Читать книгу Wedded For The Baby - Dorothy Clark - Страница 12
ОглавлениеKatherine pulled the baby bottle from the hot water, shook it and tested the warmth of the liquid on the inside of her wrist the way Trace had shown her. Perfect. “Here you are, Howard.” She offered the bottle to the crying infant in her arms. He puckered up and squalled louder. “Shh, little one. Do you want to wake Mr. Warren?”
“Mr. W awake. Light in window.”
“Oh!” She jerked her head up and whipped around, stared at the Chinese houseman standing in the kitchen entrance. A coal bucket sat at his feet. “Good morning, Ah Key.”
He gave her a small bow, removed his coat and hung it on a peg then lifted the coal bucket. “Missy W, baby, not be cold.” He crossed the kitchen to the stairs, the long black braid dangling down his back gleaming in the light from the chandelier.
The baby squalled. She looked down and touched the rubber tip against his mouth again. He stopped crying, gave a little whimper then sucked greedily. She adjusted the dampers on the stove, left the kitchen and carried Howard back upstairs. Ah Key was in the hallway; the coal bucket now held gray ashes. “Thank you, Ah Key.”
He dipped his head, halted. “I fix Mr. W breakfast. You eat, too, maybe so?”
She smiled and nodded. “Yes. I will eat breakfast. Thank you.”
“One hour.” He dipped his head and padded off down the hall.
She glanced at the closed bedroom door beside her, hoping she’d done the right thing by accepting Ah Key’s invitation to breakfast with Trace Warren. Surely Trace wouldn’t mind. After all, this situation was his idea. And she was hungry! She hugged Howard close and continued down the hallway to his bedroom. If Trace Warren was displeased with her presence at his morning meal, she would make her own breakfast from now on and not eat with him again. The problem settled, she opened the door to the baby’s room and stepped inside.
Muted sounds came from behind the end wall on her left. She walked to the wardrobe, listened at the door beside it. Water splashed and gurgled, objects clacked against a shelf, someone moved. Trace. His dressing room must adjoin the baby’s room on this end, as hers did on the other. She eyed the door—no lock. What if he entered? She touched her hair tumbling down her back, glanced down at her dressing gown. She would prefer to meet the cool, polite Mr. Warren when she was groomed and dressed for the day.
She slipped open the wardrobe door, snatched out a diaper, gripped the baby and his bottle tight and ran on tiptoe through the dressing room and into her bedroom. The baby whimpered. She jiggled him, tossed the diaper onto her bed, sank into the rocker and pushed with her feet. “I’m sorry, Howard. Someday you will understand about these things.” Her pulse slowed. She smiled down at the baby, set his bottle on the nightstand, then lifted him to her shoulder and patted his back. He wiggled, burped and relaxed. A glow of satisfaction warmed her. She was learning to be a mother.
That thought was a sobering one. She would have to give Howard to another woman soon. Best if she kept that in mind. She snuggled him back into the curve of her arm and gave him back his bottle, pondering which gown she would wear today to keep from thinking about how wonderful it felt to hold him.
She would wear one of her simple dresses. Nothing made of silk or satin. It seemed as if the softer touch of cotton would be more comfortable against Howard’s baby skin. She burped him a last time, placed him in his cradle and glanced at the clock on the wall. She had to hurry—it wouldn’t do to be late for her first meal with Trace. An unusual name. Would he give it to the baby? He hadn’t seemed to like the idea last night.
She hurried to the closet, chose a red cotton dress and hurried to the dressing room to wash and prepare for the day. Trace Warren was a confusing combination of aloof coolness and competent thoughtfulness. Thankfully, she didn’t have to try to understand him. She would be gone soon.
* * *
“Good morning.”
Trace turned, stared and was instantly tongue-tied by the sight of Katherine standing in the doorway. The golden light of the chandelier fell on her beautiful fine-boned features and gleamed from her dark hair.
“I hope I’m not imposing on your privacy... Trace.” Pink edged along her cheekbones. A shadow darkened her violet eyes. “I wasn’t certain what your wishes were when Ah Key asked me to breakfast with you.” The blush faded. She straightened her shoulders. “I will be happy to eat later should you—”
He shook his head, cleared his throat. “Not at all. I’m pleased to have you join me.” Liar. Having her share his breakfast was the last thing he wanted. How many lies would he have to tell in the name of civility? He stepped to the table, pulled out the chair at the opposite end from where he sat. “There is still much we have to discuss.”
She started forward, paused and looked over her shoulder into the kitchen. “Will I be able to hear Howard from here if he cries?”
“I believe so. If not, Ah Key will tell us he’s awake and wanting attention.”
She stood there a moment, then nodded and moved toward him, the long skirt of her red gown whispering softly across the floor. The germ of an idea flickered. The scent of lavender rose to tease his nostrils as she took her seat, and the thought was lost. He moved away from her chair and strode to the other end of the table, motioning toward the side-by-side windows as he took his own seat. “I was admiring the shifting light of dawn on the mountains. Seeing the rising rays glisten on the snowcaps and sparkle on the rugged stone is a sight I’m certain I will never tire of.”
“Do you like it here in Wyoming Territory?”
“I do.”
“Eat now.” Ah Key entered the dining room carrying a tray with several dishes on it, placed them on the table and walked out.
He looked at Katherine’s shocked expression. “Ah Key’s serving style leaves a lot to be desired. But he’s a good cook.” She shifted her gaze to him. The beauty of her eyes took his breath. He looked down at the food.
“Did Ah Key come to Whisper Creek with you?”
“No.” He spooned some rice porridge in a bowl, placed food from the other dishes on a plate and handed them down the table to her. “I went to the Union Pacific work site and asked if any of the laborers who knew how to cook spoke English. Ah Key does both, though his repertoire in each is limited.”
She laughed, that beautiful, musical, feminine laugh that had the force of a punch to his gut. He turned the subject. “Are you familiar with Chinese breakfast fare?”
“No. I’ve never had the opportunity to try it.”
She sounded a little doubtful. He smiled encouragement. “It’s really quite good. This—” he pointed to the bowl “—as you might guess, is rice porridge. And this—” he touched his fork to the small white bundle on his plate “—is baozi, a steamed meat and vegetable dumpling. And these—” he indicated some small, flat fried squares “—are turnip cakes.” He picked up his knife and cut off a bite, tried to recapture that inkling of an idea.
She bowed her head and folded her hands, murmured words beneath her breath.
All trace of the impression fled. His face drew taut. He put down his fork and waited politely for her to finish asking a blessing on the meal. It was as much of a concession to praying as he was willing to make. Prayers were worthless. When she finished, he reached for the coffeepot and filled their cups. “Did you find your bedroom comfortable, Katherine? Is there anything you need?”
“No, nothing at all. The room is lovely.” She tasted a small bite of turnip cake, smiled and cut off another piece. “You’re right—this is quite good.”
He nodded, cut into one of his dumplings. “I think, perhaps, we should know a few more facts about one another. I’m twenty-eight years old, and an only child.”
She put down her fork and picked up her coffee cup. “What made you choose to be an apothecary?”
Guilt. He held back his scowl. “I sort of...drifted into it.” It was an evasive answer, and he could tell she knew it. Curiosity flared in her eyes. Tiny pinpricks of light flickered in their dark violet depths. He jerked his gaze down to his plate.
“Since good manners dictate that you should not ask—I’m twenty-three years old. And I was a spinster...until last evening.” Her voice floated down the table, soft, a tiny bit husky, pleasant to his ears. “I will be twenty-four in December.” He glanced up. She smiled and nodded. “Yes, I was a Christmas baby.”
Her smile faded. She busied herself with her food. Clearly, he was not the only one who was being evasive. Something else had happened to her at Christmas... something she didn’t want to talk about. “My birth month is October.” She looked at him, a question in her eyes. “The fifth day to be exact. My mother always said my birthday ushered in the winter season because there was a blizzard the day I was born.”
“So at the end of September there is only a week of autumn weather left to enjoy?”
The dimples in her cheeks appeared with her smile. “I didn’t say Mother’s prognostication was true.” He heard movement, looked toward the kitchen.
“Baby, he crying.”
“Oh! Thank you, Ah Key.”
He looked back across the table. She was already out of her chair and on the way to the door. “Katherine.”
She spun about. “Yes?”
“There’s no need to rush. It doesn’t hurt the infant to cry a bit. In fact, it’s good for his lungs.”
“I just don’t want him to miss his mother—to feel alone.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes. He pulled in a breath, turned his thoughts to a clinical explanation as refuge against any softening of his own heart. “He’s too young to remember her. Infants cry because they are hungry or because they are soiled and wet and uncomfortable. He doesn’t know what ‘alone’ is. However, babies learn very quickly that crying gains them attention.”
“If that is true—if babies cry for attention—then babies must know they are ‘alone,’ even if they don’t understand what ‘alone’ is. And this isn’t simply a baby—this is Howard. So, if you will excuse me, I will go and tend him.” Her skirts billowed out around her, swishing across the carpet as she left the room.
She was angry, and he didn’t blame her. He’d sounded cold and clinical and uncaring—just as he’d intended. All the same, her anger stirred his conscience, riled his guilt and spoiled his appetite. A baby deserved love and tender care. It wasn’t the infant’s fault he couldn’t bear the sight or sound of him. He rose and walked out into the back entrance, grabbed his coat and hat and shrugged it on as he crossed the porch. Dawn was just a promise at the top of the mountains, but it was bright enough he didn’t need a lantern.
The blast of a train whistle echoed down the valley. The seven-ten would be here in a few minutes. He was running late. He’d be hard pressed to get the store ready to open before the train arrived. He frowned, trotted down the steps and loped toward town.
* * *
Katherine laid Howard in his cradle then hurried to the window beside the writing desk and opened the shutters. Sunshine poured in. She forgot her purpose, stood in the cheery light and marveled at the snow-capped mountain behind the house. The rugged granite soared upward to where white patches of snow filled its gullies and hollows. A feathery gray mist rose from the icy top to form clouds in the vast blue blanket of sky overhead. The beauty of the scene brought a wish that she was able to capture the sight in oils on canvas. At last she understood what Judith had meant when she wrote home saying the mountains in New York were mere hills when compared to the towering mountain ranges in the West.
Laughter bubbled up at the thought of her sister. How astounded Judith would be when she learned what had happened. Reminded of her task, she sat at the desk and dipped the pen in the ink bottle.
My dearest sister,
You are no doubt surprised to receive this letter when you were expecting me to arrive on your doorstep. Obviously, my plans have changed.
Oh, Judith, I have so much to tell you, I don’t know where to begin. You had best sit down and take a deep breath, my dear sister. I’m married! Well, not truly so. It is strictly a business arrangement for the sake of a little two-month-old baby boy. There is, of course, no intimacy involved.
My husband (oh, how strange it is to write those words!) is Mr. Trace Warren, an apothecary whose shop and home is in Whisper Creek, a new town recently founded here in Wyoming Territory. I met Mr. Warren last evening when I delivered the baby to him. He is an intelligent, kind and polite man, but cold and reserved enough to make you shiver like a New York winter’s day—though there is something compelling about his eyes.
But I am getting ahead of my story. I shall start at the beginning. When I boarded the train to come west, there was a young woman with an infant seated at the back of the passenger car. She appeared to be very ill, and, as the other passengers seemed to want to stay their distance from her, (I presume they were afraid of catching her illness) I took the seat across the aisle and, seeing her distress, offered to hold her baby so she could rest. Yes, I know—I could “hear” Mother saying, “Katherine, you are too softhearted for your own good,” but the poor woman needed help. She was too weak to tend to herself, let alone her infant. And no one was paying her any mind, Judith! I couldn’t simply ignore her need. Or the baby’s crying.
Howard whimpered. She wiped the nib of the pen and hurried to the cradle, her long skirts whispering over the rug with her quick steps. Howard was fast asleep, his stubby little blond eyelashes resting on his chubby pink cheeks. Tears stung her eyes. Was he dreaming of his mother? No. Trace said he was too young. She was the one who remembered Susan Howard’s pain at leaving her infant when she passed from this world. Her chest tightened at the memory. She resisted the urge to pick Howard up and cuddle him, went back to the desk, picked up the pen and continued her letter to Judith.
* * *
“Have you something that will help a scratchy throat?”
“Indeed I do, madam.” Trace took a bottle off the shelf on the wall behind him and held it out to the elderly woman. “This will ease your discomfort. Take one spoonful every four hours and sip water in between the doses to keep your throat well lubricated. Or, if you prefer, I have Smith Brothers cough drops you may use for that purpose.”
“May I take the elixir and then use the cough drops in between the doses?” The woman placed a plump hand on her ample chest and gave him an expression of long-suffering. “Mind you, I have a fragile constitution.”
He had seen women of her sort when he was a practicing doctor—most of them perfectly healthy, but lonely and wanting attention. He arranged his features in a grave expression and put a cautionary note in his voice. “It will be fine to use both. But don’t have more than one cough drop in between the doses. You don’t want to overmedicate your throat.”
She smiled and nodded, obviously pleased by his admonition. “I’ll take a bottle of the elixir and a dozen of the cough drops, thank you. And I’ll be careful to do as you say.” The woman sighed, slipped the bottle into her purse, dropped a coin onto the counter then adjusted the wool wrap covering her round shoulders. “And thank you for your concern. When one appears healthy, it is difficult to make others understand you have a debilitating malaise.”
“Indeed.” He opened one of the Smith Brothers cough drop envelopes and scooped in a dozen of the round drops from the large glass jar. “Here you are, madam.” He handed her the envelope and her change. “Now, don’t forget—one cough drop only between doses of the elixir.”
The woman beamed. “I’ll remember.” She stuffed the envelope of cough drops into her reticule, put the change into her coin purse and left the store.
The bell on the door jingled a merry goodbye.
He turned his attention to a man who had stepped up to the counter. “May I help you, sir?”
“I’m in need of some sort of tonic for my wife and daughter. They have a distressing stomach ailment, and are unable to hold down any food or drink.”
His doctor’s training surged to the fore. “Have they a fever, or aches or pains, or any other symptoms beyond vomiting?”
The man frowned and tugged at his ear. “Not that I’m aware of. They haven’t complained of anything but their stomachs.”
“I see.” He studied the man’s discomposure. Obviously, he hadn’t been paying much attention to his family’s sickness. “And how long have your wife and daughter been ill? When did this ailment begin?”
The man’s face brightened. “Two days ago. Shortly after we boarded the train.”
“And does the sickness come over them in waves?”
The man gave an enthusiastic nod. “That’s what my wife said.”
“Then I believe your wife and daughter are suffering from motion sickness.”
“What’s that?”
“A stomach illness caused by the rocking of the train. It’s quite common, and will have no dangerous effects as long as they are treated and can take nourishment to prevent any dehydration from occurring.” He walked to the refrigerator at the end of the counter, took out two bottles and placed them in a bag. “This tonic should take care of the problem. When you return to the train, immediately give your wife and daughter each two spoonsful then wait until ten minutes pass and give them both another two spoonsful. After that they may take a spoonful whenever they begin to feel queasy in their stomach. How much longer will you be riding the train?”
“Four days.”
“The tonic will not last that long. You will also need some of my stomach drops.” He filled two small tins and put them in the bag with the tonic. “The drops are a bit sour, but to receive the full benefit they must be sucked, not chewed or swallowed.”
“I’ll see to it. What do I owe you?”
“Two dollars will cover everything.” The train whistle blasted its warning of pending departure.
The man pulled the coins from his pocket, tossed them on the counter and grabbed the bag. “Thank you for your help, sir. My wife and daughter have suffered exceedingly and will be most grateful to find relief.”
“I’m glad to have been of service, sir. Now, you’d best hurry back or you will not have time to administer the first dose before the train leaves the station. Remember, two spoonsful immediately, another two spoonsful after ten minutes have passed and then as needed!” His called words followed the man out the door. He dropped the coins in the cash box and slipped it beneath the counter, grabbed his dusting rag and straightened. The bell jingled.
“That fellow’s in a hurry. He almost knocked me off the steps.” Blake Latherop strolled into the shop and set the boxes of lemons and ginger roots he carried on the counter. “I’ll tell you, Trace, it’s downright dangerous to be anywhere on the porches or the station road when a train blasts its warning of departure.”
“The man’s family is ill.” He returned Blake’s smile, squeezed one of the ginger roots and sniffed a lemon for freshness. “Thanks for bringing these over. I was hoping they had come in on the train. I’m out of my stomach elixir.”
“Your other order came in on the train, too. The crates are sitting at the station. I’m going to pick them up now. I just stopped in to see when you want them delivered. I’m sure your bride is anxious to have them.” Blake held out his hand. “May I offer Audrey’s and my congratulations on your marriage? Audrey is thrilled to have another new bride in town.”
“Thank you. I’ll pass your felicitations on to Katherine.” He ignored the knot forming in his stomach and shook Blake’s hand. “As for the delivery...” The knot twisted tighter at the thought of having to go home. “I have to make the stomach tonic right now. And roll some headache pills...”
“What about after dinner, between the afternoon trains?”
Dinner. There was no escaping that. His stomach roiled. He took another sniff of the lemon and wished he had a bottle of his medicine handy. “That will be fine, Blake. And I’ll come over to your store after I’ve finished my work and settle my account for the month. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get started on the tonic. There may be a passenger on the next train who has motion sickness.” He picked up the boxes and turned toward his back room, away from Blake’s studied look. Did his friend suspect something was wrong? He blew out a breath at the sound of Blake moving toward the door, stopped walking and listened for the click of the latch. The bell jingled, signaling his departure.
Blake was gone. He set the boxes on his work table, turned to the sink and filled a dishpan with cold water to soak the fresh ginger roots clean. Dinner. An image of Katherine sitting across the table from him at breakfast popped into his head. His face tightened. Katherine Fleming was a beautiful young woman. And, though he still was not interested in having any sort of relationship with her or any woman, if he was honest, her beauty made things more...difficult. He was, after all, a young, healthy man. Sharing another meal with her was a test of his resolve he did not look forward to. Thankfully, he had his work to concentrate on meanwhile—once he got the image of her out of his head!
* * *
Katherine put the knitted coat and hat from the wardrobe on Howard and wrapped him in a blanket. The outfit was a little large, but she wanted to take the baby outside, and if Wyoming weather was anything like New York’s it would be cool. Not that it could be any cooler than Trace Warren had been at dinner.
She fastened her everyday cape around her and carried Howard down the stairs and out onto the porch. Trace was faultlessly polite, even thoughtful, but...distant. Dinner had been completely impersonal. They had exchanged more factual information, and then he had left the minute his meal was finished. He had said he had work to do, but she had the distinct feeling he had wanted to escape her company. Irritation quickened her steps to the railing. She had agreed to enter into this in-name-only marriage to help the baby, and she was well aware that it was a simple business arrangement, but it wouldn’t hurt the man to smile.
“Stop it this instant, Katherine Jeanne Fleming! You’re only feeling sorry for yourself. You agreed to this ridiculous marriage—make the best of it. The poor man is probably feeling as uncomfortable and constrained as you.”
Howard squirmed and let out a whimper. She looked down at his sweet face snuggled against her neck and smiled. “I’m scolding myself, not you, Howard. You are far too adorable to ever scold.” She shifted his weight in her arms and gazed out at the towering walls of granite that enclosed the vast valley watered by Whisper Creek and divided by the silver rails of the Union Pacific Railroad. “My, but this valley is beautiful! And just look at those mountains, Howard! Perhaps when you are grown you will climb them. But for now we’ll stroll around the porch and investigate your new home together.”
She pulled the blanket high around his neck and started forward, stopping when a horse snorted. Muted voices came from the other side of the house. Had Trace brought a friend home? She stopped walking and listened. Should she intrude? The sound of a woman’s voice decided her. She patted and smoothed her hair as best she could with her free hand, cuddled the baby close and hurried along one of the angles that formed the deep wraparound porch.
Trace and another young man were lifting a crate from a small wagon. Her attention went immediately to the slender, young woman climbing another set of porch steps. The woman had beautiful, curly red hair. And there was a covered plate in her hands. Their gazes met—so did their smiles.
“Ah, Katherine dearest, you’re just in time to meet one of Whisper Creek’s businessmen and his wife.”
Dearest? She jerked her gaze to Trace. He looked at her over the top of the crate, a warning in his eyes. “I’m not exactly in a position to make a formal introduction.” He shifted his hold on the crate, felt behind him with his foot and backed up the steps. “This is Mr. Blake Latherop and his wife, Audrey. Blake owns the general store. Blake, Audrey, this is my wife, Katherine.”
The young man dipped his head. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Warren.” He lifted his end of the crate higher and followed Trace up the steps.
“And you, Mr. Latherop...” She glanced back at the young woman. “And you, Mrs. Latherop...” Should she invite them in for tea? Or leave that to Trace? It wasn’t her house. She smiled to cover her uncertainty.
“Please excuse my unexpected visit, Mrs. Warren, but Blake had these crates to deliver to your husband, and I couldn’t resist coming along to welcome you to Whisper Creek.” Audrey Latherop lifted the plate she held. “I know you have a cook, but I thought you might enjoy a few cinnamon rolls.”
“How thoughtful of you. Thank you, Mrs. Latherop.” Katherine glanced around. There was a small table with two accompanying chairs sitting against the house wall. “Would you care to sit down?”
“Thank you, but we have to get back to the store. I’ll just set the rolls on the table as you have your hands full. And please, call me Audrey.” The young woman’s gaze lowered and her expression softened. “I heard you had a baby.”
“Yes. This is Howard.” She lowered the baby from her shoulder.
Audrey stepped closer, smiled and touched the tiny hand clutching the edge of the blanket. “So you’re the one we’ve been ordering all of this baby furniture for, young man.”
Howard blinked and went back to sleep.
“He’s beautiful, Mrs. Warren.”
“Katherine, please.” There was a thunk as the men set the crate they carried on the porch next to another larger one.
Audrey nodded, glanced toward the men. “I was just telling your wife you have a beautiful son, Mr. Warren.”
Wife. That sounded so strange. She looked at Trace to see how he would respond, stiffened when he stepped to her side and put his arm around her waist. His hand held her immobile when she instinctively started to pull away.
“We couldn’t agree more, could we, dear?”
He looked at her. His arm tightened. A reminder? She smiled up at him.
“Do you need help opening these crates, Trace?”
“No. I can do it.” Trace smiled, brushed some dust from his coat. “I may not look it now, Blake, but I grew up on a farm. I’m no stranger to a hammer.”
A farm? She looked up at him, struggling to keep the surprise from showing on her face. He should have told her that.
“Then we’ll be going back to the store. Ready, Audrey?”
A spurt of envy rose at the way Blake Latherop looked at his wife. She squelched it. Being a spinster was her choice. She had her memories—and her fading hope. She fixed a smile on her face. “It was lovely to meet both of you. Thank you so much for the cinnamon rolls, Audrey. It is very kind of you.” She bit off the invitation to come again hovering on her lips, stood like a statue with Trace’s arm around her and returned Audrey’s wave. It wasn’t her place to entertain.
The moment the wagon was turned and headed toward town, Trace moved away from her. She watched him head for the steps and her ire rose. They may be strangers—married strangers—but he needn’t ignore her. She deserved better treatment than that. “You should have told me you were raised on a farm.”
He paused, looked over his shoulder at her. “Yes. We lived on Long Island. I’m sorry I forgot to mention that.”
“Are there any more surprises in store for me?”
“Most likely. As I’m sure there will be for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my hammer.”
She stared after him, shocked by the change in his expression. His face had simply...closed—like a shutter on a window. Trace Warren was hiding something from his past. But then, she had her secrets, also. And what did it matter? This strange alliance would soon be over. She sighed and glanced at the sizable crates. Her curiosity stirred, but she ignored it. Whatever the crates held had nothing to do with her. But those cinnamon rolls did. She needed to take them inside. She glanced at a door a short distance from the table, walked over and peeked inside. It was another triangular entrance, this one with pegs holding a man’s raincoat with boots on the floor beneath it. A sound drew her attention. She looked through a door on her right and spotted Ah Key cleaning vegetables at a table. She’d found a back entrance into the kitchen.
She turned to get the rolls and jumped at a sharp screech. Trace, his coat and tie removed, his collar open and shirtsleeves rolled up, was prying at the largest crate. His bared forearms strained against the opposing pressure. His sleeves rippled over the muscles in his upper arms and shoulders. Effort had his brow furrowed. The end of the board splintered and came free. He grabbed hold of the loose end, braced his foot against the crate and yanked, tossed the board aside and looked her way. “I think you’ll like what’s in these crates—if I ever get them open.” He ran his fingers through his hair then jammed the claws of the hammer beneath the end of another slat and pried.
She took his words as an invitation and sat at the table, resting the baby on her lap and watching him work. He looked so different in his shirtsleeves with his tie off and his hair mussed—almost pleasant. And handsome. Trace Warren was a very handsome man.
“That’s got it! I can lift it out now.”
She jolted from her contemplations, watched him bend over an end of the opened crate and tug. There was a scraping sound, and a curved arm and portion of a straight spindle back and solid wood seat above legs attached to rockers appeared. “A rocking bench?”
“For on the porch.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s something called a nanny bench. At least it will be as soon as I get it out of there and find the other piece.” He hung the end of the bench over the crate and strode into the house, coming back with Ah Key in tow and stopping by her chair. “Where would you like the bench, Katherine? Here by the kitchen entrance? Or by the front entrance?”
Why was he asking her opinion? What he did was not her concern. She took a quick glance around. Because of the octagonal shape of the house, she could see in three directions—down the valley at the front of the house, down the road toward the Ferndale home and the town at the side, and toward the towering pines and wall of mountain at the rear. The gurgle of Whisper Creek flowing by was a pleasant, soothing sound. “It’s lovely here.”
