Читать книгу Wedded For The Baby - Dorothy Clark - Страница 11
ОглавлениеThe horse’s hoofs thudded against the packed dirt. Katherine tucked the blanket close about the baby and listened to the rumble of the buggy wheels, the sound of water rippling over rocks in the creek that flowed alongside the road—anything to keep her from thinking about what she’d done.
A large house with a turret loomed out of the darkness, the white paint glowing in the moonlight. She stared, surprised at the size and style of it. “What a lovely home.” She glanced sidewise at Trace, sitting on the seat beside her. “It looks...a bit out of place out here in the wild.”
He nodded, urged the horse forward. “That is the Ferndale home. John Ferndale is the town founder.” He glanced her way. “He owns this valley. And he wants Whisper Creek to be a village patterned after the towns back east.” He faced forward again. “The Ferndales are older, but I believe you will find his wife pleasant.”
Mr. Ferndale—the man who held his contract. Was that a subtle warning? “I’m sure I will.” Cold air swept across the road, chilled her face and neck and sent a shiver down her spine despite the snug velvet collar on her gray tweed coat.
“We’re almost there.”
The buggy rocked over a rut. She tightened her hold on the baby, braced herself with her feet and peered into the growing darkness. A short distance ahead, the dark form of a building stood in front of the towering pines at the foot of the mountains that embraced the valley. Judging by the shape, it had to be some sort of outbuilding. “Is that your stable?”
“No. That is my house.”
She squinted to bring the lines of the building into sharper focus against the trees and made out what looked like a porch wrapped around the strange building. She stared at the yellow blurs that took the form of windows as they neared. It was...different. She looked over at Trace Warren.
“It’s an octagonal house.”
“I’ve never seen such a house.” She faced front again, studied it as they approached. “It’s odd—but very attractive.”
“And most efficient. A few years ago I made a hou—I had occasion to pay a visit to a man who owned one. It was an exceptionally hot day in August, and the man’s house was pleasantly cool. I decided then and there, if the opportunity arose, I would build one.” He halted the horse.
A small man wearing the hat and tunic of a Chinese laborer stepped out of the shadow of a large tree and gripped the cheek strap of the mare.
“This is Ah Key. He is going with me to the station for your trunks.” Trace Warren stepped down from the buggy, grabbed the baby’s valise, came around to her side and held up his hand.
She acknowledged Ah Key’s polite bow with a smile and a dip of her head then cradled the baby close, placed her hand in Trace’s and stepped down. He helped her up the three steps to the wraparound porch and opened the door.
The entrance was triangular with a black-and-white tile floor. A table with an oil lamp and a silver tray stood beside an open doorway in the short wall on the left. The room beyond appeared to be the sitting room. The doorway on her right was dark.
“Would you like to tour the downstairs, Katherine? Or would you rather go upstairs to the baby’s bedroom and yours?”
Her need to be alone was stronger than her curiosity. She looked down at the sleeping baby. “I think it would be best if I go upstairs and put the baby to bed.”
“Do you need me to carry him up the stairs for you?”
Her arms tightened on the bundle in her arms. “No, thank you. I can manage.”
He nodded and motioned her through a doorway into a center hall with a beautiful stairway. “The kitchen is through that doorway straight ahead.”
She glanced into the kitchen, then gripped the banister with her free hand and started up the stairs to a landing, turned and climbed to a second landing. The carpet runner was soft beneath her feet and quieted his footsteps behind her, but nothing could dull her awareness of his presence.
“We’ll turn right and walk down the hall when we reach the top.”
If she reached the top. The trembling in her legs was getting worse. She wanted to turn and run back down the stairs and all the way to the train station. She looked down at the baby and finished climbing the stairs. Pewter wall sconces lit a long hallway.
“That is my bedroom.”
She glanced at the closed door and continued walking, turned right into a connecting hall, her heart pounding.
“That door straight ahead opens into your bedroom. This smaller room on the left is for the baby. A dressing room joins them.”
He opened the door and she stepped into the baby’s room, stopped and stared. “It’s beautiful!”
“I tried to prepare as best I could for the infant. I take it from your surprise you were expecting...less.” He frowned and set the baby’s valise down on the floor.
“I wasn’t expecting anything, Mr. Warren.” She squared her shoulders as best she could and looked at him. “I’ve only been responsible for this baby since this morning.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “You’re right. I apologize, Katherine. Please excuse my foolish remark. This unexpected turn of what was already an odd situation has taken me by surprise, as well. Now, if you will excuse me, Ah Key is waiting. Please make yourself comfortable. Should you need anything for the baby before my return, I have a store of supplies for him in the kitchen.” He stepped back into the hall and closed the door.
She took a deep, calming breath and looked around. There was a shuttered window with a lit oil lamp on the stand beneath it in the center of the outside wall. Shelves hung on the wall to the window’s left, a painted chest beneath them. There was a small heating stove and a large wardrobe at one end, and a wood rocker with a pad on its seat, and a wood and wicker crib at the other. An oval, fringed rug covered most of the polished wood floor.
Mr. Warren had, indeed, prepared for Miss Howard’s baby. Her chest constricted. Thankfully, she had accepted his strange offer of marriage. If she hadn’t, according to Mr. Warren, this house and all that he had done to give the baby comfort would have been lost. The thought gave her pause—and further purpose. She would have to be very careful not to betray the truth of their in-name-only marriage to the townspeople. Mr. Warren—no, Trace—must have a chance to save this lovely home and his apothecary shop. And for the baby’s sake, she would do all she could to help him.
The quivering in her legs had stopped. She carried the baby to the crib and tucked him beneath the blue-and-white woven coverlet, rubbed her tired arms while she waited to make sure he stayed asleep. It was odd how empty her arms felt without him. He gave a little wiggle, and his tiny lips moved in and out, making those small sucking sounds.
She smiled, walked over and picked up the valise. The used bottles had to be cleaned. And the soiled diapers she had wrapped in a blanket had to be washed. What should she do with them?
He had mentioned a dressing room. Where... She pursed her lips and looked around. If her bedroom was at the end of the hall, then the dressing room had to be through that door close to where the crib sat. She tiptoed to the door and opened it.
“Oh, my...” Her gaze darted from one object to another outlined by the moonlight flowing through the window in the long wall of the triangular room. There was a bathing tub with two spigots attached at the end, a washstand—again with two spigots attached—and one of those flush-down water closets. A small table sat beside the window.
She jerked around at a bump from the other side of the wall behind her. That would be where her bedroom was located. She put the valise on the table, moved to the connecting door and looked in. Trace Warren was standing on the far side of a large bedroom with one of her trunks at his feet. He glanced her way.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted your trunks here in the bedroom, or in the closet.”
“The closet?”
“Through here.” He opened the door beside him, lifted an oil lamp from a table and held it high. “Why don’t you look and then tell me where you want this.”
“All right.” She slid her palms down the sides of her coat and crossed the bedroom, the short train of her gown whispering against the Oriental carpet that covered the center of the floor. The golden lamplight spilled over shelves lining a short wall and made long shadows of pegs driven into a board that ran at shoulder height along the other two walls of a roomy triangular closet. She’d never seen anything like it. “In here, please.”
He set the lamp on a shelf and grasped the handles on the ends of the trunk, letting out a grunt when he lifted it. He placed it against the wall under the window and straightened. “I’ll be right back with your other trunks.”
“Before you go...”
He stopped and looked at her.
“I was wondering if there is a washroom? The baby has several soiled diapers and only a few clean ones. I need to—” She stopped at the shake of his head.
“You do not need to do any laundry, Katherine. Simply rinse the waste off the diaper into the water closet in your dressing room and flush it down. There is a bucket with a lid sitting beside a wicker basket under the table. Put the rinsed, soiled diaper in the covered bucket, and the baby’s clothes with yours in the basket. A Chinese man and his wife have a laundry at the edge of the woods. They will take yours and the baby’s clothes with them when they come for my laundry.” He moved toward the door then glanced over his shoulder at her. “Should you need them, there are diapers in the baby’s wardrobe.”
“I also need to clean the baby’s bottles and prepare one for when he next wakes.”
He turned back to face her. “You told me you were inexperienced at caring for an infant. Do you rinse the bottles and other parts in boiling water?”
She stared at him. He had a quiet, authoritative way of speaking that made her trust him. “No. Miss Howard said only that the baby’s food must be boiled.”
“I see.” He frowned and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “When I have brought up your other trunks, we will go to the kitchen, and I will show you how to clean and prepare the baby’s bottles.”
He would show her? It must be that an apothecary knew about such things. She removed her coat and hat, hung them on a peg and followed him back into the bedroom. It was larger and more richly furnished than hers had been at home. Clearly, she had made the right decision in entering the strange, in-name-only marriage to save this home and Mr. Warren’s apothecary shop. The baby would be well cared for. And she would enjoy every modern comfort while waiting for Trace Warren to find another woman to take her place.
A temporary stand-in bride! Whoever had heard of such a thing? Judith would be highly amused when she wrote her about this absurd situation. Her sister always found the funny, sunny side of a situation. Unfortunately, she herself had inherited their mother’s more serious nature. She sighed and hurried to the dressing room to take care of those soiled diapers before Mr. Warren returned.
* * *
The whispering rustle of Katherine’s travel outfit was wearing on his nerves. He hadn’t heard the soft sounds of a woman moving about since—Trace closed off the memory, frowned and returned to the stove to put a little distance between him and the woman he’d married. “When the baby wakes and wants feeding, you have only to take one of the prepared bottles from the refrigerator, place it in warm water and heat it to a comfortable temperature.”
Katherine turned from placing the last filled bottle in the refrigerator and smiled. “Thank you for showing me how to clean and prepare the baby’s bottles. As I told you, I haven’t any experience in caring for an infant, and I’m so afraid I will do something wrong.”
Her smile made dimples in her cheeks. He jerked his gaze from her face then blew out a breath to ease the tightness in his chest. He’d avoided personal contact with all women for two years and now this...marriage was forced on him. There had to be some way—
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Quite the contrary.”
“Then why are you frowning?”
He looked back at her, groped for something acceptable to say. “I’m pondering our situation, trying to think ahead so we will be prepared as best we are able for any questions that may be asked of us. For instance, you always say baby or infant. What is the child’s name?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Miss Howard only called him ‘my precious baby.’” She reached in her pocket, pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to him. “I did find this birth paper when I unpacked his valise, but the place for the baby’s name is empty.”
Her voice choked. Tears welled into her eyes. He’d prefer Katherine Fleming didn’t have such a soft heart. He shoved the paper in his pocket and pulled the coffeepot Ah Key had ready for tomorrow morning over the fire. “We need to talk, Katherine—to learn a few facts about one another...” He glanced down at her. “For instance, do you like coffee? Or are you a tea drinker?”
“I drink both—black and hot.”
He raised his eyebrows, gave her another look.
“That surprises you?”
“It does. You appear to be more the genteel ‘tea with cream and sugar’ type.”
She laughed—a musical, feminine laugh that tore at his heart. He turned away, crossed to the step-back cupboard, picked up cups and saucers and placed them on the table.
“I’m sorry if that disappoints you. I can learn to drink my coffee with cream.”
She’d picked up on his reaction, though she’d misjudged the reason for it. He’d have to be more careful. “Not at all. You simply surprised me. In my experience, most women prefer their coffee...diluted. Where did you learn to drink yours black?”
“At my father’s knee—literally. When I was a toddler, I used to hold on to his knee and beg for a sip. He always gave it to me—to Mother’s displeasure.” She moved toward the door to the hallway. “I think I’ll go upstairs and see if the baby is all right.”
“You left his bedroom door open. We will hear him if he cries.”
“I suppose...” She hovered near the door. “I’m not comfortable having him so far away. I’ve been holding him all day. I didn’t want him to feel...lost or lonely.”
He set his heart against the sympathy in her voice. “I think the first thing we should settle is a name for the baby. It will certainly seem odd if he doesn’t have one by now. Have you any suggestions?”
“Me?” She shook her head, playing with one of the jet-black buttons on the bodice of her gray gown. “That’s not my place. He’s your child, Mr. Warren.”
“Trace.” He squelched the desire to flee her presence and pressed ahead with his duty to the child. “It’s true the baby is now my ward and responsibility, but he is still a stranger to me. If you have any thoughts on the matter of a name, I would appreciate hearing them.”
“Very well.” She met his gaze then looked back toward the stairs. “I had decided—were I unable to find you—I would name him Howard. I thought...it would be good to...to have him carry his mother’s name.”
“You were going to keep him?” He stared at her, unable to look away, though her eyes shimmered with tears. He did not want to feel sympathy for this woman. He didn’t want to feel any emotional connection to her.
“I made Susan Howard a promise.”
There was nothing grandiose or posturing in her attitude or voice. It was a simple statement of fact. He couldn’t stop the surge of admiration and respect. He nodded then moved back to the stove and pretended to check the coffee. “What you say makes excellent sense. I agree. His name should be—is—Howard. I’ll write it on the birth paper tonight.”
She nodded, still playing with that button, then took a step back into the kitchen. “If I may...what is his middle name to be? Howard Warren sounds incomplete. If you’ll forgive me my impertinence, perhaps Trace? It has a nice sound—Howard Trace Warren.”
It hit him hard, hearing her attach the child to him like that. He clenched his hands, blew out his breath. “I’ll think about it.” It was the most polite response he could make. He couldn’t agree—not to that. He forced back the memory of his own tiny son—of the vision of the name Trace Gallager Warren, Junior carved into the marble headstone beneath the one that read Charlotte Anne Warren—Wife and mother. He grabbed a towel, lifted the coffeepot and carried it to the table. If he was still a praying man, he’d pray that baby upstairs would begin to cry for attention right now.
The silence remained undisturbed except by the rustle of Katherine’s gown as she moved toward the table. He swallowed back the aching bitterness and pulled out her chair with his free hand. A hint of a floral scent rose from her hair as she took her seat. He moved away, poured their coffee and inhaled deeply to rid himself of the smell of lavender. It took all of his fortitude to take the seat opposite her. Charlotte... He refused his wife’s name—rejected the image hovering at the edge of his determination to hold it at bay. Guilt made the coffee bitter as gall.
“I believe there are a few facts we should know about one another in case we are asked questions by John Ferndale or his wife. Or any other resident of Whisper Creek. I’m from New York City. Where are you from, Katherine?”
“Albany, New York.”
“And have you close family I should know about?”
“A sister, Judith. She’s married to a soldier who is presently stationed at Fort Bridger. I was on my way to visit her when I met Miss Howard on the train.” She paused, took a breath. “Our mother passed a few weeks ago after a long illness. Father preceded her by two years.”
Two years. 1866. The year his world had collapsed into a meaningless void. He jerked his mind back to the present. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She took a swallow of her coffee, straightened her back and met his gaze. “Have you close family I should know of?”
“No. There’s no one...now.” He put down his cup and forced out words. “I’m not in the habit of lying, Katherine. But to explain the baby, and still protect Miss Howard’s reputation, I told Mr. Ferndale that the young woman I was marrying had taken over the care of an infant when a friend died giving it birth.” He stared down at his cup until he got his emotions under control, then looked over at her.
She was staring at him. “That’s...uncanny.”
“It does seem so.”
“What else have you told Mr. Ferndale that I need to know?”
“Very little. I’ve been deliberately vague with any facts. As Miss Howard and I were not acquainted, I wanted a story that would cover whatever situation I found myself in.” He took another swallow of his coffee and plunged in. “If we are asked, this will be our story. We—you and I now—met through a mutual acquaintance—”
“Miss Susan Howard?”
He nodded approval. “An excellent idea. It will explain our choice of that name for the baby. To continue...while we have only come to know each other through our recent correspondence, we were both lonely and decided to marry. A second reason for our union is to give the orphaned baby a family—” he almost choked on the word “—and a comfortable home. That will explain why we know so little about each other outside of the pertinent facts concerning our present lives. For instance, you know that I’m an apothecary, recently come to open a shop here in Whisper Creek in Wyoming Territory.”
“It seems as if I should know how you learned of this business opportunity.”
“Yes, of course.” He steeled himself to talk about the past. “I was...dissatisfied with my life, and when I came across a notice in the newspaper about the founding of a new town in Wyoming Territory the idea of moving west was appealing. I went to talk with the agent interviewing men interested in building a business and home in the new town. The opportunity was a good one. I signed the contract and sold my business and home in New York.”
“And that’s when you and Miss Howard—I’m sorry—when you and I began corresponding?”
“No. Our correspondence did not start until my shop and home here were built and I came to Whisper Creek.”
“Oh. Then—” She shook her head, took a sip of her coffee.
“Then...”
Her gaze lifted to meet his. “I was only wondering if Mr. Ferndale would wonder why you signed a contract with a marriage clause if you had no intended bride.”
“He already knows that I thought my status as a widower made me exempt from that clause. It is because it did not that I began my search for a woman who was willing to enter into an in-name-only-marriage.”
“You are an adventurous man.”
A desperate one. He took another swallow of coffee to avoid looking at her. “I believe you are the adventurous one, Katherine. Most young women as attractive as you plan to marry, not to travel west on their own.”
“I have no intention of marrying.”
He looked at her. Her cheeks turned pink. She lifted her head and met his gaze full-on.
“That is a strange thing for me to say to you, but you know what I mean. This...temporary arrangement is not a marriage. Anyway...” She raised her hand and brushed a wisp of hair off her cheek. “I cared for my mother through her years of sickness, and when she passed—”
Her voice choked. Tears glistened in her eyes. He looked away, not wanting to witness her grief and sorrow.
“When Mother passed, the house seemed so big and empty I decided to come to Fort Bridger and visit Judith. So I sold the house, packed my personal possessions and boarded the train. It was an act of desperation and cowardice, not bravery and adventure.”
“All the same, it takes courage—”
“The baby is crying!” She jerked to her feet, spun toward the hallway door and hurried from the room.
“I’ll warm a bottle!” The words burst from him, unbidden. He held his breath, listened, hoped. Perhaps she hadn’t heard.
“Thank you!”
Her answer floated down the stairs as her footsteps faded upward. Fool! Getting involved with them. He took one of the prepared bottles from the refrigerator, put it in a pan and filled it with hot water then carried the coffeepot and cups and saucers to the sink cupboard and rinsed them. He adjusted the stove draft for the night and walked out the door through the triangular back entrance and onto the porch.
He breathed deep, laced his fingers behind his neck and gazed out into the night. There had to be an answer to this dilemma, a way out of this situation. He could see a glimmer of hope for Katherine’s freedom. If he couldn’t think of another way, he would simply annul the marriage, accept the loss of his fortune and go to a city back east and find a job. That would free Katherine. But the baby—the baby was a different story. He had given Susan Howard his word to raise the child as his own. The baby would go wherever he went. Unless he could find another way...
* * *
“Slumber on, Baby, dear,
Do not hear thy mother’s sigh,
Breath’d for him from far away,
Whilst she sings thy lullaby!”
Katherine rocked and sang softly. She watched the baby’s eyes close, his little mouth go slack. She blinked tears from her eyes, slipped the bottle Trace had brought up to her from between his lips and put it on the table. He whimpered and drew his legs up. “Shh, little Howard, shh...” She lifted him to her shoulder, pushed with her toes to keep the rocker moving then patted his tiny back and continued to sing the lullaby.
“Slumber on, o’re thy sleep,
Loving eyes will watch with care,
In thy dreams, may thou see,
God’s own angels hov’ring here;
Slumber on, may sweet slee—”
The baby burped. A sour smell halted her singing. She looked at Howard resting against her shoulder, stared at the acrid mess running down her bodice. Her stomach clenched. She cradled his head with her hand, shoved with her feet and lurched from the rocker.
Howard wailed, flailing his little arms.
“Mr. Warren! Mr. Warren!” She raced down the hallway, the train of her long skirt flying out behind her, and almost crashed into Trace Warren as she rounded the corner. He caught her by the upper arms.
“What is it?”
“The baby’s sick!” She gulped the words, swallowed back tears.
“Calm yourself, Katherine. You’re frightening the infant.”
She willed herself to stop shaking, watched as Trace lifted a hand and touched the baby’s cheek and forehead. He glanced at her bodice. “He’s not ill, Katherine. He only spit up. Babies do that sometimes when they eat too much, or if they have too much air in their stomachs to hold the food down.”
“Then it was my fault.” Tears stung her eyes.
“It is no one’s fault. It’s a common occurrence when a baby is so young. He will outgrow it.” He looked at her. “He would have gone back to sleep if you hadn’t pan—if you hadn’t frightened him.”
“And now?”
He bent down and picked up the paper he’d dropped when he stopped her headlong rush toward him. “If you are calm when you change his gown, he should go back to sleep. I would expect him to sleep four or five hours. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve work to do.” He dipped his head. “Good night, Katherine.”
“Good night. I’m sorry for disturbing your work.” She watched him walk down the hall toward his room, annoyed by his cool composure. The man had no feelings! She marched down the intersecting hallway and into the baby’s room. How did Trace Warren know so much about babies? She could understand an apothecary knowing about cleaning and preparing bottles—even about feeding infants. But Trace Warren’s knowledge seemed deeper than that.
She shrugged off the thought, took a clean nightdress and socks for the baby out of the wardrobe and carried them with her to the table in the dressing room. She removed her dress jacket and the baby’s soiled clothes, laughing when he kicked his little legs in the air and waved his arms around as she washed his face and hands. She cooed at him while she changed his diaper and soaker, captured his little arms and pushed them through the sleeves of his clean nightdress. The long socks were big on his tiny feet and chubby legs, but they stayed in place.
She hummed the lullaby and carried him back to his crib, swaying with him in her arms. It was as Trace Warren had said—little Howard fell fast asleep. She kissed his soft, warm cheek, tucked him beneath the covers and hurried to her closet to unpack and change into her own nightclothes.
* * *
Trace stared unseeing at the page, disturbed by the quiet. It had been some time since he’d heard any sounds. He laid the book aside, rose from the chair and paced the length of his bedroom, pivoted and started back. He stopped at his slightly opened door, stood straining to hear against the silence. There was no baby crying, no hysterical calls for help. Were they asleep? He fought the urge to walk down the hall and listen at Katherine’s bedroom door, turned back into his own bedroom and resumed his pacing.
His training had betrayed him. Katherine’s frantic cry for help had brought his doctor skills surging to the fore. He scowled, rubbed the back of his neck, strode to the window and stared out into the night. He was being foolish. The baby was fine. The bottles had been prepared correctly—he’d made certain of that. And the infant’s diaper had been put on properly. Katherine had mastered that, though her other mothering skills were wanting. He’d have to help her learn to be comfortable with the baby if the Ferndales were to believe she’d been caring for him since his birth. And before Sunday. They had to go to church. It was expected. Only two days...
His strides lengthened, his slippers thudded against the carpet. It was impossible for him to settle to sleep with the concerns and questions tumbling around in his head. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. How could his carefully conceived plan have gone so awry? He had thought he had everything under control. But he had also thought he was in control two years ago. Charlotte... His chest tightened. His throat closed.
He stopped pacing, pushed the memories away. The situations were entirely different—except each had involved a woman with whom he was supposed to have shared his life. A woman who had died. Bile surged, burned his throat. He pushed back his shoulders, stretched his chest as far as possible and inhaled, compelling his frozen lungs to function.
Thankfully, Katherine Fleming had been on that train to care for the baby. Incompetent as she was in an infant’s care, she had likely saved the baby’s life. Something he, with all of his training and skill, had been unable to do for—
He jerked his thoughts from the past and focused them on the present, refused to acknowledge the future. He would find a way out of this situation. He had to. It brought to the fore all of the things he’d spent the past two years trying to forget.
* * *
The silk of her dressing gown whispered softly, and the soles of her matching slippers brushed against the Oriental carpet. Katherine walked to the window and looked out into the night. She’d never before noticed the quiet sounds her movements made. She was accustomed to the hustle and bustle of running the house and caring for her mother. Her bedroom had adjoined her parents’ room at the front of the house, and, even late at night, she’d been aware of her mother’s every movement and of the occasional carriage passing by. Here there was nothing but silence. It was unsettling.
Shouldn’t the baby be moving?
She crossed the room to the cradle she’d found sitting in the corner by the heating stove when she’d taken time to explore her bedroom. The baby was sleeping soundly. Was that all right? She resisted the urge to pick him up and make him move, leaned down and placed her ear close to his face then smiled at the soft little puffs of warm air that touched her skin. He was fine. She straightened and moved back to the window. She mustn’t allow herself to grow too fond of the baby. Already the thought that she would have to leave him made her heart catch.
She wrapped her arms about herself and stared out into the darkness, memories long buried rising on a faded sorrow. How different her life would have been if Richard hadn’t disappeared. She would have been married five years this December. They’d planned to have a Christmas wedding. And children.
She’d buried that desire deep beneath her grief when she’d learned Richard had gone missing, submerged it beneath her need to care for her parents in their last years. But it had surfaced quickly when she began to care for Susan Howard’s baby. She had to be careful.
She sighed and turned her thoughts from the baby. How long would it take Trace Warren to find another bride to take her place? How did a man go about such a thing in a town where there were no women? How had he entered into the arrangement with Miss Howard? They’d been strangers. It must all have been done by the exchange of letters. But how did one start such a correspondence?
She removed her dressing gown and slid beneath the covers then stared up at the swirled plaster ceiling shadowed by the low light of the oil lamp on the bedside table. The warmth of the covers eased the tension from her body. Her thoughts lost their focus, drifted. Trace Warren was taller than Richard...and broader of shoulder. And nice-looking—he was very nice-looking...
She yawned, snuggled deeper under the covers. The man was too reserved and aloof to be likeable. Kind, though... He was kind. And polite...
