by Renee Ryan
Lips pressed into a grim line, Grayson paced through the room, paused, then came back to stand beside her. “You make it sound so cold, when your arrival in that back alley was a blessing straight from God.”
She frowned. “How could my abandonment be a blessing?”
“After our mother lost her third baby she became inconsolable. She was no longer the mother I’d always known. She was dying, little by little, day by day, from the inside out.”
Rachel picked up the journal, ran her hand over the binding. She knew Grayson spoke the truth. Sara Hewitt’s despair practically jumped off the pages of her first entries.
“Your arrival changed everything. You made her happy and when she became your mother, she became our mother again.”
Rachel continued staring at the journal in her hands.
“Rachel.” Grayson touched her arm with a tentative brush of his fingertips. “You saved our mother’s life. You were the answer to our prayers.”
She recalled her mother’s final words to her every night at bedtime. Rachel, my beautiful, precious daughter. You’re my very own, special gift from God.
Stomach quivering, she finally lifted her head and met Grayson’s gaze. “Do you know who my real parents are?”
“No.” She saw nothing but truth in his eyes. “I only know what Pa told us the night he showed up with you in his arms. He said he found you nestled in a pile of blankets in a snowdrift behind the mercantile.”
A snowdrift? Sara Hewitt hadn’t included that piece of information in her journal. Rachel had been left out in the cold. She’d been left to die...in...the...snow. But she’d been rescued by a wonderful, loving family that considered her their own.
“Grayson? Rachel?” Maggie called out from down the hall. “It’s time to go. Church starts in twenty minutes.”
“I’m not going.” Rachel’s fingers clutched at the journal.
Grayson nodded. “I understand.” There was a slight pause, then he added, “Will you be all right on your own?”
No. Yes. Eventually. Maybe. “I’ll be fine.”
He dragged her into his arms and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I love you, peanut, always have, always will.”
She said nothing, not when he stepped back and looked into her eyes. Not when he turned to go. Not when he shut the door behind him with a soft click.
Alone at last, she fell back on her bed and wept. Unlike the tears she’d shed last night, these carried a trace of healing.
* * *
A vicious wind thrashed off the mountains in bone-chilling blasts. Tristan hunched his shoulders against the driving cold and hurried his daughters along toward the small wooden church up ahead.
A sharp gust kicked up, whipping Tristan’s coat tightly around him. On mornings such as these, when the temperature dropped by the hour and the wind blew in cold and furious off the water, he was reminded that living in Oregon City came with a cost.
Tristan didn’t regret moving his family here. The weather could be just as unpleasant on the Irish coast. Besides, Siobhan’s death could have just as easily occurred in Ireland. Though he would still carry his share of the blame.
An image of Rachel came to mind.
His thoughts turned to last night, to the moment he’d taken her into his arms. He shouldn’t have kissed her. He was opening her up to heartache, making silent promises he couldn’t keep.
Still.
Their kiss had been coming on for days, maybe even weeks. Rachel had brought warmth back into his life, into his heart. She’d slipped past his guard and was systematically transforming every part of him. He felt like a new man, as if he were waking from a long, deep sleep.
“Can we sit with Miss Rachel?” Daisy asked over the howling wind, her new doll held securely in her arms.
“If she’s willing to join us in the back pew, then yes. Of course.” He’d welcome her company, as he did more and more each day.
Narrowing his gaze over the milling crowd, he searched for her pretty dark head. He didn’t see her anywhere. He maneuvered his daughters around a pile of slushy mud and ushered them inside the church. Warm air immediately enveloped them while the wind continued battering angry fists against the exterior of the building.
He steered his daughters toward the back pew. The girls caught sight of Bertha Quincy and her sister, Clara. Squealing something about playing with the baby again, Violet hurried over to the women. His other two daughters followed closely behind their little sister. All three showed off their new dolls.
Tristan looked around for Rachel but saw no sign of her inside the church. He did, however, see the rest of her family up near the front.
“Where’s your baby?” he heard Lily ask Clara.
“We left her at home with Rachel,” Clara said. “It was very thoughtful of her to offer to watch Emma Leigh this morning. I haven’t been out of the house since her birth.”
So, Rachel had chosen to skip church. Tristan wasn’t completely surprised. But he knew from personal experience that distancing herself from the world wouldn’t make her pain go away. He suddenly wanted to see her, needed to see her, to ensure with his own eyes that she was all right.
He pulled Bertha aside and asked her if she would watch his daughters during the service. “I need to speak with Rachel about an issue concerning their care,” he explained.
“I’d consider it a treat.” Bertha smiled over at the girls. “I’ve missed the girls terribly these past few weeks.”
“Thank you.”
He hastened out of the church and then tightened his coat at the collar as the frigid air frosted his breath. The streets were relatively deserted. The only sound came from the muted squeak of a wagon wheel in the distance.
He looked to the sky, took a moment to watch the clouds collide into one another. Jamming his hat on his head, he set out.
Grayson’s voice stopped him at the bottom of the church steps. “Where you going, Tristan?”
“To speak with your sister,” he said, turning back around. “I’m worried about her.”
Their gazes clashed and a brief, tumultuous silence followed.
“I’m worried about her, too,” Grayson admitted at last.
There was evidence of guilt in the man’s dark expression. Tristan figured he knew why. Rachel had confronted him last night or possibly early this morning.
“You must know that keeping secrets, no matter how well intentioned, is never a good idea,” he said. “Someone always ends up hurt when the truth comes out.”
Sighing heavily, Grayson rubbed the back of his neck with a frustrated swipe. “How much did she tell you?”
“All of it.” Tristan’s breath turned hot in his lungs. Righteous anger moved through him, anger on Rachel’s behalf. “She’s devastated, Grayson.”
“I know. We withheld the truth from her because we never wanted her to think she wasn’t one of us. She is one of us.”
Grayson’s explanation made sense on a certain level, but the man was ignoring an important piece of the puzzle. “Nevertheless,” Tristan said. “She’s feeling betrayed and abandoned right now. It’s as if her parents left her in that alley only yesterday.”
And Tristan needed to get to her. He needed to make sure she knew she wasn’t alone. That someone cared. That he cared. “I have to go.”
Grayson lowered his brows. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“She shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“And you think you’re the one to help her through this?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”
Without explaining himself further, he left Grayson staring after him. Walking with purpose, Tristan made his way across town in record time.
Rachel opened the door almost immediately af
ter his knock.
“Did you forget something—” She broke off. “Tristan, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“And yet, you’re just the person I came to see.”
She cautiously stepped back to let him into the house.
“How are you doing?” he asked as he moved beyond the entryway and deeper into the main living space.
“I’m fine.” Her tone said otherwise.
Stepping around the bassinet where Clara’s baby slept, he saw the strain in Rachel’s eyes, the exhaustion etched around her mouth. “You had a bad night.”
She nodded.
“Because of our kiss?”
“No.” A small smile played at the corners of her lips. “The kiss was—” her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink “—quite lovely.”
“I thought so, too.”
Her smile spread to her eyes, until sorrow chased the hint of joy away.
“Oh, Tristan.” She worried her hands together as if she didn’t know what to do with them. “I can’t seem to come to terms with what my parents did. How could they just leave me in a...back alley? And never, ever come back?”
Her pain was palpable. “I don’t know.”
Absently, he shoved at his hair. He hated not being able to erase her hurt. At least he could listen, for as long as she wanted to talk. Perhaps a sympathetic ear was all she needed from him.
He prayed it was enough. It had to be enough. Because deep down in his gut he knew he would never rest easy as long as Rachel was unhappy.
Chapter Nineteen
Rachel wasn’t sure what she saw in Tristan’s eyes. His silence seemed to suggest he was prepared to listen closely, as if what she had to say was important. Had she become more to him than his friend’s little sister, more than his daughter’s temporary nanny?
Afraid to hope for such a thing, Rachel broke eye contact. Why did her shoulders feel so tight?
She knew, of course. Tristan was standing too close. She could smell the scent of crisp, fresh air on him and something indefinably male that reminded her she was a woman.
Oh, my.
Taking several steps back, she randomly plucked at the fringe of a blanket. She’d lost her ability to think in full sentences now that she was aware of Tristan’s...nearness.
She decided to wait him out, let him do the talking.
But when he simply watched her from his side of the room, she couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “Was there a specific reason you sought me out this morning?”
She shook her head. She hadn’t meant to sound so defensive.
Intent, he moved a step closer. And there went her train of thought again.
“I know why you didn’t come to church this morning. I even understand your reasoning. However...” He hesitated, as if contemplating how best to continue.
“However...” she prompted.
His face suddenly softened, and he looked at her with such tenderness she thought she might weep. He did care about her. He really, truly cared.
“However,” he repeated, his tone now as gentle as his face, “you can’t avoid your siblings forever. Distancing yourself from them won’t get you the answers you’re seeking.”
He was right, of course. She lowered her head. “I know.”
“The longer you wait to talk with them, the harder it will be to have the conversation.”
She knew that, too.
“I will speak to them. Soon. I promise.” She raised her chin and squared her shoulders. “I just need a bit more time to gather my thoughts and figure out how to begin—”
She broke off when she heard the baby moving around in her bassinet. A whimper soon followed. Rachel reached for the infant and cuddled her close.
The impromptu act had a calming effect on them both.
Tristan smiled down at the baby, rubbed a finger across the tiny cheek, then looked once again into Rachel’s eyes. “Don’t wait too long to speak with your family. It’ll only get harder with each day that passes.”
Wise advice, especially now that Grayson knew she’d discovered the secret of her birth. He would tell Ben and Emma as soon as he found a chance. Maintaining her distance at this point would only make her seem small and petty.
Well, she was feeling small and petty.
“Rachel.”
She shivered at the way her name sounded wrapped inside Tristan’s Irish brogue. “Yes?”
He took the baby from her and placed the infant back in her bassinet. He rocked the tiny cradle until Emma Leigh fell asleep once again. Then, with slow movements, carefully gentle, he pulled Rachel into his arms.
Wanting his warmth, reveling in his closeness, she settled in his embrace and pressed her cheek against his solid chest.
“It still hurts,” she whispered. “So very much.”
“I imagine it does.” His hold tightened around her ever so slightly. “Every choice your siblings made, every lie they told and every truth they withheld, was done out of love. They were acting out of a need to protect you.”
He seemed so confident and, oh, how Rachel yearned to accept his words as truth. She desperately wanted to believe that her family had deceived her for all the right reasons.
She didn’t know if she could.
“How can I be certain they acted for my protection and not theirs? What if they didn’t tell me because they didn’t want to have to deal with my reaction?” The moment she posed the question, she heard the flaws. Her siblings didn’t indulge in selfish acts. It went against everything their parents had taught them.
Tristan released his hold and moved back several steps. She didn’t like the distance between them but didn’t feel comfortable saying so.
“Rachel, I speak from experience when I say I understand the need to protect a loved one from an unpleasant discovery.” He approached her again and took her hands. His manner was casual, but his eyes were grave. “You know how I lost Siobhan.”
Pain clutched at Rachel’s heart, pain for all this man had endured. “I do.”
His grip loosened, then his hands fell away.
“Siobhan passed only moments after giving birth to Violet. She smiled at the infant, then at me, and then she was gone.” His voice was carefully modulated, as if he was retelling someone else’s tragedy rather than his own. “I will never, under any circumstances, tell Violet how her mother died.”
Rachel’s mouth trembled and she sobbed, just once. For the terrible loss Tristan had suffered, for the little girl he loved so completely despite the way she’d come into the world.
“I’m sorry, Tristan.” The words felt so inadequate. “I know what I’m going through pales to what you’ve endured.”
“I’m not telling you this to earn your sympathy.” His frustration showed in the way his jaw tensed. “I’ve never actually put any of this into words. But it’s important to me that you understand why I plan to withhold the truth from my own child.”
Rachel understood completely. “You want to protect her.”
“I don’t want her to think, even for a moment, that she was the cause of her mother’s death.”
How could Rachel fault him for that? The tragic loss of his wife had brought the glorious blessing of his youngest daughter. But if Violet discovered the truth, it would change how she saw herself. The sweet, impish light that personified the happy child would be dulled. She might even begin to question why she’d been spared over her mother.
“Siobhan’s death is my burden to carry, not Violet’s.”
Aware her heartbeat had quickened, Rachel touched his sleeve, then slid her hand down his arm until her palm met his. “Thank you, Tristan. Thank you for explaining this to me from such a personal place.”
She was humbled that he’d told her why he planned to keep the circ
umstances of his wife’s death a secret from his daughter. What a giving man. He’d shared a very private decision because he wanted Rachel to understand why her own family had deceived her.
In that moment, she fell a little in love with him.
Tristan placed their clasped hands atop his heart. He held on for several beats before letting her go. “Forgive your siblings, Rachel. They acted out of love.”
“I see the situation more clearly now. I—”
The creak of the front door moving on its hinges cut off the rest of her words. A blink later, in walked Clara. Tristan’s daughters crossed the threshold next, followed by Bertha Quincy and her husband, Algernon.
Clara went straight for the bassinet, picked up her baby and placed a kiss on the downy-soft cheek. “Were you a good girl while I was gone?”
Rachel smiled. “The very best.”
Tristan’s daughters crowded around Clara, cradling their dolls in an identical manner as the new mother held her baby. The scene touched her—undeniable evidence they would be sweet, caring big sisters to a newborn babe.
Brows lowered over his eyes, Tristan watched his daughters mimic Clara. His gaze started out thoughtful then turned shattered. Several hard, fast blinks and his expression closed completely, as if a shutter had fallen over his eyes.
Siobhan’s death is my burden to carry...
Rachel bit her lip. If only Tristan could learn to forgive himself. Bertha came up to stand beside her. “Your brother has invited us to eat Sunday dinner at his house.” She leaned over to peer at Tristan. “The invitation includes you, Sheriff, and your daughters.”
Rachel couldn’t be more pleased by this turn of events. Although she needed to speak with her siblings, her emotions were still in tatters. She welcomed this opportunity to prepare for the difficult conversation ahead.
“Did Grayson mention a time he wanted us over there?” she asked.
“Right away, but Algernon and I will be several minutes behind the rest of you.” Bertha smiled at her husband, who was already moving through the room. “He refills the lanterns with oil every Sunday while I wind the clocks. It’s our weekly tradition.”
