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?
