Wedded for the Baby

by Dorothy Clark

  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.”

  He nodded and walked to the crate. “Grab that end, Ah Key.”

  She held her silence as the men carried the bench to the other side of the kitchen door and placed it along the wall. Trace pushed the back, watched the bench rock back and forth for a moment. “There you are, Katherine. A place where you can sit and rock the baby if you’re of a mind to.” A frown creased his forehead. “Though I suppose there will be little of that until the days start warming up again.”

  In spring, when I will be gone. She closed off that thought. “The baby likes rocking.”

  “It’s a soothing motion.” He walked back to the crate and leaned inside.

  “Like mother walk.” Ah Key patted his stomach and went inside.

  She looked at the still rocking bench and wished Trace had invited her to try it out.

  He grunted and straightened, a piece of
wood that resembled two rails held together by spindle posts at the ends in his hands. It was painted the same dark green as the rocker bench.

  Her curiosity got the better of her manners. “What is that?”

  “It’s the piece that makes this a nanny bench.” He fitted the rounded bottom ends of the spindle posts into two holes at one end of the front edge of the bench seat and pushed down. The ends of the posts slid through the holes and came out on the bottom side of the seat.

  “Why, it makes a crib out of that end of the bench!”

  “A clever idea. A woman can rock a baby and have her hands free to read a book or do piece work or something at the same time.” He tried to wiggle the short piece of railing he’d attached. It held firm. “I guess that’s safe enough. Why don’t you give it a try, so I can see how it works.”

  “All right.” She walked to the dark green bench and smiled. “Look, Howard, your papa bought you a porch rocker.” She sat and laid the baby beside her on the seat behind the safety rail. A gentle push with the tips of her toes against the porch floor set the rocker in motion.

  * * *

  “The Latherops seem very nice.”

  Trace nodded, glanced at Katherine sitting on the porch bench and looked away. The soft expression on her face as she cooed to the baby touched an answering chord inside him, and he couldn’t afford that. “Blake is a very good businessman. He’s managed to find me every item I’ve ordered for the house or the shop.”

  “And for the baby, as well?”

  “Yes.” He held back a scowl and fastened the last iron wheel to the wicker baby carriage he’d taken out of the second crate. He reached up and grasped the handle, rolled the carriage back and forth, testing for steadiness and making certain the pins that held the wheels on stayed in place. He stood and braced himself to do what had to be done. “I believe the carriage is ready to be tested now, Katherine. Once around the porch should be enough.”

  “All right.” Her dimples flashed with her smile. She looked down at the baby in her arms. “Do you want to go for a ride in your new carriage, Howard?” She rose, kissed the baby’s cheek and placed him in the carriage. He started to whimper. “The carriage is beautiful, Trace.” Her gaze met his. “Do you want to push him?”

  His stomach knotted. He looked away, shook his head. “No, I have to watch the way the different parts are working. I want to be certain the carriage is safe.”

  “Very well.” She grasped the turned wood handle and pushed the carriage forward. He moved off to the side and fixed his gaze on the wheels and undercarriage. The iron wheels rolled smoothly over the porch floor, the sound blending with the rustle of Katherine’s gown and his own footsteps. The baby stopped crying and waved his little arms in the air. “Look, Trace, he likes it.”

  He nodded, glanced out at the rutted dirt road. “You won’t be able to walk him on the road at present. It’s too rough. But they intend to cover it with scree in the spring. It will be packed smooth then. Of course, you will still have to watch for the rattlesnakes.”

  “Rattlesnakes!” She jerked to a halt and stared out at the surrounding fields. “Do they live in the grass? Will they hibernate through the winter?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve not been here long enough to become familiar with their habits. I’m only telling you so you won’t walk to town by yourself.”

  “You needn’t worry. I won’t get off of this porch! Snakes!” She shuddered.

  A smile tugged at his lips.

  The baby started to fuss.

  She leaned forward over the handle and pulled the blanket back over him. “Hush, little one. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

  The baby kicked and wiggled at the sound of her voice. His smile died aborning. The infant was already recognizing Katherine. Guilt pounced. He had to work out a plan to end this phony family situation before the child and Katherine became too attached. But how to do so and still save his shop and home had him confounded. He’d considered simply giving it all to John Ferndale, but he couldn’t walk away from his home and means of livelihood now. He had a child to provide for. Still, there had to be a way. Too bad the baby wasn’t old enough for a boarding school.

  His chest tightened. He glanced at Katherine when she started walking again and knew instinctively that she would never approve of that idea. He didn’t, either. A prayer for guidance formed. He scowled and banished it from his thoughts. He hadn’t prayed for two years. He wouldn’t start now. He would continue to handle his own affairs. Not that the results were as he expected.

  He watched Katherine pushing the carriage and smiling down at the baby, and the expression on her face made his heart ache. He jammed his hands into his pockets and stared out at the surrounding fields. Whatever he was going to do, he’d best figure it out soon.

  Chapter Four

  “Katherine...”

  “We have company, Howard. Yes, we do...” She lifted the baby from her lap to her shoulder, rose from the rocker and went to answer Trace’s knock. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to intrude, Katherine, but I wanted to remind you that tomorrow is Sunday. We’ll be expected to attend church.”

  The look in his eyes said he’d rather chew on the nails he’d pulled from the crates earlier. She filed the information away to ponder later and nodded. “All right. What time shall I be ready?”

  “The service will begin at ten o’clock.” He glanced down at the baby. “It occurred to me that, with your limited experience in caring for an infant, you may not know how to bathe one.” His eyes clouded, turned more gray than blue. The small muscle in front of his ear twitched. “He’s old enough for a proper bath now. It would be good if you gave him one this evening when you won’t be hurried making your own preparations for church. I’ve come to instruct you in the proper way to do so, if you would care for my help.”

  “Indeed I would.” She tried to keep a rising panic from showing. “I was about to change him into his nightclothes, give him a bottle and put him to bed.”

  “Then this is the perfect time. If you will permit me, I will join you in your dressing room.” That muscle in his jaw twitched again.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll get the nightclothes from his wardrobe.”

  She watched Trace enter the baby’s room, turned and hurried through her bedroom to the dressing room, hugging Howard close and hoping he would not be frightened. “Do babies like to be bathed?”

  “Most do.” Trace opened the corner cupboard, pulled out a small tin tub that hung from a nail in the back wall and placed it on the table below the window by the washstand. He removed his coat and rolled his shirtsleeves above his elbows. Her thoughts jumped to the feel of his arm about her waist, holding her close to him. Her pulse skipped. His gaze fastened on her, his face impassive—rather like a teacher’s when instructing a student.

  “The first thing is to make certain the water is the right temperature—too hot will burn a baby’s tender skin, too cold will make them take a chill.” He picked up a pitcher, filled it halfway with hot water and then added the cold. “Test the water with your elbow. Do not use your hand as it is too accustomed to more pronounced hot or cold.” He stuck his elbow in the water. “This is the temperature you want. Put the baby down so you can feel it.”

  She laid Howard on the table, unbuttoned her cuff, pushed up her sleeve and dipped her elbow in the water.

  Trace emptied the pitcher into the small tub and repeated the process until it was half-full. “Next, put a washcloth in the bottom of the tub to keep the baby from slipping on the wet tin. Have the soap and two towels ready to hand. When everything is in place, undress the baby.”

  She undressed Howard, her movements now quick and sure.

  “Now, lay his head on your elbow, hold his leg in your hand and lower him into the water.”

&n
bsp; She shook her head and backed away. “I would rather watch you bathe him this first time. I might hurt him.”

  “Nonsense, Katherine. Simply—”

  “No, Trace. I’ll watch.” She crossed her arms. That muscle in front of his ear jumped. He was not pleased with her refusal.

  “Very well.” He lifted Howard and cradled him in one arm. “Talking in a calm voice helps a baby to feel safe.” He slid the baby in the water as he’d described. “Now release him, holding his head above the water.”

  Howard wiggled, kicked his legs and waved his arms. Water splashed, dotting the front of Trace’s shirt.

  “He likes it!” She laughed as the baby’s movements became stronger.

  “Yes. Now, quickly, while the water is warm, wet your free hand and soap him all over—including his hair—everywhere but his face. Slowly lift and turn him over your arm to do his back and rump. Turn him back over and rinse him thoroughly. Throw a towel over your shoulder with your free hand...thus. Lift him to your shoulder and wrap the towel around him. When he is dry, dress him.”

  He handed Howard to her, wrung out the washcloth, poured the bathwater into the washstand and dried and hung the tub back in its place while the water gurgled down the drain.

  The lesson was over. She studied Trace’s face. It wasn’t impassive now. “Thank you for showing me how to bathe Howard.”

  He looked away and rolled down his sleeves. “He will probably sleep a little longer than he usually does. Bathing relaxes a baby. Good evening, Katherine.” He gave her a curt nod and left the dressing room.

  She stared after him, quite certain that Trace Warren would be very displeased if he knew the tenderness his face revealed while he was bathing the baby. It was completely at odds with the dispassionate tone of his voice. Why? She pushed the question to the back of her mind to contemplate later and dressed Howard for bed.