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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...
Chapter Three (#u1c0a0dcf-b478-5171-aed7-cd0eaceff1d5)
Katherine 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.”
