Wedded for the Baby

by Dorothy Clark

  * * *

  He should not have bathed that baby! Trace scrubbed at his forearms to erase the memory of the infant resting there...so small, so innocent, so trusting. His face tightened. It was no use. Soap and water didn’t work. He could still feel that light pressure, the little wiggles and squirms. And he would never get to sleep until he blocked out that memory.

  Coffee. He’d go make coffee. That would do it! He grabbed his shirt off the chair where he’d tossed it, buttoned it on and hurried out of his dressing room. There was no sound from Katherine’s room. She had probably retired early because of church tomorrow.

  A knot twisted in his stomach. His steps slowed. At the very least he would have to pretend to be happy with his new family tomorrow. He jammed the tail of his shirt into his belt, stormed to the stove and reached for the draft. The stove was hot. He frowned and opened the door on the firebox. Coals winked red, flared into flame at the sudden draft.

  “I had to fix Howard’s bottles for tomorrow.”

  Katherine’s soft, slightly husky voice floated the length of the kitchen. He pivoted, stared. She stood by the refrigerator, moonlight from the window washing her lovely, delicate features with silver.

  He stared, unable to tear his gaze from her.

  She smiled and lifted her hand. “I made coffee while I waited for his bottles to boil. Would you care for some?”

  The aroma rising from the pot on the stove hit him, bringing moisture flowing back into his dry mouth. He nodded, cleared his throat. “That’s why I came downstairs—to make coffee. I often have a cup out on the porch when I can’t sleep.” The instant the words were out, he wished them back. She began to speak then turned and took a cup off the cupboard shelf.

  “What a lovely custom.”

  It wasn’t what she’d started to say. Fool. Why didn’t you just tell her this situation was tying you in knots? He thought that over while he watched her pour his coffee. Perhaps honesty would be best. At least it would clear away the tension vibrating between them. He tugged his lips into a wry smile. “I don’t know about lovely...but it calms the nerves.” He took hold of the cup of steaming hot coffee she held out to him. “Why don’t you join me?” She glanced up, and her beauty hit him full force. Another mistake. Why don’t you guard your tongue, Warren! Tiny bits of golden light flickered in the depths of her violet eyes. Her full lips curved.

  “Wouldn’t that defeat your purpose?”

  Her dry tone restored his ability to breathe. She smiled, and he knew she had deliberately saved him embarrassment with her flash of humor.

  He tugged his lips into another grin. “There’s one sure way to find out.” He dipped his head and waved toward the door. “After you, madam.” He grabbed his jacket and coat off the hooks and followed her through the entrance onto the porch. “This will keep you warm.” He draped his wool coat over her shoulders, shrugged into his jacket and walked over to the railing, leaving the table for her use. It was easier to maintain his emotional equilibrium if he didn’t look at her.

  Moonlight silvered the face of the mountains. Water chuckled over the rocks that lined the banks of Whisper Creek. It was quiet and peaceful—except for the roiling emotions in his chest. He blew across the coffee and took a cautious swallow, thankful for the deep shadow on the porch. Fabric rustled, wood whispered against wood. She had shunned the table for the rocker bench.

  “It’s lovely out here at night. But I don’t know if I will ever become accustomed to the quiet—though I’m certain there is a good deal more activity around my sister’s home at Fort Bridger.”

  That last bit sounded like a warning. As if she wanted him to know she didn’t expect to stay in Whisper Creek for long. Well, he would do his best to accommodate her. He leaned his shoulder against a post and nodded. “I expect there is. A fort is a busy place. Especially with these Indian uprisings.”

  “Indian uprisings!” The whisper of the rocker against the porch stopped. “What Indian uprisings?”

  He turned and looked at her. She was clutching her cup in her lap and staring up at him. “Didn’t your sister warn you the Indians have been attacking the miners and their suppliers this summer? It seems as if her husband would be ordered out on patrol to keep the Indian raids in check. The skirmishes are in that area, around South Pass. They attacked some freighters on the Sweetwater River only a few weeks ago.”

  She shook her head, looked down at her cup. “I haven’t heard from Judith since I wrote her in September telling her I was coming to visit. I told her not to bother to answer as I was selling the house and wasn’t sure of my schedule.”

  There was apprehension in her voice. He could have kicked himself for causing her to worry. “I’m sure your sister and her husband are fine, Katherine. There have been no rumors of attacks on Fort Bridger.”

  She nodded, rose and set her cup on the railing. She gathered the edges of his coat, held them closed at the base of her throat and stared out into the night. “How different it is here in the wild.” She glanced over at him. “Is that why there are wood shutters on all of the windows in the house? Because of the Indians?”

  “It was suggested to me as a precaution.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re safe here, Katherine. I’m a careful man.”

  “And a kind one. Thank you for trying to make me feel better.”

  “Did it work?”

  “A little.” She smiled and the tension left her face.

  He took another swallow of coffee and watched her pick up her cup and retreat to the bench. “Time will take care of your unease.”

  “I suppose.” She sipped her coffee, clutched her cup in one hand, his coat edges in the other, then set the rocker into motion and gave him a smile that brought her dimples out of hiding. “I prefer to be a moving target. How can you simply stand there drinking your coffee?” Her gaze shifted from him to the dark beyond the railing. “Don’t you ever wonder who or what may be watching you from the shadows of the trees?”

  “Only if I hear the hoot of an owl or the howl of a wolf or some other animal.”

  “Or an Indian war cry?”

  There was a teasing note in her voice. He quashed the desire to answer her humor with his own—that was more dangerous to his safety than any Indian attack. He took another swallow of coffee, glanced at her over the brim of his cup and made his voice merely polite. “You have a vivid imagination.”

  “So I’ve been told.” She looked at him a moment, then rose and took a firmer hold on his coat. “I had better go and check on Howard. But first...if you would refresh my mind, Trace. I’m afraid I was so nervous at the wedding ceremony, I have forgotten your pastor’s name.”

  Her voice matched his politeness. She had understood his silent message. “It’s Karl, Pastor Konrad Karl. His wife’s name is Ivy. And—I don’t believe I mentioned that they have children—three of them...a boy and two girls.” His throat tightened. He stared down at his hand clenched on his empty cup. Those children were another reason he hated going to church. It was hard to ignore them sitting on the front pew with their boundless energy barely contained. But his attendance was expected by John Ferndale.

  “Thank you. I’ll remember.” Her skirt rustled, brushing against the painted planks of the porch floor. The door opened. “Good evening, Trace.”

  “Good evening.” He resisted the urge to turn and look at her once more before she went inside. The click of the latch put an end to the temptation. He stayed there, leaning against the porch post while the silence settled around him. He tried to convince himself the quiet was peaceful. But he couldn’t believe the lie. It wasn’t peace he felt. It was loneliness. The terrible loneliness he’d suppressed since Charlotte’s death had boiled to the surface that first night when he’d stood at the bottom of the Union Pacific passenger-car steps and looked up into Katherine’s eyes.

  * *
*

  A carriage and a wagon stood beside the church. Katherine drew in a breath and glanced over at Trace. “Did I take too long with the baby? Did I make us late?”

  He halted the horse beside the wagon and shook his head. “No. I come at this time every Sunday. I like to arrive just before the service begins.” He threaded the reins through the loop at the top of the cast-iron tethering block, climbed down and set the heavy weight on the ground. “Don’t forget we have to act as husband and wife.” He lifted the baby’s valise from off the buggy floor and held out his hand to help her down.

  His face was taut, his voice strained. Did he think she would fail him? “I won’t forget. I’ve been reminding myself all morning. Little Howard’s future depends on our...charade.”

  His brows lowered. “It’s hardly that. The marriage is legal, Katherine. And real enough—as far as it goes.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Charade was a poor word choice.” She restrained the urge to wrap her fingers around the warmth of his hand, to cling to its strength. She shook out the long skirt of her brown checked dress and tugged the jacket into place over the lace-trimmed ecru bodice. It was not her best or most attractive gown, but the soft wool would be comfortable against Howard’s tender baby skin. And the dress was warm against the chilly morning.

  Trace clasped her elbow and turned toward the front of the church. She shivered, held her ground. He stopped and looked down at her. “Is there something wrong? Do you want me to carry the baby?”

  “No...” She stared at the narrow trodden path through the grass. “I was thinking of what you said about rattlesnakes...” Another shiver shook her. “I’m sorry, Trace, but a snake wrapped around my leg when I was a child picking berries with my mother. And it kept trying to climb higher. She—she had to pull the snake off...” She shuddered, struggled to control the fear. “I’m terrified of snakes.”

  “Wait here.” He walked the path, kicking down the grass on his left and right, pivoted at the end and returned to grasp her arm. “The way is clear.” His deep voice washed over her, calm, reassuring.

  How thoughtful and kind! She nodded and walked beside him toward the church. “Thank you for doing that.” She sighed and studied the ground. “I know it’s foolish of me to allow a childhood experience to make me so fearful. But I can’t seem to master the fear.”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Katherine. Sometimes things happen to us that leave...scars inside.” He assisted her up the steps to the porch and opened the door. A low murmur of voices floated out of the sanctuary. Warm air caressed her chilled face and hands.

  “It’s nice and warm in here. I won’t need the extra blanket on the baby.” Her whispered words earned a curt nod in response.

  “There’s no shortage of fuel in Whisper Creek. Both wood and coal are abundant in these mountains. Ready?”

  She took a breath and nodded, felt the slight pressure of his hand at the small of her back and walked beside him down the center aisle. She lifted her head and glanced around, pushing away the memory of the last time they had walked down this aisle to become an in-name-only family.

  Two men seated on the back bench glanced up, smiled and dipped their heads in greeting, then resumed their low-voiced conversation. Trace stopped at the empty wood bench behind the one the Latherops occupied and stood aside. She returned the Latherops’ welcoming smiles, slipped into the narrow space and sat, wondering if Audrey Latherop would be as friendly if she knew the truth about her temporary marriage to Trace Warren. And what of the pastor and his wife? They had children. What would they think of what she had done? Her stomach churned. What had she been thinking getting involved in this phony marriage! And coming to church and pretending to be a family!

  She skimmed her gaze over the older, fashionably dressed couple sitting on the bench in front of the Latherops and swallowed hard, fighting back the bile burning its way into her throat. They looked wise...discerning.

  Trace placed the valise on the bench beside her and took his seat. “Are you all right?”

  She glanced over at him, swallowed again at his probing gaze. “Yes.” She indicated the older couple with a small nod. “The Ferndales?”

  “Yes.” He lowered his mouth toward her ear and whispered back. “Relax. Forget about us... Think of the baby.”

  She looked down. The tightness in her chest eased.

  “Good. Just keep looking at the baby and breathe slowly.”

  Footsteps interrupted him. She looked forward.

  Pastor Karl entered from a side room. “Greetings, everyone. It’s good to see you all here this morning.” He beamed a wide smile their way. “I’d like to extend a special welcome to our new family in Whisper Creek—Mr. and Mrs. Warren and their baby boy.”

  Trace covered her hand with his, squeezed. Heads turned; smiles were aimed in their direction. Trace smiled and dipped his head. She curved her lips, prayed her forced smile looked natural.

  “If you will please stand, we shall begin with a hymn.” The pastor motioned to where his wife sat on the first bench with their three children. Ivy Karl stood and faced the congregation. Her lovely voice floated through the room.

  “‘Rescue the perishing, care for the dying, Jesus is merciful, Jesus will save.’”

  Katherine removed the extra blanket from around Howard, folded and tucked it into the valise and rose to stand beside Trace. He stood silent and rigid, the small muscle just in front of his earlobe pulsing. There was something wrong. Was he angry with her for some reason? She shifted her gaze to Ivy Karl lest he feel her staring. Howard squirmed and lifted his head, dropped it back to her shoulder. She cuddled him close, listening to the next verse.

  “‘Down in the human heart, crushed by the tempter, feelings lie buried that grace can restore. Touched by a loving heart, wakened by kindness, chords that are broken will vibrate once more.’”

  The words touched the ache in her heart, stirred her loneliness for Richard and exposed her dead dream. Tears filmed her eyes. If only the Lord could restore her hope for tomorrow, her dream for love and a happy life that had died with Richard’s disappearance. But her once-strong faith had died a bit more with each of the hundreds of unanswered pleas for Richard’s return she’d prayed over the years. She was devoid of hope.

  She blinked her vision clear, glanced at Trace and wondered what caused the tension she could feel pulsing through him. It took her mind from her own unhappiness and strain to study his profile, to watch that small throbbing muscle. She lowered her gaze to the baby sleeping in her arms. Should she give him to Trace to hold? Would that give him comfort as it did her? No. He never offered to hold the infant unless it was to assist her. But then, most men weren’t as naturally comfortable holding an infant as women were. But—if that were true—what of the tenderness she had seen on Trace’s face last night when she’d forced him to bathe Howard? The thought took hold, clung.

  The singing stopped. She sat and cradled Howard in her arms, plumbing her memory for every instance where Trace was with the baby. He had never held Howard by choice—there was always a reason. And he never held him a moment longer than the situation required. Her heart sank. If Trace didn’t want to be around the helpless infant, what would happen to Howard when Trace found another woman to take her place as wife and mother, and she left to get on with her life? She had thought when she saw the baby’s room with all of the beautiful baby furniture that Trace truly wanted the child—but he didn’t. Yet, what of his tenderness with Howard? Perhaps he simply needed more time with the baby. Perhaps she was doing them both a disservice by spending all of her time with Howard.

  She stole a sidelong glance at Trace from under her eyelashes. His jaw muscle had stopped twitching. She looked down at the baby, tugged at her lower lip with her teeth. Should she? Trace was too polite to refuse to help her. She leaned close, tipped her
head back to look at him.

  He glanced over at her movement, lowered his head. “Do you need something?”

  She nodded and lifted the baby over to him. “Would you hold Howard please? My arm is getting tired.” His face closed. It was as if he had shuttered and locked away all emotion.

  “Yes, of course.”

  He took the baby from her, settled him in the crook of his arm and stared straight ahead. She could have pinched him. Anything to take that frozen look from his face.

  “Amen.”

  She’d missed the opening prayer! A fine way to act during her first attendance at a church service in Whisper Creek. She jerked her gaze to Pastor Karl, hoping he hadn’t noticed her inattention.

  “This morning, I am going to deviate a bit from my habitual procedure of taking my text from the Bible, and instead base my sermon on the hymn we sang to open the service.”

  There was a rustle of fabric as the congregation stirred in their seats. She ignored the urge to look around to see if they disapproved and kept her attention focused on Pastor Karl.

  “The hymn has been running over and over again through my mind the last couple of days. I’ve found myself singing it and humming it at odd times. I have no explanation for that—it’s certainly not a common occurrence. And since you’ve all heard me sing you will understand why that’s so.” He chuckled.

  The pastor’s self-deprecating humor charmed her. Movement drew her eye. The baby had awakened and was waving his arms through the air. His hand batted against Trace’s tie, and his tiny fingers closed into a fist on the smooth silk. His erratic movements yanked the tie out of Trace’s vest, tugged the end toward his small mouth. Trace freed the tie from Howard’s little fist and tucked it back into place. The baby curled his tiny hand around Trace’s little finger. A sharp intake of breath drew her gaze upward, and she saw the flash of pain in Trace’s eyes. What—