His Family of Convenience

For widower and ex-doctor Trace Warren, a fresh start in Whisper Creek comes with a catch: to save his home and apothecary shop, Trace must remarry. While making Katherine Fleming his wife is simple enough, he refuses to fall in love again. But keeping his distance from the kind, beautiful woman and the infant she brings with her is dangerously difficult...

Katherine promised to protect the baby left in her care, and a marriage of convenience to Trace is the only way to do that. But all too soon, Trace possesses Katherine’s heart, even as he still carefully guards his own. With hopes of turning their arrangement into a true love match, can Katherine convince Trace to forgive himself for his past mistakes and embrace his new family?

“You owe me no apology, Trace.”

Katherine looked over at him and met his gaze. Tears glistened in her beautiful eyes. “I chose to stay to help you keep your home and shop for Howard’s sake. I’m not sorry.”

Then she bent her head and kissed Howard’s cheek. The baby nuzzled at her neck, searching for something to eat. It was the perfect picture of what he had longed for, prayed for and lost.

“Now please hold Howard while I warm his bottle.” Trace’s stomach knotted as she handed the baby to him. Howard looked up at him and wiggled his arms. He took a deep breath and lifted him to his shoulder. The baby calmed, rested there against his heart. So small. So helpless.

He looked at Katherine standing by the stove and his heart lurched. She was so beautiful, so kind and softhearted, so brave. He jerked his gaze away.

It was growing far too dangerous for him to be here alone with Katherine and the baby every day.

Dear Reader,

My second trip to Whisper Creek is over. When Katherine boarded the train in Albany she was simply on her way to visit her sister at Fort Bridger in Wyoming Territory. And Trace, well, he had turned his back on love and medicine forever—he thought. But that was before they met baby Howard, and compassion for the orphaned infant forced them to follow paths they never expected. I love doing that!

I enjoyed writing Trace and Katherine’s story, but it’s time to move on. Confirmed bachelor Garret Stevenson has a hotel to open. How will he deal with the revision clause in his contract with the town’s founder? And with—But that’s for the next story. I’m excited to find out what this next journey to Whisper Creek holds in store. How about you, dear Reader? Would you like to come along on my third journey to Whisper Creek? We’re underway.

Thank you, dear Reader, for choosing to read Wedded for the Baby. I hope you enjoyed Katherine, Trace and little Howard’s story. I truly appreciate hearing from my readers. If you care to share your thoughts about this story, I may be reached at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com or www.dorothyclarkbooks.com

I hope I see you in Whisper Creek,

Award-winning author Dorothy DOROTHY CLARK lives in rural New York. Dorothy enjoys traveling with her husband throughout the United States doing research and gaining inspiration for future books. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing stories for Love Inspired. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers and may be contacted at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com.

Wedded for the Baby

Dorothy Clark

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Who can find a virtuous woman?

For her price is far above rubies.

—Proverbs 31:10

To my readers:

Thank you for your faithfulness. I love hearing from you! Your letters are so encouraging. I appreciate your kind words and most of all your prayers.

And Sam. Once again, from my heart—thank you!

“Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established.”

Your Word is truth. Thank You, Jesus.

To God be the glory.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Medicine Bow Mountains, Wyoming Territory

November 1868

Katherine Fleming looked away from the sheriff carrying Miss Howard’s battered trunk toward the long, black carriage. The train lurched, rolled forward. She blinked the tears from her eyes and jiggled the crying, squirming infant in her arms. Poor baby. Two months old and all alone. Did he sense it? Was that why he was crying so hard?

“Shh...shh...don’t be afraid, little one. Everything will be all right. I’ll take care of you.” Her stomach knotted. How could she keep that promise? She knew nothing of caring for an infant, and there was no one to ask. The last of the other women passengers had left the train here at Laramie. Panic struck. How far was it to Whisper Creek? That had been the destination on Susan Howard’s ticket. Was she making a mistake? Would it be better for the baby if she turned him over to the sheriff in spite of her pledge to take him to his new father?

She looked back out the window, torn by indecision. It wasn’t a mere pledge she’d made; it was a deathbed promise. Of course, she hadn’t known at the time it would be impossible to keep. Miss Howard had begged her, muttered something incoherent about a letter with her last breath. The dying woman had been frantic about what would happen to her child, and so she’d made the promise to give her peace. But she had not found a letter among Miss Howard’s sparse possessions. How could she take the baby to a man when she knew nothing about him—not even his name?

She frowned, watched the sheriff shove the trunk into the black carriage. And she didn’t know Susan Howard; she’d never met the woman before she’d boarded the train. Surely that freed her from her promise. Oh, what did it matter? She held a helpless little piece of humanity in her arms. She couldn’t abandon him. Her stomach churned. The thought of the baby being put in an orphan home made her ill. So many young babies died. She would simply have to do her best for him.

The wheels clacked against the rails. The train picked up speed. Her breath came easier. It was too late to turn the baby over now. He stiffened and let out a wail. She lifted him to her shoulder and patted his back the way his mother had instructed her to do.

“I’m sorry I’m not better at caring for you, little one. But I’ve had no experience at this sort of thing.” She cooed the words, patted and rubbed the baby’s tiny back, feeling completely inadequate.

The infant burped, then fell asleep on her shoulder, his downy hair brushing her cheek, his breath a feathery warmth against her neck. Her heart swelled. She held Susan Howard’s son close, allowed herself to pretend for a moment that Richard hadn’t disappeared at sea—that they had married as planned and this was their child.

“Almighty God, please let Richard be alive and well. Please bring him home.” Her whispered words were automatic. Only the smallest trace of her former faith remained after having repeated the prayer hundreds of times. It had been almost five years since the devastating loss of her lifelong love. It was a long time to hold on to hope. Still, she refused to let go of her last remaining strands of trust that God, in His mercy, would bring Richard home and fill the gaping hole his disappearance had left in her heart.

The passenger car jolted, swayed. She grabbed for the wobbling empty baby bottle and tucked it back into the baby’s valise where it would be safe until she could clean it. Her fingertips touched paper. The baby’s birth papers? Hope rose that it might be so. It wouldn’t help her in her quest for his new father, but at least she would learn the baby’s name. She pulled the valise closer, grasped the exposed corner of the paper and pulled it from beneath the baby clothes and diapers. It was a letter. Perhaps the one Susan Howard had been mumbling about. Her pulse sped. She pushed the valise to the end of the seat, slid close to the window and held the letter up to the fingers of sunlight that poked through clean spots in the film of soot.

My Dear Miss Howard,

I received your letter yesterday and am setting pen to paper this evening to tell you I am willing to accept your infant boy and raise him as my own. My acceptance of your infant was the last obstacle in the way of our proposed marriage arrangement. That detail is now settled.

Time is growing short. I am enclosing the train ticket you will need for your journey here to Whisper Creek. I am also enclosing money sufficient to meet any expenses you may incur.

All things necessary to carry out our arrangement will be in place upon your arrival.

With sincere gratitude,

Mr. Trace Warren

Katherine read the letter again, annoyed by the formal tone. A marriage arrangement? How emotionless. There was not a single word of warmth or kindness in the missive. How desperate Miss Howard must have been to have agreed to marry this cold man. And now Mr. Warren would be the guardian of this helpless little baby. If he still accepted the child.

She sat bolt upright, staring at the letter. What if he didn’t? What if Mr. Warren refused to accept the baby to raise without the mother? Her excuse of keeping the infant to deliver him to his new father would be gone. Would she have to turn the baby over to the authorities? Her stomach flopped. What sort of legal situation had she gotten herself into? Well, there was no help for it now. And she would do the same thing again. Susan Howard had been desperately ill, and it wasn’t in her to ignore the distress of a woman too sick to care for her baby. It had been the morally upright thing to do.

She folded the letter, reached down to tuck it back in the valise and spotted faint, shaky writing on the back. She held the letter back up to the window.

My name is Miss Susan Howard. I am ill, and without hope of recovery. I have an infant son, born out of wedlock, whom his father has disavowed, and whom Mr. Trace Warren of Whisper Creek, Wyoming Territory, has accepted to raise as his own child in this letter. I, therefore, give Mr. Trace Warren full custody of my baby, this day, the 19th of November, 1868, and ask only that he care for him with love.

Miss Susan Howard

The letter trembled in her hand. Tears blurred her vision. A sob caught at her throat. That answered her question. The baby was now Mr. Trace Warren’s son. She hugged the infant closer, her heart aching for the young mother who had written the note giving her baby into the hands of a stranger. She couldn’t bear the thought that the helpless baby might be unloved or mistreated. What agony Miss Howard must have suffered when she wrote those words.

She started to put the letter in the valise, decided it was too valuable to take a chance, that it might become lost or damaged, and tucked it in her purse instead. The baby whimpered. She placed her cheek against his soft, silky hair, lifted her free hand and cuddled him closer. “Shh... Don’t worry, little one. Everything will be all right...shh...shh...”

The baby quieted, made tiny little sucking noises. She tucked his blanket closer around his little feet, felt the soft booties knitted by his mother. Tears stung her eyes. I’ll keep my promise, Miss Howard. I’ll find Mr. Warren, and I’ll make sure he will take good care of your baby boy, or—Her thoughts froze.

She stared out the sooty window and rocked the baby to and fro with the sway of the train, thinking about that small word. Or. It had come unbidden from her conscience and her heart. What was she to do about it? Keep the baby? How? She had sold her home. Could she take the baby with her to visit her sister at Fort Bridger? Judith and her husband were still childless after six years of marriage. Perhaps they would want to keep the baby for their own.

Follow that still, small voice inside you, Katherine. The Lord will lead you.

Her pulse steadied. It was the advice her mother always gave when she went to her with a problem. Oh, how much easier this would be if she had the strength of her mother’s faith to lean on. Her own faith had become tattered and frail. She sighed, leaned back against the seat, listened to the rhythmic clack of the wheels against the rails and tried to relax. A solution would present itself. At least she now knew the name of the man she was looking for.

* * *

Trace Warren halted the horse, climbed from the runabout and looped the reins over the hitching rail. Two quick blasts of the whistle on the approaching train rent the air. The mare stomped her front hoofs and snorted. He reached out and patted her neck. “It’s all right, girl. It’s only a noise. Nothing is going to hurt you. Or me.”

He glanced at the train, focusing on the passenger car trailing behind the locomotive and tender. Bitterness surged. If he was supposed to have a wife and child, why couldn’t it have been his own? Why were they lying in a grave in New York, while he was about to enter a sham of a marriage with a woman he didn’t know and a baby he didn’t want to care about?

He set his jaw, tugged his jacket into place and climbed the steps to the station platform. At least Miss Howard had agreed that they would live their lives as separate as possible while sharing the same dwelling. Thankfully, he’d built a large house! There would be no reason for accidental meetings.

The beam of light from the locomotive widened, swept over the depot then narrowed again as the engine rolled by and came to a stop. Steam puffed into the air, turning the station oil lamps into momentary blurs. He moved through the quickly dissipating vapor to stand at the bottom of the passenger-car steps and look up at the small platform. The porter opened the door then lit the oil lamp beside it. A young woman holding a swaddled baby and carrying a small valise stepped out onto the platform. His stomach knotted. He squared his shoulders, removed his hat and took a step forward. “Miss Howard?”

The woman started, gazed down at him. Her eyes looked like they were made from the petals of violets—petals picked on a frosty day. She shook her head. “No. I’m not Miss Howard.”

“I beg your pardon.” He glanced at the man coming out of the door behind her, made a small, polite bow and stepped back to clear their way to the station.

“Wait!” The woman descended, raking an assessing gaze over him. “Are you Mr. Warren?”

He gave a curt nod, his attention focused on the passengers exiting the car behind her—all men. He glanced back at the woman, more than a little put off by her cool tone. Her words clicked into his awareness. “How do you know my name?”

She lifted her hand holding the valise and braced the baby with her arm. “Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk, Mr. Warren? I am not Susan Howard, but I am the woman you are seeking.”

He stared at her a moment, puzzling over her statement, then looked down at the bundle in her arms and nodded. “There is a bench on the platform out of the wind. If you’ll permit me to assist you...” He took the valise, grasped her elbow with his free hand and guided her to the bench against the wall of the depot. “Now, if you would please explain, Miss...”

“Fleming. I am Miss Katherine Fleming from New York.”

He touched the brim of his hat, dipped his head. “Forgive me for being blunt, Miss Fleming, but I don’t understand, how—”

“I met Miss Susan Howard on the train. This is her baby.” Katherine Fleming took an unsteady breath, looked down at the tiny bundle then raised her gaze to meet his.

“And why do you have Miss Howard’s child?” He glanced at the passenger car, irritated by this woman’s interference. “Where is Miss Howard?”

“She passed away early this morning, Mr. Warren. They—they took her and her possessions from the train at the Laramie Station.”

“She’s passed away!” He jerked his gaze back to Katherine Fleming. Suspicion reared. Was this some sort of blackmail scheme? “Perhaps you would be good enough to explain the circumstances, Miss Fleming.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Warren.” The baby whimpered. She patted its back and swayed. “When I boarded the train, Miss Howard was very ill. I tended the baby and cared for Miss Howard as best I could, but her condition deteriorated. She—” Pink flowed into Katherine Fleming’s cheeks. She took a breath and looked full into his eyes. “When she knew her health was failing, Miss Howard told me the...conditions...of her baby’s birth, and that she was on her way to marry you because you had agreed to raise the baby as your own. She begged me to bring her baby to you. I promised to do so.” She took another breath and opened the purse dangling from her wrist. “I found this letter in the baby’s valise.” She held it up to him.

He took the letter, went taut. It was his last letter to Miss Howard.

“There is a note on the back.”

Miss Fleming’s voice broke. He glanced at her, saw the lamplight reflected by the shimmer of tears in her eyes and turned his letter over.

My name is Miss Susan Howard. I am ill, and without hope of recovery. The words struck the pit of his stomach like a hard-driven fist, froze the air in his lungs. He forced himself to read on, made himself concentrate on the details to calm the pulse pounding through his veins and roaring in his ears. He was the guardian of the child of a woman he’d never met! He folded the letter and slid it in his pocket to gain time to gather his shattered thoughts. Being an ex-doctor, he was accustomed to handling emergencies in a calm, deliberate manner, but this...this was beyond belief! He had a shop to run! What was he to do with an infant without a mother in a town where there was no woman available to hire as a nurse? Was this God’s retribution for his turning away from his faith when his wife and unborn child died? Was the agony of his loss coupled with his guilt at being unable to save them not enough punishment?

He shot a venomous look at the darkening sky, forced the stagnant air from his lungs then glanced at Katherine Fleming—Miss Katherine Fleming. A wild notion flickered. He grasped on to the idea like a drowning man seizes hold of the flimsiest lifeline. He knew enough about women’s clothing to know Miss Fleming’s velvet-trimmed gray tweed coat was stylish and well made; the button shoes poking out from beneath the long skirt were the same. And her hat was an expensive one. Clearly, Miss Fleming would not be swayed by the offer of a generous wage. He would have to appeal to her humanity. It was obvious she’d become attached to the infant in her arms.

He glanced down the tracks. The train was still taking on coal and water. But time was of the essence.

“I’ve kept my promise to Miss Howard, Mr. Warren. So if you will—”

“Please, Miss Fleming, if you would grant me a few minutes more of your time, I need to talk to you. My agreement with Miss Howard—”

“Had nothing to do with me, and is none of my business, sir.”

“I believe it is, Miss Fleming—because of the baby you hold.” He looked down into her violet eyes, suppressed a tingling reaction to their extraordinary beauty and pressed his case. “My marriage agreement with Miss Howard was a business one. She needed a name for her son and a comfortable home in which to raise him. I need a wife—any wife.” Those long-lashed, violet eyes widened, then narrowed. He rushed on before she could speak. “You see, I have signed a contract that states that if I am not married within six days from this date, I will lose my apothecary shop, my home and all I have invested in them. I am a widower, Miss Fleming. I am not interested in a personal relationship with any woman. Therefore, Miss Howard was to have been my wife in name only.” The words brought color flooding into her cheeks. She rose to her feet.

“That’s quite enough, Mr. Warren! I am not in the habit of—”

“Nor am I, Miss Fleming! But I have no choice in the matter. If I do not marry within six days, I and the infant you hold in your arms will be homeless. And, what is more, without my apothecary shop, I will have no means by which to support the child.”

“But surely there is some way—”

He shook his head and looked her straight in the eyes. “There is none. I have told you I am not interested in any form of personal relationship with a woman, Miss Fleming. Therefore, I am asking if you, in your concern for the baby, would be willing to enter into an in-name-only marriage with me.” Her gasp told him what she thought of his proposal. He rushed on. “It would be only temporary—until I can think of a way to save my shop and my home and make other arrangements for the baby’s care. You see, Whisper Creek is, as yet, only the beginning of a town. There are no women available for me to hire to care for the baby.”

Katherine Fleming was clearly shocked. She moved her mouth but no words came forth, only an odd sort of choking sound. He took a breath and laid out the rest of it before her. “There is one thing more. Should you agree to my business offer, we will have to act as newlyweds in front of others to keep Mr. Ferndale, the town founder and holder of my contract, from discovering the marriage is not a normal one.” His bitterness boiled over into anger. After two years of grief and loneliness that was the last thing he wanted to do with this far too attractive woman! He harked back to his doctor’s training, held his face impassive. “In private, you will have your own well-furnished bedroom with unlimited access to the rest of the house as you choose. The house has every modern convenience. And, of course, I’ll pay you a wage for your services as nurse to the baby.”

* * *

Katherine sank back onto the bench, too stunned to speak...to even think. She stared up at the man in front of her, unable to credit what he had said. Marry him? She didn’t even know him! She tried to answer, to tell Mr. Trace Warren what she thought of his absurd proposition, but couldn’t find her voice. All that came out was a sort of choking gasp. What sort of man would even think of such a thing? A selfish one! Mr. Warren had agreed to Miss Howard’s condition that he accept the baby as his own in order to fulfill that contract! What a cold, heartless—The baby stirred and began to cry. She looked down at him, so tiny, so helpless, in her arms. Her heart squeezed. If she continued on her journey to visit her sister, what would become of the infant? Who would care for him? Surely not Mr. Warren! He hadn’t even looked at the baby.

It would be only temporary.

No. The man was insane! His plan ludicrous. She should run for the train as fast as she could! But how could she live with herself if she left a helpless baby to an unknown fate at this callous man’s hands? She cuddled the baby close, reached beneath the blanket and brushed her fingertip over his tiny hand. He quieted. Her chest tightened. Her throat constricted. The baby needed her. And she was free of all obligations. What should she do?

Follow that still, small voice inside you, Katherine. The Lord will lead you.

Her face drew taut. Not anymore, Mother. The familiar pang wrenched her heart. What had she to lose if she agreed to Trace Warren’s proposition—a few weeks of idle time? Her chance for a normal life of love and happiness had vanished with Richard almost five years ago. Her life was an empty shell. And if she could help the baby, at least it would give her some purpose.

She caught her breath and looked up at the stranger standing in front of her. “Very well, Mr. Warren. For the baby’s sake, I will agree to your proposal according to the conditions you have stated.” Had she actually spoken those words aloud? She hastened to qualify her agreement. “However, I want those conditions set down in writing before any such marriage takes place. And the agreement must also state that you will find a replacement for me as your temporary stand-in bride and nurse to the child as quickly as possible.”

“Thank you, Miss Fleming. It shall be as you ask.” Tension strained his voice. “Have you trunks on board?”

Her trunks. She hadn’t even thought of them. “Yes, three. And my valise.”

He gave a curt nod. “Give me a moment to see to their off-loading, and we will go to my store and take care of that matter of the written arrangement.”

“There is one thing more, Mr. Warren.”

He halted, looked down at her. “And what is that, Miss Fleming?”

“I have no experience, beyond the last two days, of caring for an infant.”

He glanced at the baby she cuddled. “The baby seems satisfied with your care of him, Miss Fleming. And I am a desperate man. My offer stands.”

She watched him walk to the conductor, purpose and confidence in his stride. Her legs were trembling. Her entire body was trembling. Had she done the right thing? Or had she lost her mind? She rose to her feet and took a tentative step to test the strength of her shaking legs before Trace Warren returned. The baby squirmed, began to cry. “Shh, little one, shh. I’ve found your new father.” As cold and indifferent as he is. “Everything will be all right.” Would it? Could she be sure of that? She closed her eyes, swallowed hard against the churning in her stomach.

“This way, Miss Fleming.”

Her heart lurched. She opened her eyes, stared at the stranger she was about to marry and nodded.

“If I may assist you...” His hand grasped her elbow. She walked beside him down the steps and over to a runabout. She waited, her heart pounding, while he placed the baby’s valise on the floor, then grasped her elbow again and helped her take her seat. She shook her long skirt into place and tucked her feet out of sight beneath her hems, then patted the crying baby while Trace Warren loosed the reins and climbed to the seat beside her.

“Is the baby hungry? If so, I will take you to the house, though it is farther away—a little more than a mile out of town. I purchased a few cans of lactated milk in case there was a need. You can feed him while I write out our arrangement.”

Lactated milk? She stared at him, taken aback by his knowledge of such a thing. She had been unaware of it until she started caring for the baby. “I fed him a bottle just before the train pulled into the station. I don’t know why he’s so fretful.”

“Perhaps he senses the tension of our situation.” He clicked to the horse, shook the reins. The buggy lurched forward. “If so, he will quiet as things calm down.” He turned his head, and their gazes met. He didn’t look nervous. Obviously, it was her. “I will stop at the shop. It’s on the way to the church.”

The church! She stiffened. The baby wailed. His little body went taut beneath the blankets. She patted his back, forced herself to relax and studied the buildings ahead. There were not many of them. Mountains rose behind them, dark and menacing in the dusky light.

“Here we are. This is my shop.”

She looked at the narrow building in front of them, the tasteful sign above the front door centered between two small-paned windows. He climbed down, tossed the reins over a hitching rail and came to her side. “If you need me to, I will hold the baby while you step down.”

His voice was brusque, strained. Clearly, Trace Warren was not eager to hold his new son. But he had to, sooner or later. And, in her opinion, sooner would be better. What her mother called her “German stubborn” rose. She stared at him a moment, then nodded and handed the baby down to him, though she was reluctant to let go of the tiny bundle. At the moment she wasn’t sure if she was comforting the baby, or if holding the baby was comforting her. She rose, and Trace Warren cradled the swaddled baby in one arm and held his free hand up to assist her.

She placed her hand in his and stepped down, surprised by the calm, if not loving, way he held the tiny baby. Perhaps everything would work out well for Susan Howard’s son. Trace released her hand, and the cold night air chilled the place where his long fingers had curved around her palm. He handed her the baby, assisted her up the steps to the porch, then opened the door for her to enter. The warmth of the shop was comforting after the cold. Should she uncover the baby’s face? She decided to leave the blanket in place unless he fussed.

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.

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...

Chapter Three

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.”

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.”

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