Wagon Train Proposal

by Renee Ryan

  “Don’t get me wrong. I admire your capacity to put others ahead of yourself.” He blew out a slow whoosh of air. “However, in this situation, I fear you will put too much of yourself into Tristan’s family and wind up getting hurt.”

  Her brother’s worry seemed a bit exaggerated, especially since this was her life and her choices they were discussing. “You of all people should know Tristan is a good man. I trust him. You should, too.”

  He blew out another frustrated push of air. “I do trust him, with my life.”

  “But you don’t trust him with mine?”

  “It’s not your life I’m worried about, it’s your heart.”

  Too late, a voice whispered in her head.

  “Stop worrying about me, Grayson.” She heard the unsteady cadence of her breathing and forced herself to speak slower. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “I don’t think you do.” He touched her arm, the gesture full of brotherly concern. “I was there when Tristan’s wife died. I witnessed firsthand what the loss of Siobhan did to him. He hasn’t been the same man since.”

  Oh, Tristan. Heart hurting for him, Rachel felt every part of her fill with sorrow. She had to blink several times to clear away the threat of tears. “He’s been grieving, Grayson. It’s no different than what you went through in Missouri after Susannah died.”

  Eyes turning bleak, lips flat, her brother rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “You deserve the best a man has to offer a woman. I wouldn’t object if I thought Tristan could be that man, but he can’t, Rachel. He gave everything he had to Siobhan. There isn’t enough left for you”

  “You were willing to have him marry Emma.”

  “I admit I was wrong. I see that now. Don’t misunderstand me. Tristan is a good man, but I couldn’t bear watching him inadvertently hurt you because you have expectations he can’t meet.”

  Though she feared her brother was right, Rachel couldn’t help but feel insulted on Tristan’s behalf. She’d seen him with his daughters. He had the capacity for great love.

  “Grayson, do you love Maggie?”

  His eyes immediately softened. “With all that I am.”

  “Do you love her as much as you loved Susannah?”

  His expression changed, turning dark again. Her point had hit home. “Yes, I love Maggie as much as I did Susannah. But Tristan’s situation is different.”

  “How?”

  “He has three daughters who resemble their mother. Every time he looks into one of their eyes, he’s reminded of the woman he lost.”

  Rachel had no response, because what her brother said made sense.

  Grayson closed his hand over hers and squeezed gently. “Don’t put your hope in Tristan. Although I think you’d be good for him, I don’t believe he would be good for you.”

  She nodded. There was no arguing with a truth that had been laid out for her so clearly.

  “I’m tired. I want to go to bed now.” She pushed past her brother. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She heard his frustrated hiss but kept walking toward the stairwell. Rachel needed to spend time with her mother, or rather with her mother’s words.

  Conquering the steps with a heavy heart, she entered her room, shut the door and then twisted the lock in place.

  A chill had crept into her bones that grew colder with each breath she took. She changed her clothes quickly and climbed into bed.

  Snuggling under the covers, she picked up her mother’s journal and settled in to read.

  Chapter Fifteen

  With one hand pressed to her heart, the other resting lightly on top of the journal, Rachel experienced a moment of profound uncertainty. Some instinct warned her not to read any more of her mother’s private thoughts tonight, that if she continued she would regret it.

  She drew in an uneven breath and smoothed her fingertip across the worn page she’d opened to at random. She was so tense that her neck ached. Was the impulse to turn out the lantern and burrow under the covers simply the result of a long day?

  Or was it because of her disturbing conversation with Grayson concerning her arrangement with Tristan?

  Hot tears pricked in her eyes. She refused to let them form. She’d entered into her agreement with Tristan knowing the rules. She would not regret her decision to watch his daughters until he found a more suitable bride.

  Still.

  Tonight, alone in her room, Rachel felt discouraged and so very alone. She wanted her mother, with a passion that turned her breath ragged in her lungs.

  Without thinking too hard about what she was doing, she flipped back to one of the earlier entries and settled her focus at the top of the page.

  The Lord has finally answered my prayers. He has given me a precious baby girl. Jeremiah and I have decided to name her Rachel.

  Rachel smiled. Her mother’s love for her leaped off the page. Reassured, she skimmed over the rest of the entry, then read several more. Her mother had taken great pains to keep meticulous records of her daily growth.

  Now that Rachel has finally accepted my milk, her color is better. The sickly gray pallor is all but gone. Her cheeks are beginning to fill out, as are her spindly little arms and legs. She must survive. She must. I don’t know what I will do if she dies. She quite literally saved my life.

  It is my turn to save hers.

  Rachel paused in her reading. She hadn’t known she’d been perilously close to death. Was that the reason behind Grayson’s overprotective behavior toward her?

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and read on.

  Today was my first attempt to leave the house with Rachel. I should have stayed home. Just one block into my stroll and I ran into that dreadful Kathryn Marlow from the Ladies Church League. That woman wields far too much power in our section of Philadelphia. Most believe her to be a godly woman. I have always had my doubts.

  Rachel frowned. What had this Kathryn Marlow done to her mother? One easy way to find out.

  She continued reading.

  She was so condescending to me about my precious baby girl. How dare she call Rachel a charity case, and then diminish my love for her by insinuating I only took her in out of Christian duty. I’m grateful the baby is too young to understand the meaning behind that horrid woman’s words. Christian duty, indeed. Kathryn Marlow has no understanding of the concept.

  Swallowing back the bile rising in her throat, Rachel looked down at her hands. They were shaking. And her fingers were cold, as cold as the dread collecting in her heart.

  She knew this feeling, had experienced it two other times before. Once, right after her father had taken ill, and again when Grayson’s wife had fallen deathly still in the midst of birthing their son.

  Rachel looked down at her mother’s journal, to the spot where she’d left off reading. She couldn’t seem to take a decent pull of air. Her breath iced in her lungs. For a dangerous moment, she had an urge to toss the book into the fire crackling in the hearth across the room. Did it really matter what her mother had written about her nineteen years ago?

  Somehow, she knew that it did.

  Her mind became so clear it hurt to think. She forced her gaze back onto the open journal, backed up a bit and continued reading once again.

  My Christian duty, indeed. Kathryn Marlow has no understanding of the concept. Rachel is a member of our family. Despite how she came into our home, she is a Hewitt.

  Rachel’s heart hammered against her ribs. She pressed on, hardening her focus onto the page.

  I asked Jeremiah about the day he found Rachel in the alley behind the mercantile. He assured me he’d searched for her kin and gone through all the proper channels to make her a part of our family. Rachel is not a charity case.

  She is my daughter.

  Rachel’
s vision blurred. She wanted to cry, to beg God to take away the pain clutching in her throat. Her head grew thick, her thoughts muddled.

  She flipped to the next page, and then the next. She kept turning pages without actually seeing the words. But then, something caught her eye. A word. One word.

  Missouri.

  Her heartbeat slowed. Now there was only a dull drumming at the base of her skull. She skimmed the rest of the entry.

  I’ve convinced Jeremiah we must leave Philadelphia. Rachel must never know she isn’t a real Hewitt. We will head for Missouri, where no one knows the truth about her. Our secret will be safe.

  Rachel choked back a sob. Beneath her ice-cold skin, she burned.

  Because of her, her family had left Philadelphia. No, not her family. The Hewitts. Rachel wasn’t one of them. She’d never been one of them.

  No, Lord. Please, it can’t be.

  She sank her face into her hands and hid within her palms. Her breathing came too fast, in hard snatches that burned in her lungs. Her father—or rather, Jeremiah Hewitt—had found her in the back alley behind his mercantile.

  Rachel wasn’t a Hewitt. Not...a...Hewitt.

  She dropped her hands to the bed and pounded at the mattress with clenched fists. Her real parents had tossed her away like a piece of garbage. Unwanted. Unloved. Unworthy.

  A charity case.

  She cried out in agony before she could slap her hand over her mouth.

  How could her family have lied to her all these years? No, she reminded herself, not her family. The Hewitts. The people who’d taken her into their home because her own parents hadn’t wanted her.

  She’d always felt different, a little set apart from her siblings. Now she knew why. She wasn’t one of them. She was a...a...charity case.

  She choked back another sob. When the next one threatened, she let it come unhindered. Her misery sounded in every ragged breath she took, in every tear that fell from her eyes.

  What was so wrong with her that her own mother and father hadn’t wanted her? What deep-seated flaw flowed in her blood?

  She glanced down at the journal still in her lap. With a furious swipe of her hand, she tossed it to the floor. A wail of fury gurgled in her throat. She choked it down with a hard swallow. Her effort was only partially successful. The sound that came out of her was that of a wounded animal.

  Shame tasted bitter on her tongue. Blood pounded in her ears. Unwanted. Unloved. Unworthy.

  “Rachel.” An insistent knocking entered her consciousness. “Rachel, let me in.”

  Scrambling from beneath the covers, she rushed to the door and checked to make sure the lock was in place. “Go away, Grayson.”

  “Open up.” He knocked again and again and again, the sound growing louder with each strike of fist to wood. “I heard you cry out. What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  With great deliberation, she wiped all inflection from her tone. “I’m not hurt.”

  Not physically, at any rate.

  The doorknob rattled. “Let me in or I’ll get the key and let myself in.”

  “No.” She looked frantically around. “I...I stubbed my toe on the trunk beside my bed. That’s what made me cry out.”

  “Perhaps you broke it. Open the door so I can check the injury.”

  No. She couldn’t face Grayson right now. She couldn’t look into his false blue eyes and pretend she didn’t know the truth. All these years, she’d thought she was a Hewitt. She’d thought her cooking skills had come from her mother. A lie. Her whole life had been a lie.

  The door shook on its hinges.

  Grayson wasn’t going away. Why wasn’t he going away?

  The answer came from some of the first words she’d read in her mother’s journal. Grayson has taken a special liking to the baby. He’s become very protective of her.

  And yet he’d lied to her every day of her life.

  “Rachel, this is your last chance. Open the door or I get the key.”

  She heard the determination that sat upon his words.

  Swiping at her eyes, she unlocked the door and stepped back, chin lifted at a determined angle. Grayson would answer for his betrayal.

  When the door swung open, she lost her nerve and turned her back on the man who’d pretended to be her brother. The thought was enough to keep her eyes dry and her voice hard.

  “As you can see—” she gave a little hop from one to the other “—my foot doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  Now she was the one telling lies. No better than them. She felt dead inside.

  “Rachel, I didn’t mean to upset you earlier.” Grayson spoke with such tenderness, such caring, she thought she might scream. Or weep.

  Or demand answers.

  Now was not the time. She needed to pull her thoughts together before she confronted him.

  “When we spoke about you and Tristan earlier,” he continued, “I was only looking out for your best interest.”

  Her best interest? The gall.

  Furious at his interference, now more than ever, she spun around to face Grayson Hewitt directly.

  At the sight of his brow wrinkled with concern for her, a portion of her anger vanished.

  “Rachel, all I was trying to say is that you deserve to be loved by the man you marry.”

  Did she?

  If her own mother and father hadn’t loved her, had thought her worthy of abandonment, how could she expect anyone else to—

  Rebellion surged at the direction of her thoughts.

  She was a child of God. For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

  “I deserve to be loved,” she whispered.

  “Yes, you do.” The tenderness was still in Grayson’s voice. He reached up and touched her wet cheek. “Please don’t cry.”

  She firmed her chin. “I stubbed my toe. It hurt.”

  “Let me have a look at it.”

  “No, it’s fine.” She wrapped her foot behind her calf.

  She would not feel guilty for telling a falsehood to this man. But, of course, she felt nothing but guilt. There were so many things she wanted to say to Grayson and the other Hewitt siblings. But she didn’t know where to begin. Didn’t know how to begin. “I’m tired, Grayson.”

  So very tired.

  He pulled her into his arms, always the big brother, even to a little sister who wasn’t a true member of his family.

  A charity case.

  Her heart felt as if it was tearing apart in her chest.

  With slow, purposeful movements, she slipped out of his arms. “I’m going to be fine. There’s no cause to worry about me.”

  “I’ll always worry about you, Rachel.” He kissed the top of her head. “You’re one of my two favorite sisters.”

  She felt the tears coming again. From somewhere deep within herself, she managed to step back and drum up a smile. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Good night, Grayson.”

  “Good night, Rachel.” He gave her a head another kiss. “Now get in the bed,” he ordered with mock severity. “Tomorrow is a new day full of endless possibilities awaiting you.”

  A new day? Endless possibilities? She’d never felt more hopeless in her life, or more betrayed. All she had left was her dignity.

  Chin high, eyes unblinking, she waited until Grayson shut the door behind him before rushing to her bed. Face buried in her pillow, she burst into tears.

  * * *

  As days turned into weeks, life fell into a pleasant routine for Tristan and his daughters. Rachel arrived every morning just after sunup. She took excellent care of the girls during the day, then made her way back to her brother’s house in the evening.

  Other than catching the Tucker brothers, Tristan had very little to worry about in his lif
e. Save for one, nagging problem he couldn’t figure out how to solve. Rachel was sad. It was the only word he could think to define the change that had come over her since that first day in his home.

  To be fair, the transformation wasn’t immediately discernible and only showed at times when Rachel didn’t think anyone was watching her. Because Tristan watched her frequently, he caught the melancholy that hummed beneath her carefree smiles.

  She did not let her guard slip often.

  With his daughters she was the same sweet, guileless woman he’d gotten to know on the wagon train. In fact, when she was around the girls, Rachel seemed happy.

  Mostly.

  But Tristan couldn’t shake the notion that something terrible had happened to her, something she kept buried deep inside. He wanted to ease her suffering.

  As he did every day at this early hour, he opened the door to Rachel’s light knock. But instead of moving aside and letting her into the house, he joined her on the front stoop.

  In the early dawn light the skin beneath her eyes was bruised with fatigue. She’d had another sleepless night.

  He wanted to make her pain go away. He couldn’t do that until he knew the source. He took a subtle approach. “Good morning, Rachel.”

  The smile she gave him didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Good morning, Tristan.”

  She attempted to push past him.

  He pulled the door almost closed, leaving it slightly ajar. “Before we go inside, I want to speak with you.”

  Casting her focus to a spot just above his right shoulder, she fidgeted from one foot to the other. “Is there a problem?”

  “You tell me.” He placed his hand beneath her chin and gently guided her face around to his. “What’s happened to make you so sad?”

  Before she lowered her eyelashes he caught the vast range of emotions moving across her face. “I’m not sad.”

  The way her voice hitched told its own story.

  “Who’s hurt you, Rachel? Give me a name, and I’ll toss him in jail for a night or two, however long it takes for him to see the error of his ways.”

  He was only half kidding.

  She finally cracked a real smile. “Oh, Tristan, that’s about the sweetest offer anyone has ever made me.”