LITMIR.BIZ

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silence that followed her words seemed to last an eternity. “I do.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Violet, Lily and Daisy are the heart of me.”

      Even the girls’ names captured Rachel’s awe, inspiring thoughts of delicate petals. Soft pastel colors. Sweet, guileless faces. “They must be adorable little girls.”

      “They’re beautiful, three tiny copies of their mother.” The smile he gave Rachel was full of poignant emotion and that same look of tempered sadness. “They have Siobhan’s petite build, her red hair and pale blue eyes. They also have her personality. Most of the time, they’re like any other children their age. But at others they seem unsure of themselves. They need a mother’s love and encouragement.”

      No wonder Tristan was disappointed things hadn’t worked out with Emma. Rachel’s sister was soft-spoken, caring and would have been a perfect choice to mother three little girls.

      Wishing to offer him comfort, knowing the potential danger to her heart, she reached out to touch his arm. She immediately thought better of the move and quickly dropped her hand back to her side. “Grayson’s letter mentioned you’ve been a widower for two years. Is that correct?”

      And there she went, overstepping again, speaking out of turn, bringing up a subject that wasn’t any of her concern.

      Instead of pointing out the inappropriateness of her question, Tristan nodded. “It is.”

      The sorrow she felt for this man and his daughters made her want to weep. Thus, she continued asking questions. Either that, or give in to her tears. “How old are your girls now?”

      “Daisy is six and takes her role as big sister seriously.” He let out a breath of air. “She’s far too mature for her years. Lily is four, sweet and full of imagination, a little wild at times, which I must say, I kind of love about her. Violet is but two years old.”

      Rachel did a quick mental calculation. If his youngest was only two years old that meant his wife had died in childbirth. Just like Grayson’s wife, Susannah. Both men had suffered a similar tragedy, though Tristan’s loss was newer.

      Only two years had passed since his wife died. During that time, he’d raised his daughters on his own while also serving as the town sheriff. Friends and neighbors had provided some help, but that wasn’t the same as a wife. “I’m truly sorry it didn’t work out with Emma.”

      She meant every word.

      “A match between us wasn’t meant to be.” He swung his gaze down to meet hers. “I’m confident the Lord will provide another solution, in His time.”

      Such faith. Rachel found herself admiring him even more. She had so many questions, questions about his daughters, about his life in Oregon City. Now wasn’t the time.

      She turned to go, then spun back around. “Tristan?”

      “Yes?”

      “I hope you find someone who will make a wonderful mother for your daughters.” She would add the request to her daily prayers.

      “Thank you, Rachel.”

      With nothing more to say, she left him to the various tasks he still had in front him.

      Though it took incredible strength of will, she did not look back to check if he was still on the riverbank. Not even once.

      * * *

      Tristan watched Rachel walk away, her head high, her shoulders perfectly square with the ground. She had him good and rattled, which was nothing new. The woman put him on edge. What was different this time around was the reason for his unease.

      Something about Rachel Hewitt made him want to spill his secrets. Secrets he hardly knew he carried, so deep had he buried them in his mind.

      The piercing cry of an eagle slashed through the air, jerking his attention to the sky. The clouds had disappeared, leaving a hard, brittle blue that looked ready to crack with the slightest provocation.

      Lowering his gaze to the fast-flowing water swollen from the morning’s rainstorm, a belated sense of relief nearly buckled his knees.

      Not only had he saved a little boy’s life but he feared he’d saved Rachel’s, as well. Tristan knew enough about the youngest Hewitt’s personality to know she would have jumped in the river to save the child. Though she’d proved herself anything but fragile, she was a small woman, with fine bones and delicate features. Regardless of her intent, the rapids were strong at this juncture in the river. She would have been carried her away with Donny.

      Tristan’s gut twisted at the thought. He instinctively rolled his shoulders, as if the gesture alone could shrug off his agitation.

      Frowning, he surveyed the immediate area, left to right, right to left, widening the arc with each additional pass. Fort Nez Perce was busy with motion. Fatigued yet hopeful emigrants readied themselves for the final leg of their long journey.

      The noise was constant, sounds of people coming and going, bartering for one last load of supplies, striking deals, negotiating bargains.

      A thief was among them and headed straight for Oregon City.

      Tristan snatched a quick breath of air.

      Though still small by American standards, Oregon City was growing rapidly. Set on the east side of the Willamette River, just below the falls, the town boasted several businesses, including a blacksmith, a cooper, a general store and the new mercantile Grayson Hewitt had opened several months ago. They also had a small sawmill and a recently built flour mill.

      Most of the residents were farmers working their own homesteads. But more and more people were choosing to live in town. Tristan had worked hard making Oregon City safe for its residents. Even without the threat of a thief, this current influx of emigrants would change the face of his town.

      He prayed it would be for the better.

      Mind on the future, he wove his way around the perimeter of the fort. The intense bartering dragged him back to the past, to his early days in Oregon Country. He and Siobhan had arrived with their two young daughters, with nearly no money and unspeakable hope in their hearts. So optimistic, both of them. So naive.

      He missed Siobhan desperately. They’d weathered many storms together. The loss of her was like a gaping hole in his soul.

      There’d been a dangerous moment when he’d nearly told Rachel how Siobhan’s death had nearly destroyed him. If it hadn’t been for his daughters, he didn’t know if he would have survived the grief. For the girls’ sake, he’d put aside his sorrow and had done what needed to be done. One step at a time.

      One day at a time.

      It hadn’t been easy at first. It still wasn’t. Most days were just plain difficult. With Siobhan it had been the two of them against the world. They’d grown up on neighboring farms in Ireland. Had fallen in love at nearly the same moment. Had left for America with the promise of a better life compelling them.

      Tristan had acquired a piece of property east of the falls with the idea of farming the fertile land. But Siobhan’s third pregnancy, fraught with problems, had necessitated abandoning the property and moving to town. Things had started to look up. And then she’d gone into labor.

      Darkness filled Tristan’s soul at the memory. He shut his eyes momentarily and shoved aside his bleak thoughts.

      “Sheriff, can you give us a hand?”

      Welcoming the distraction from the depressing memories, he strode over to the raft where Ben Hewitt and Nathan Reed were laying out logs. He counted ten of equal length resting side by side. Matching triangular dovetail notches had already been cut on either end of each log.

      Tristan took a quick count, grimaced. They would need at least six more logs if the Hewitts hoped to put all of their belongings on the finished raft.

      “What can I do to help?”

      “After we set this support

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