Wedded For The Baby

Dim light spilled from an oil lamp chandelier hanging over a long, paneled counter. Bottles and crocks, weights and balances stood beside a neat array of mortars and pestles of varying sizes on the polished surface. Mr. Warren moved behind the counter, pulled down the lamp and turned up the wick. Light played over a cabinet with small, neatly labeled drawers sitting on the floor beside multiple shelves holding stoppered jars and bottles that hung on the wall.

“I’ll only be a moment, Miss Fleming—Katherine.” He removed his hat, withdrew paper and pen from a drawer and placed it on the counter. “Forgive my familiarity, but as the townspeople have to believe our marriage is a normal one, I think it would be best if we used our given names. Please address me as Trace.”

“Very well.” Considering the magnitude of what she was doing, that small impropriety was insignificant. She watched him dip the pen and begin writing, and it suddenly all became real. She was going to marry a man she didn’t know! Her stomach flopped. She squelched an urge to run out the door and looked around the shop to calm herself. At least he was neat. And he had good manners. And was adept at handling a small baby. Those were all good things.

How could the scratch of a pen on paper be so loud? She lifted the baby to her shoulder and hummed softly to deaden the sound, stole a glance at Trace Warren bending over the paper. The light gleamed on the crests of the waves in his dark blond hair and shadowed his face. What color were his eyes? Surely, she should know the color of his eyes before she married him!

“I believe that covers all of the points of our arrangement.”

She jerked when he spoke. He lifted his head and looked at her. Blue. His eyes were blue with a gray cast to them. And intelligent, cool and reserved in their expression.

“If you would read this agreement over, Miss—Katherine. I had made arrangements to marry Miss Howard immediately. Pastor Karl is waiting.” A muscle at the joint of his jaw twitched. Mr. Warren was not as calm as he appeared. The discovery made her feel better.

He turned the contract so she could read it. She tried her best to concentrate, to remember all that she had insisted be included. It seemed as if everything was there, including his signature and the date. She freed her hand, folded the paper and tucked it in her purse.

* * *

Trace donned his hat, trimmed the wick on the chandelier and led Katherine Fleming out of his dark shop. The train whistle blew twice, sending its message of imminent departure into the stillness of the evening. He saw Katherine look toward the station, staring at the beam of light piercing the dark from atop the engine—no doubt wishing she were aboard the train. He wished it, too. But he could not manage without her to care for the baby. His carefully conceived plan had become a trap. He clenched his jaw and locked the door, pocketed the key and adjusted his hat.

“If you don’t mind, we’ll walk. The church is just there, across the road and down a bit. It’s not worth the time to take the buggy.”

“Walking is fine. It’s a pleasant evening.”

Pleasant? He stole a look at her. The word was a mere politeness. Even in the pale moonlight he could see the tension in her face. Admiration pushed through his anger. Katherine Fleming was a very tenderhearted and brave woman to go through with this marriage for the sake of an orphaned baby who had no family connection to her. He led her toward the glow of light spilling from the windows of the church, aware that he should offer her some words of comfort or encouragement, but there were none in him.

“It’s very quiet.”

Her soft voice blended with the sound of her traveling gown’s hem brushing over the hard-packed dirt, the whispering murmur of the waterfall in the distance. Was the slight huskiness in it normal or nervousness? He nodded, forced out a polite reply. “Yes. It takes a little while to get used to the silence when you’re accustomed to the rush and noise of city life. Watch the rut.” He took her elbow, helped her over the rough spot in the road and then wished he hadn’t—she was trembling. “But it’s active enough here during the day with all of the building going on. The construction work stops when the sunlight fades and the last train goes through. When that happens, the general store closes and the town, what there is of it, shuts down.”

“I see.”

Whisper Creek gurgled in the distance. Cold air swept down from the mountains and across the valley. He breathed deep and stared at the glow of light from the church. Almost there. His chest tightened. He never would have signed that contract if he’d thought the marriage clause applied to him. He’d been sure his being a widower had made him exempt. But when he’d arrived in Whisper Creek and approached John Ferndale about it, his argument had fallen on deaf ears. The town founder had insisted he either fulfill the marriage clause or turn his new shop and home over to him. And now here he was—trapped in a marriage he wanted no part of.

Pain stabbed his heart. Bitterness soured his stomach. It was even worse than he’d expected it to be when he’d devised the marriage-in-name-only scheme. Katherine Fleming was nothing like his wife in appearance—quite the opposite. But having her walking beside him brought back the memories of his life with Charlotte he’d struggled to bury over the last two years—even the small ones, like the rustle of a woman’s skirts. And the baby! He’d thought enough time had passed that he could block any emotion, stop any feeling, but he was wrong—so wrong.

A vision of his tiny unborn son he’d fought so hard to save after Charlotte died trying to give birth filled his mind. He bit back a groan, fought the wave of guilt that flooded his heart. All of his knowledge, all of his skill and talent as a doctor, all of his desperate prayers, had not been enough. His tiny son had never taken a breath or opened his eyes. Charlotte, Charlotte darling, forgive me.

He sucked cold night air through his clenched teeth, forced his lungs to accept it. It wasn’t worth it. No amount of money was worth this agony of guilt and pain. He would go to John Ferndale tomorrow and sign over his shop and house, then leave Whisper Creek on the next train. He would find employment somewhere and—No. That was no longer an option.

He jammed his hand into his suit pocket and fingered the folded letter with the shaky handwriting on the back. I, therefore, give Mr. Trace Warren full custody of my baby... There was no way out. He couldn’t just walk away. He was trapped by his own cleverness in trying to save his shop and house and build a facsimile of a normal life.

He halted, stared at the church looming out of the darkness before them. “Here we are, Miss Fleming.” He squared his shoulders, looked at her standing there holding the baby with the golden light from the window falling on them. He pulled in a breath. “I truly appreciate what you are doing to help the baby. I give you my word, I will find another solution to my problem as quickly as possible.”

“Thank you. I shall hold you to our arrangement, Mr. Warren.”

“Trace.”

There was a small catch of her breath in the silence. “Trace...”

He escorted her across the small stoop, his boots echoing on the wood planks.

The train chugged off down the valley.

He opened the door, tightened his grip on her elbow and they walked into the church.

Chapter Two

The 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.