful morning with Tristan’s daughters. She’d taught them basic household chores. Not wanting to overwhelm them, she’d turned each task into a game.
They folded blankets in teams of two, racing to s
ee who could finish first. They sang “Mary Had a Little Lamb” as they swept the dirty floor, timing the strokes to the rhythm of the song. When it was time to dust the furniture, she’d taught them a different tune that Daisy continued singing the rest of the morning.
Brushing her palms together, Rachel decided it was time for a break. “Who’s hungry?”
Three hands shot in the air.
Rachel’s heart took a direct hit. She’d been right to take this position in Tristan’s home. His daughters were so sweet, so obedient.
Smiling, she led them into the kitchen and studied the small area with a sinking heart. Austere was several steps up from this household tragedy. There was a battered table and chairs that had seen better days three decades ago, a tidy row of well-made cabinets and an ugly black stove that spread its squat body in the far right-hand corner of the room.
Bulky, with what looked like rust showing around the seams, it had a sad, neglected look about it, as though the stove had been shoved in the corner with every intention of being forgotten.
It was silly to feel a connection to an inanimate object. And yet, Rachel’s heart swelled with sympathy. Ignored. Dismissed. Overlooked. She knew the feeling.
She moved closer and took a lengthier inspection. A dirty pot sat on top of the stove, the contents burned black.
Oh, Tristan.
Head tilted at a curious angle, Daisy came to stand beside Rachel. The child stared at the stove a moment, as if searching for a reason behind Rachel’s fascination.
“Who made the oatmeal?” she asked the child.
Daisy gave a woeful sigh. “Da.” Lowering her voice to a whisper, she added, “He’s not very good at cooking. But Miss Bertha says we mustn’t hurt his feelings.”
Oh, Tristan.
Rachel’s sympathy doubled for the father who’d tried—and regrettably failed—to cook a simple meal for his children. Tristan truly needed her. What woman didn’t want to feel needed?
