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
