Wagon Train Proposal. Renee Ryan

would not give in to self-pity. Squaring her shoulders, she reminded herself she was a Hewitt, born and bred. Strength of character was in her blood, as well as the fortitude to face any challenge with unwavering courage. Even an uncertain future, in an unknown land.

      Attitude adjusted, she shifted the baby in her arms. “Come on, Johnny, let’s find your mother.”

      * * *

      Tristan headed over to the spot near the river where the trail boss stood in conversation with James Stillwell and Ben Hewitt. By their pinched expressions, he had a good idea what they wanted to discuss with him.

      Another robbery had occurred.

      He wondered what had been stolen this time. With his mind sorting through possible scenarios, he joined the other men. Just as he pulled to a stop, he caught sight of Rachel out of the corner of his eye. She was holding the Littleton boy, whispering something in the child’s ear. She lifted her head slightly, then pressed a kiss on the light brown hair.

      The little boy giggled.

      Laughing with him, she set the child on the ground and took his hand. Johnny wobbled through several unsteady steps, then plopped down on his bottom. Incredibly patient, Rachel helped him stand and encouraged him to try again.

      Watching the two together, something warm moved through Tristan. Rachel looked good leading the infant back toward his family’s wagon. She was the picture of a young, unflappable mother.

      Had he set his sights on the wrong Hewitt sister? Was the answer to the problem of his daughters’ care right in front of him? His own needs hardly mattered. He’d had his chance at love, had been blessed with a wife he’d adored with all his heart and considered his best friend. When it came to finding a woman to marry this second time around, the girls were his primary focus, his only focus, his—

      “We’ve had another robbery, Sheriff.”

      The words dragged his attention back to the problem at hand. Tristan wasn’t with the wagon train in an official capacity, only as a representative of Oregon City. The nine-man committee was technically the law, while the money missing from the safe fell in Stillwell’s jurisdiction.

      Nevertheless, the thief was heading to Oregon City, and that made him Tristan’s problem. “What’d he take this time?”

      Ben rubbed the back of his neck, frowned at something in the distance. The blue-gray eyes beneath messy, light brown hair revealed a mix of frustration and outrage. “Sally Littleton’s wedding ring.”

      Her wedding ring? “How’d the thief get it off her finger?”

      “He didn’t,” James Stillwell said, inserting himself in the conversation. An agent of Thayer & Edwards safe company, he’d joined the wagon train soon after the safe robbery in Independence.

      He’d insisted on remaining undercover. With jet-black hair, equally dark eyes and a tough, muscular build and unassuming clothing, he fit in well enough. Only the men standing in their tiny circle knew his real identity.

      “It appears Mrs. Littleton was so busy answering Amos Tucker’s questions about the best way to pack dishware, she burned the oatmeal,” Stillwell explained. “She then took off her ring to scrub out the bottom of the pot. The thief lifted the piece of jewelry when she wasn’t looking.”

      Slick, Tristan thought. Dastardly. The question remained. Were they dealing with a cunning thief, or someone who took advantage of opportunities when they presented themselves?

      Either scenario came with its own set of trouble.

      “Was anyone else near Mrs. Littleton at the time of the robbery?”

      Tristan aimed the question at Stillwell, but Ben Hewitt answered. “Mostly women from our section of the wagon train, and...Clarence Pressman.”

      Tristan’s shoulders stiffened. There was something not quite right about Mr. Pressman. He walked oddly, hunched over like a man three times his age. He rarely spoke beyond a grunt or a rough, one-syllable response. Emma Hewitt had befriended the man. She was one of the few people on the wagon train Clarence seemed to trust. Her fiancé was another.

      “Have you questioned the women and anyone else who might have seen something?”

      “Everyone but Clarence,” Stillwell said.

      Tristan absorbed this piece of information. “One of us needs to question him before we put the rafts in the river.”

      “Won’t be me.” Sam Weston lifted his hands, palms facing out. “My only job is to get the wagon train to Oregon Country.”

      “I could do it,” Stillwell said. “But I’m not sure it’s worth risking my cover.”

      Before Ben Hewitt could chime in, Tristan caught sight of Clarence. Head down, face completely covered by an ugly, floppy hat, he approached Nathan Reed near the river’s edge. Nathan set down his ax and began a hushed conversation with the man.

      “He’s over there,” Tristan said. “With your future brother-in-law.”

      Ben followed the direction of Tristan’s gaze. “I’ll speak with him. I was on my way over to assist Nathan, anyway.”

      “I’ll join you.”

      As they drew close, Nathan rose to his full height and shifted to his left. The move put his large, rangy body directly in front of Clarence.

      It was a peculiar gesture, almost protective.

      Tristan frowned.

      Clarence peered around Nathan, squeaked out something unintelligible and then scurried away.

      Staring after his retreating back, Tristan couldn’t get it out his mind that he’d seen that wide-legged walk before, a cross between a waddle and a shuffle. In fact, he’d seen that exact stride three distinct times—when his wife had carried their daughters in her belly.

      Puzzle pieces began fitting into place. Tristan’s mind was just about to shove the last one in place, when Nathan stepped in his line of vision, his face scrunched in a ruthless scowl.

      “Leave Clarence alone, Sheriff.” His voice held no emotion, his eyes equally flat.

      In a gesture similar to the one the trail boss had given, Tristan lifted his hands, palms facing toward the other man. “I just want to question—” he held the pause for emphasis “—him about the robbery this morning.”

      “Clarence didn’t take Mrs. Littleton’s ring.”

      “If you say he didn’t do it, Nathan,” Ben interjected before Tristan could respond, “we believe you. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”

      Tristan gave a single nod of his head, deciding to let the matter drop. For now. He figured Nathan’s hostility had more to do with Tristan himself than his suspicion of Clarence.

      Tristan couldn’t say he blamed the man. When he’d first arrived at the Blue Mountains Pass, he’d been eager for a quick match with Emma Hewitt.

      The moment he’d realized that Nathan and Emma were falling in love, he’d immediately backed off. Having experienced a happy, loving marriage himself, Tristan wished them well.

      Unfortunately, his daughters were still without a mother. And Tristan was no closer to finding them one than when he’d left Oregon City.

      A familiar laugh pulled his attention to a handful of children gathering near the Hewitt wagon. Rachel was organizing them in a circle, a ball in her hand, probably with the idea of keeping the boys and girls out of their parents’ way as they prepared for the trip down the Columbia.

      Abigail Black joined the group a moment later.

      Just as the women formed a makeshift circle, one of the smaller boys broke away from the others. Looking back over his shoulder, laughing at his friends, he ran flat out.

      The child wasn’t paying attention