and held once again.
A dozen unspoken words passed between them. For a moment, the world seemed to stop and pause. Rachel couldn’t catch a decent breath. Then...
Her pulse skittered back to life.
Her breathing picked up speed.
Remorse filled her.
Perhaps she’d overstepped when she’d first met the widowed sheriff.
Rachel had been so caught up in protecting Emma, insisting her sister “follow her heart” and be allowed to make her own choice, that she hadn’t considered how doing so would affect Tristan. Or his three young, motherless daughters.
She’d never met his little girls, yet Rachel still felt a connection to them and their plight.
More to the point, she owed their father an apology. Not for warning him away from Emma but for the way she’d addressed the situation.
If not now, when?
* * *
Tristan felt the corner of his mouth twitch. It was the only outward sign of his irritation as Rachel Hewitt approached him with strong, purposeful strides. She might be small, but she was certainly determined.
He couldn’t deny the young woman was pretty, in an untraditional sort of way. Her wild, curly brown hair that seemed to defy any attempts at taming and those dark brown eyes were an attractive combination. Her sweet, youthful face held no guile, and she’d proved herself to be full of life, especially when she was around, or caring for, little children.
Tristan admitted, if only in the privacy of his own mind, that he’d been a bit taken by Rachel Hewitt when they’d originally met.
Then she’d opened her mouth.
Out rolled one unwelcome opinion after another. Although she was almost always right, he wasn’t used to a woman speaking her mind with such...enthusiasm.
How like her to seek him out and share one of her opinions when he had far too many other concerns on his mind. There were countless tasks that needed addressing before the wagon train set out down the river. He wished there were a better route, but the Columbia was hemmed in by steep slopes and cliffs of hard rock on either side.
Worse still, the soggy bottomlands were flooded, leaving the west end of the gorge unsuitable for foot traffic. While several hearty men had volunteered to lead the animals over the Lolo Pass, the bulk of the wagon train had little choice but to cross the river on rafts, canoes or bateaus. If conditions held, and they put in the water today, the emigrants could make it to Oregon City in less than a week.
Tristan would soon be home. Not soon enough.
After weeks on the trail, he missed his daughters. He hated leaving them behind with his neighbor, Bertha Quincy, but he’d been eager to find a woman to marry. And now that things hadn’t worked out with Emma Hewitt, they were facing a longer future without a mother.
He had to figure out another solution quickly.
In the meantime, he had a wagon train to assist down the tumultuous Columbia.
He turned his back on Rachel and walked off in the opposite direction. There was movement everywhere. The unloading of wagons, the unhitching of oxen teams, trees being felled and dragged to the makeshift rafts in midconstruction, all created a cacophony of sights and sounds.
A profusion of odors thickened the cool October air. Oxen and horses, canvas and dry rot, quashed campfires, burned tar—and those were the more palatable smells.
Tristan longed for the journey to be complete. He longed to see his daughters again, to hold them close and tell them he loved them. He’d made a mistake, thinking he would find a suitable woman to marry on the wagon train.
There was another concern plaguing him, as well. The emigrants had a thief among them. Before leaving Missouri, nearly fifteen thousand dollars had been stolen from a fireproof safe. As the caravan continued on the Oregon Trail, various valuables had also gone missing.
The thief had yet to be discovered. Tristan wasn’t giving up hope, though.
He and the nine-man committee of overseers and regulators, along with the insurance agent from the safe company, could still catch the thief before the wagon train crossed into Oregon Country. Please, Lord, let it be so.
A familiar female voice called out his name.
He increased his pace.
“Sheriff McCullough.” The call came again, more formal this time but with an equal amount of conviction. “A quick word, if you please.”
He could keep walking. He could continue to pretend he didn’t hear the perfectly reasonable request. Or he could turn around and deal with the confounding woman.
Tristan did the only thing a man of integrity would do in such a situation. He turned around.
And faced Rachel Hewitt head-on.
With Tristan’s impatient gaze locked on her, Rachel’s footsteps faltered and she slowed to a near crawl. Now that she’d secured his attention, she wasn’t quite sure what to say to the man. I’m sorry seemed too simple, too easy and thoroughly inadequate, given the circumstances.
He was, after all, heading back to Oregon City without a bride or a mother for his daughters. Rachel had played a role in that. Although...
The situation wasn’t entirely her fault. In truth, it wasn’t even a little bit her fault. She’d merely pointed out what should have been obvious. By discouraging him from pursuing her sister, Rachel had saved everyone—including Tristan himself—a whole lot of trouble, possibly even heartache.
But that wasn’t the point.
Rachel drew in a tight breath, forced her feet to move quickly over the sodden grass.
Why, why had Grayson told Tristan about Emma and then suggested a match between them? Now, Tristan had a glimpse of what might have been. No other woman could hope to rival Emma’s serene beauty and soft, caring nature, especially not Rachel.
Not that she was interested in becoming Tristan’s wife. No matter how connected she felt to his three motherless little girls, Rachel would not serve as Emma’s stand-in. Not nearly as beautiful as her sister, Rachel had spent most of her life falling short in most people’s eyes. She’d always been considered second-best, the other sister.
No more.
When Rachel eventually married, she would be first in her future husband’s heart, or not at all. And...and...
She was stalling.
With a clipped stride, she closed the distance between them. If only Tristan weren’t so tall. If only she didn’t have to crane her neck to look into his eyes, eyes full of intensity.
Get on with it, Rachel.
She took another step toward him, just one, and immediately regretted the move. The smell of spicy bergamot mixed with leather and something indescribably male washed over her.
“I...I’ve come to...” Her words trailed off. She immediately firmed her chin and blurted out the rest in a rush. “I’ve come to apologize.”
A winged eyebrow rose.
Better, she supposed, than a verbal response. Tristan’s gravelly Irish brogue was entirely too attractive. Once he started talking, Rachel could very possibly lose the remaining scraps of her nerve.
She’d made a mistake, approaching him like this without a plan in mind.
Every instinct told her to forget this conversation, to leave at once and never broach the subject again.
But Rachel Hewitt