Wagon Train Proposal. Renee Ryan

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 to where his feet were taking him—straight for the river.

      Tristan’s breath lodged in his throat. He moved without thinking. But not fast enough. The terrible sound of a splash rent the air. He dropped to his knees at the water’s edge and reached out, catching hold of a tiny arm.

      Heart pounding, he plucked the child from the water and set him on dry land.

      Soaking wet, water dripping off his dark hair, the little boy grinned up at him. “That was fun, Sheriff. Can I do it again? Can I, huh? Can I?”

      He had opened his mouth to explain the dangers of running off from the group when Rachel skidded to a stop beside him. By the set of her jaw, and the uneven cadence of her breathing, Tristan knew he had an ally. No matter who did the talking, the little boy would not be playing by the river anymore today.

       Chapter Three

      Lungs burning, her pulse pounding in her ears, Rachel divided her attention between Tristan and the wet child staring expectantly up at him. The sheriff appeared outwardly calm, in complete control of the situation.

      Rachel wasn’t nearly as composed.

      A slower uptake on Tristan’s part, a clumsier snatch, and the six-year-old would have been swallowed up by the river.

      She didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or scold the child for his recklessness.

      Tristan made the decision for her, choosing СКАЧАТЬ