LITMIR.BIZ

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do with her hands.

      What seemed like hours passed. In actuality, Ben and Tristan returned barely twenty minutes later.

      They were alone.

      Eyes locked with hers, Tristan climbed out of the canoe.

      Pleased to see him, and mildly surprised by the depth of her reaction, Rachel went to meet him. She desperately wanted to touch his face, to assure herself that he was unscathed, but that wouldn’t be proper. Or appropriate.

      She settled for searching his features with only her gaze.

      “What happened?” she asked, somewhat alarmed at how breathless she sounded.

      Lifting his hat a moment, Tristan ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “We lost them in the cliffs.”

      “We could see them, but couldn’t get to them.” Ben wiped sweat off his brow. “They had too much of a head start on us.”

      James slapped his hand on the trunk’s lid. “I doubt they’ll leave all this without a fight. We’d be smart to come up with a plan to keep the money safe and—”

      “Ben! Oh, Ben, I heard the Tucker brothers are the thieves and that you went after them.” Eyes slightly wild, Abby lifted her hand to touch Ben’s face. “Are you all right? Are you hurt anywhere?”

      “I’m fine, Abby.” He cradled her small hand inside his. “Frustrated. No, make that angry, but fine.”

      The two leaned in close and spoke in hushed whispers. Pulling back slightly, Abby took Ben’s hand, pressed a kiss to the inside of his palm.

      The gesture was brief, even casual, yet somehow intimate, as well. Rachel felt like an intruder, watching Abby fuss over Ben while he attempted to soothe away her concerns with soft words and gentle touches.

      Turning her back on the two, Rachel tried to stifle a sigh.

      Tristan looked up at the sound. For a moment, his eyes softened and the stiffness in his shoulders eased. She tried to smile at him, but her mouth wobbled instead. A rush of...something spread through her, a brief, unexpected need to belong to someone, to anyone.

      To Tristan?

      Too soon, her mind told her. It was entirely too soon to fall for the man, to think about belonging to him, to wish for something that might never be possible.

      She must be logical.

      She must remember to guard her heart.

      Too late, her traitorous heart whispered. Too, too late.

      Giving in to that sigh, after all, she pressed her hands tightly together. Either that or go to Tristan and...and...

      She cut off the rest of her thoughts. “I have to go.”

      “Go?” He tilted his head to one side. “Go where?”

      “I have to...” Think, Rachel, think. “I have to return these stolen items to their rightful owners.”

      Not waiting for his response, she gathered up an armload of objects that belonged to fellow travelers and hurried away.

      * * *

      Later that afternoon, just before sunset, Tristan decided that Sam Weston was the most competent, efficient trail boss he’d ever met. Despite the trouble with Grant and Amos Tucker and the shock among the emigrants over the twins’ deception, the wagon train left Fort Nez Perce at high noon. Right on schedule.

      Now, with the sun bumping up against the horizon and leaving a spectacular array of color in its wake, Weston waved his hand above his head.

      The day’s travel had come to an end.

      More than ready for a break, Tristan guided the raft he shared with James Stillwell and another emigrant through the rough current toward the shoreline.

      Hopping onto the rocky beach, he looked around, fought off a surge of dark foreboding. His encounter with the Tuckers had put him on edge, making him feel scraped raw on the inside. He hated that they’d escaped, hated knowing they would show up again yet not knowing when.

      When they returned, and they would return for the items they wrongfully believed belonged to them, they would probably be desperate. Desperate equaled reckless. Reckless equaled innocents being harmed. That was the most troublesome part of all.

      With Abby and her father’s assistance, Ben Hewitt guided the Bingham raft to shore next to where Tristan stood.

      Nathan Reed guided the Hewitts’ raft in beside the Binghams’. Rachel, Emma and Clarence Pressman rode with him, but only Rachel appeared to be of any help.

      Emma, usually the more graceful of the two Hewitt sisters, couldn’t find her balance without assistance. Her face had taken on a greenish tint. Clearly, the woman wasn’t meant to travel by water. By the looks of her, Tristan doubted she would find her sea legs before the wagon train arrived in Oregon City.

      Rachel, on the other hand, was poetry in motion. Tristan couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her strength and ease of movement belied her small stature. The moment the raft was secure on dry land, she immediately focused on her sister.

      “Emma.” She took the other woman’s arm and carefully guided her to a large flat rock beyond the shoreline. “Sit down and rest.”

      “But we have to unload our supplies for the night, and then start supper, and—”

      “I’ll take care of everything from here. All you need to do is focus on catching your breath.”

      She looked over her shoulder, barely glanced at Clarence and said, “You there, I need your help.”

      “M-m-me?”

      “Yes, you. Come here.”

      Tristan bit back a smile at Rachel’s curt order. She might be a little bossy, but no one could accuse her of failing to get the job done.

      Case in point, Clarence obeyed Rachel’s command without question.

      “Don’t let Emma move from this rock until Nathan and I are finished unloading the raft.”

      “O-okay.” Not meeting Rachel’s gaze, Clarence tugged a floppy hat over his—her—eyes, then sat on the ground beside Emma.

      Seemingly satisfied the two would stay put, Rachel went to work unloading the Hewitts’ raft.

      Tristan offered to assist.

      “Oh, I...” She paused, as if just realizing he’d been standing there watching her. “Yes, thank you, Tristan. I could use your help.”

      For the next half hour they worked side by side, unloading only what the family would need for the night. They functioned in perfect harmony, silently anticipating each other’s move without the need for words.

      Tristan couldn’t help sneaking a glance at Rachel out of the corner of his eye. Her hair had come loose from her braid, spilling past her shoulders in coffee-colored spirals.

      Something clutched at his heart, something soft and tender, making him pause to take in the view of her working. Rachel Hewitt really was quite pretty, even after a full afternoon of uncomfortable travel. She was also competent and unafraid to exert herself, loyal to a fault and clearly loved her family with a ferocity he admired.

      For weeks, Tristan had convinced himself he’d joined the wagon train to find a mother for his daughters. Now he wondered—did he want a wife for himself, as well?

      The thought brought a pang of something sharp and sad in his gut. Not quite guilt, not quite loneliness, and he realized two years had come and gone since Siobhan’s death. Two long, lonely years. He missed having someone in his life, missed sharing the ups and downs, the hardships and the triumphs.

      No, that wasn’t completely true. He had someone in his life. Three very special, very precious little girls who needed

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