“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 chance 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.
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