Wedded For The Baby

“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.”