“‘Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart, e’en as the morn on the streamlet and sea... Then will all clouds of sorrow depart...’”
Her breath caught at the words. Tears stung her eyes. It was a lie. The sorrow of Richard’s disappearance at sea had never left her. But Richard would never return. She’d accepted that now. There was no hope. This horrible emptiness would be a part of her forever.
“‘Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me... Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me.’”
If only he could. She followed the music to the parlor and stopped outside the doorway as the melody ended. Her gaze slid over the beautiful settee and chairs in front of the fireplace, moved to the marble-topped table with its silver candelabra and tea service gleaming in the moonlight streaming through the double windows. She waited there, ready to leave if he was finished playing. She heard movement to her left, and he began another song.
She inched forward, her eyes filling at the melancholy ache in Trace’s voice as he sang the words.
“‘Oh tell me how from love to fly—its dangers how to shun... To guard the heart, to shield the eye... Or I must be undone...’”
His head was lifted. His eyes were closed. The moonlight edged the blond waves on his head with silver, flashed on his fingers as they moved in and out of the beams, coaxing a haunting lament from the keys. She lifted her hand to the base of her throat and pressed her fingertips against the lump forming there. How much Trace must have loved his wife. How lonely he must be without her.
“‘For thy impression on my mind... No time, nor power can move... And vain, alas, the task I find... To look and not to love... To look and not to love...’”
She wiped tears from her cheeks, whispered the last verse along with him.
“‘Could absence my sad heart uphold... I’d hence and mourn my lot—but mem’ry will not be controll’d. Thou ne’er cans’t be forgot... Thou ne’er cans’t be forgot...’”
Oh, Richard, why did you have to go to sea? The ending notes quivered on the air, faded into silence. She started to slip out of the doorway but froze when Trace closed the cover over the keys and turned in her direction. Her heart lurched. She looked at his eyes, but the moonlight was behind him, and she could not read their expression.
“Good evening, Katherine.”
His voice... There was something underlying the cool politeness with which he always addressed her. “Good evening.” She grasped hold of a button, twisted the smooth metal in her fingers. “Please forgive me for intruding. I heard the music and couldn’t resist coming to listen. You sing and play very well.”
“Thank you.”
He rose and came toward her. Her pulse sped. She inched backward, suddenly nervous in his presence. This was a Trace she did not know.
“My mother was an accomplished musician. She taught me to play. I like to think I inherited some of her talent as well as her skill.”
His gaze caught and held hers. Leave! Go to your room! Now! The look in his eyes held her rooted to the spot.
“I left the coffee on the stove. It should still be hot. Would you care for a cup? I have something I want to discuss with you.”
Had she done something wrong today? Was he displeased with her? She was back on safe ground. She took a shaky breath. “All right. As long as it won’t take too long.” She stepped into the hallway, intensely aware of him moving to walk beside her. She brushed her palms against her skirt and hurried her steps. “Howard was fussy tonight. He didn’t want to go to sleep.” She preceded him through the doorway and all but ran to the stove to put space between them.
She dampened her fingertip, touched it to the coffeepot and drew it back. “It’s still hot.” She grabbed a folded towel to protect her hand.
“Here are the cups.” He set them on the worktable. “Does Howard have a fever?”
He had big hands with long fingers. Her mind flashed to how strong and warm they were when he handed her into or out of the buggy. How safe she felt at his touch. “I can’t tell, but I don’t think so. His forehead isn’t hot. And his cheeks are always rosy.” Like hers were at the moment, judging from the warmth in them. She poured. The coffee splashed. “Ouch!” She dropped the coffeepot onto the table and grabbed at her other hand with the towel. “Clumsy of me...”
“Did you burn yourself?” He clasped her wrist and led her to the sink. “Let me wash off that coffee so I can see...” He lifted the towel, then held her hand and wrist under a flow of cold water. “Now come closer to the light.” He slipped his free arm around her waist, turned her back around and lifted her hand toward the oil lamp over the worktable. Heat from his hand and arm and shoulder spread through her, warmer and more dangerous by far than the coffee burn on her hand. He leaned forward, his face so close that even in the dimmed light she could see a tiny scar at the edge of his cheekbone where the bristles of his shaved beard began. Her pulse raced.
He turned his head and their gazes met—held. His fingers twitched, his grasp tightened. “Katherine...”
Her heart beat like a wild thing. She fought for breath to speak, for strength to look away. “I—I’m fine. I—Is that Howard crying?”
“I don’t hear anything.”
She did. In his voice. No. She had to be imagining it. She slipped her hand from his, grabbed the coffeepot and finished pouring their coffee. He studied her a moment, then picked up his cup and moved to lean against the cupboard. She looked down at her coffee and wished she took sugar or cream so she would have something to do. She picked up the towel he’d dropped on the worktable and began to refold it.
“He could be reacting to the change.”
“What?” She looked up. He was watching her hands. Could he see them trembling? She pushed the towel aside.
“Howard.” His gaze lifted to meet hers. “It could be he’s only restless from having spent all day away from home. It’s too early for him to be teething.”
Her heart skipped. It was the first time Trace had used Howard’s name. And he’d said home. Trace was accepting the baby! He would take good care of Howard. She smiled and nodded, her throat too thick to speak.
“I wanted to ask you how you feel about caring for Audrey Latherop now that you’ve spent two days doing so, Katherine. I don’t want you to overly tire yourself. You have Howard to care for, and he will become more work every day. Babies change rapidly at his age. If it’s too much work for you, I will help Blake find—”
“No, please—I truly enjoy caring for Audrey. I’ve missed caring for my mother and father.” She looked down and swirled the coffee in her cup. “Tending to my parents gave purpose to my days. And now I have Howard—” For a little while. Her voice broke. She paused for control, blinked her eyes clear and looked up. “I was writing to my sister, before I heard you playing, and I told her that I’m considering becoming a nurse when—” The words lodged in her throat. She swallowed hard and made a helpless little gesture. “When all of this is over.”
His quick intake of air drew her gaze. The muscle at his jaw was throbbing. The look in his eyes so intense she had to look away. “A nurse?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I know that nurses are looked down upon by some. But I like taking care of people who are unable to care for themselves.” Her chin went a notch higher. “Why shouldn’t I do so? I believe it is a suitable occupation for a spinster.”
“Why, indeed? I think it’s...admirable. But I find it hard to believe a woman as...caring...as you are will spend her life alone.”
She would spend her life alone. The words hit her hard. Empty years flashed before her. She fought back a rush of tears and forced another smile. “Not all of my life. Right now I have a baby who needs me. At least for a little while.” She made herself swallow some coffee; it helped with the lump in her throat. And it was a perfect excuse not to look at him.
She didn’t want the sheen of tears in her eyes to give the lie to her cheerful tone of voice. “And now, if you will excuse me, I’d better get back upstairs and check on him.”
* * *
He watched her go, the ache in his heart agonizing, the emptiness of his arms unbearable. He had come so close. So close to holding her...kissing her. If she hadn’t pulled her hand away... The muscle at his jaw twitched; his fingers tightened around the cup. He had to get Katherine out of his house, out of his life, before she destroyed him!
He set the cup down and stormed out into the entrance to get his hat and coat. He needed some fresh air to clear his mind—to bring him to his senses! There had to be a way! There had to!
Chapter Ten
Trace blotted and folded the paper, put it into an envelope, added the direction and placed it with the others ready to take to the station upon leaving the shop. His stomach knotted. It was almost time to leave for dinner at the Latherops’.
He jerked his mind from thoughts of the torture of Katherine sitting beside him at the small table. It had been over a week now and every day it became more agonizing to spend that time alone with her. Sitting there pretending to feel nothing when in truth—in truth nothing!
He let out a growl and picked up the pen to write out another order. He was running low on the supplies he needed to compound his fever and headache pills. Many of the people riding the trains from the east were ill. And he had noticed Asa Marsh coughing and sneezing when he went to the station to pick up his mail yesterday. If the stationmaster took the flu—
The jingle of the bell on his shop door stopped his dire thoughts. He splashed some alcohol on his hands and stepped out of the back room. John Ferndale was leaning over the counter, peering at the bottles on the shelves behind it. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ferndale. Is there something you need?”
“Good afternoon, Trace. Dora sent me for some of your headache pills. And a restorative.”
Trace stiffened, studied John Ferndale for signs of illness. “If you tell me what complaints Mrs. Ferndale is suffering, I can better choose the correct medication.”
The portly man opened a tin and popped a peppermint candy in his mouth. “She says she has a headache and a fever. And she’s tired. She wants something to give her some strength.”
“Has she any physical discomfort?”
“Says she aches all over.”
Headache, fever and aches, fatigue... Trace silently clicked off the list of symptoms. The thing he’d been fearing had happened. The flu, manifested by the symptoms exhibited by the people on the trains, had come to Whisper Creek. “I believe these products will give her the most relief.” He placed a bottle of Blandiff’s Vegetable Antidote for Ague in a bag and added a box of his own fever and headache pills. “Please tell Mrs. Ferndale the pills will work better and her illness will improve faster if she drinks a lot of water. Tell her to add three spoonsful of apple-cider vinegar to each glass. It is especially effective to stop any stomach upset.” He handed John Ferndale his change and pushed the bag toward him. “It will also strengthen her to eat a lot of soup—chicken soup is the most beneficial.”
“I’ll tell her. But she’s not been eating much.” The older man dropped his change into a small leather purse and picked up the bag. “We are fortunate to have you in Whisper Creek, Trace. You’re the closest thing to a doctor we’ve got. I’ve tried to interest several doctors in coming to our village but they’re more interested in going where there are more people. I can’t fault them for wanting to make a decent living, but we need medical help here. If anything serious happens, the nearest doctor is miles away at one of the forts. Which one is a guess. The few doctors they have make the rounds.”
He cleared his throat of a lump of guilt. “I guess that’s right. But I’ll do whatever I can to help.” Except be a doctor again.
“Well that’s more than any of the rest of us can do.” John Ferndale switched the bag to one hand, opened the door with his other and stepped outside, the bell jingling behind him.
Coward. The accusation rang in his head. He set his jaw, wiped down the counter with alcohol then strode to the back room, took off his apothecary apron, picked up the pile of orders and shoved them in his suit pocket. Walking to the station and back to mail them would brace him for his dinner with Katherine and the baby.
He donned his hat and coat, glanced at the fever and headache pills he’d compounded earlier, stuffed a tin of them in his pocket with the orders and stepped outside. Cold air bit at his face and hands. He locked the door, yanked his leather gloves from his coat pocket and pulled them on. His long strides ate up the short distance to the depot.
“Good afternoon, Asa. I have some orders to mail.” A grunt was his answer. He eyed the red wool scarf the stationmaster had wrapped around his neck, noted the sheen of perspiration on the man’s forehead and the squinted eyes in his pale face. “You have a headache?”
“Clear to my t-toes.” The words were gruff, scratchy. “Be b-back...”
He nodded, watched Asa slide off the stool and shuffle over to answer the clicking telegraph machine on the table. Someone, probably Asa himself, had pulled one of the platform benches inside by the heating stove and thrown a striped blanket on it for a makeshift bed. Steam billowed into a cloud above the coffeepot sitting on the heating stove. He looked back at Asa—the man was shivering so hard he was struggling to write down the message coming through.
He stared at the stationmaster’s hands. All of those letters and telegraph messages Asa was handling... It would be a wonder if anyone in Whisper Creek escaped getting the flu. But there was nothing he could do about it. The man would never be able to wash his hands with alcohol in between touching each letter or message. He frowned, pulled the orders from his pocket, put them on the shelf with the money for postage and placed the tin of pills on top of them.
Asa shuffled his way back and picked up the tin. “What’s th-this?”
Guilt assuagers. “Pills to help reduce your fever and headache. Take two of them now, then take two with your meals and at bedtime. I’ll send Ah Key with some soup for your supper tonight. Meantime, it will help those chills if you’d wrap that blanket around your shoulders. And close one of these shutters when no one is here. Leave the other one open for fresh air.”
“Y-you s-sound like a d-doc.”
He stiffened, shook his head. “I make the medicine. I know how sick people need to use it. The rest is common sense. Good day.” He turned from the window and hurried off the platform onto the road. There would be little time for dinner if—
“Mr. Warren! Mr. Warren!”
Trace jerked his gaze toward the call. Minna Karl was sobbing and running toward him, her eyes wide with fear. He knelt to the child’s height, catching her when she stumbled into his arms, gasping for air. “What is it, Minna? What’s wrong?”
“Ed—Eddie won’t get up!” The child flung her arms about his neck, sobbing against his shoulder.
“Eddie?” He pulled her arms from around him and set her back to look at her. “Calm down, Minna. Tell me what is wrong.”
“You’ve got to h-help him! Mama says come qu-quick!” The child grabbed his hand and pulled.
Self-preservation warred with his instinct to help those in need. Hadn’t he suffered enough? “No, Minna, I—” The words choked him. He lunged to his feet. “Show me where.”
He ran with her down the road and onto a narrow path that led to the copse of trees out back of the church. He could see a patch of blue between the lower branches of a towering pine. Minna veered around the tree and jolted to a stop in a small clearing. Ivy Karl was kneeling on the ground leaning over her son and patting his hand, her toddler daughter beside her. There was a broken branch on the ground on the other side of the boy.
He looked up into the tree, spotted the place about halfway up whe
re the branch had broken, and sucked in a breath. It was high—too high. Cold knots formed in his stomach. He shoved the branch aside and knelt on the ground beside the small boy, reached under his coat sleeve for his pulse and ran a quick assessing glance over him. Eddie’s right arm was twisted at an odd angle. It would need setting. And there was a nasty gash visible through the torn pants on his left thigh that would need stitches, as would the cut on his forehead. His heartbeat was a little slow but strong—
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Warren... I—Konrad’s gone to call on those cowboys he heard about, and I didn’t know who else—” Ivy Karl’s voice broke. “I—I can’t w-wake Eddie. Is he...is he...”
He moved his fingers gently up and down the boy’s neck and blew out the breath he’d been holding. There was no misalignment or break or odd movement he could feel. He looked up at Eddie’s frightened mother and put as much reassurance in his voice as he could muster. “He’s only unconscious, Mrs. Karl. And his pulse is strong. I find no sign of injury to his neck, but I can’t be certain that’s so when he is unable to respond. However, his other injuries need to be treated. I’ll take him back to my shop to do that. That’s all I can tell you.”
The woman nodded, obviously struggling for control. “Minna, take your sister home and watch over her. I’m going with Mr. Warren.”
He looked at the tears streaming down the woman’s face. He would need help, and it was obvious Mrs. Karl could not do what would need to be done.
I’m considering becoming a nurse...
The knots in his stomach twisted tighter at the thought of working with Katherine. But this was no time to think about himself. He had a patient who needed immediate care. “With your permission, Mrs. Karl, I would like Minna to go to the Latherops’ and ask Ka—my wife to come to my shop immediately. I will need her help.” He made his voice kind but stern. “You are, of course, welcome to wait in my shop while I do what I can for Eddie. I will need you to care for our baby.”
Wedded for the Baby Page 13
