Dorothy Clark - Wedded For The Baby

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.