by Pam Crooks
“Yes. That’s perfect.”
She turned the carriage in that direction, and they crossed the yard together. Once in the shade, she set the brake and pulled out a small blanket he recognized as Harriett’s. Freshly laundered, too. Shaking it free of its neat folds and spreading it on the grass, she lifted the girl from the carriage and settled her carefully on top of the blanket. Morgana sat, then, drawing her knees up.
“This is nice.” She smiled.
Squatting down, Trace took a long guzzle of iced tea and held the jar out to her. “Tea’s nice, too. Want some?”
“No, thank you. The tea is for you. There’s plenty more for me in the house.”
He re-capped the jar and set it aside. “Appreciate you bringing it out to me.”
“I brought you something else. This letter.” She pulled an envelope from her dress pocket. “The Wallace post office is in a corner of my father’s store. The postmaster asked if your letter could be brought out to you with my order.”
He opened the envelope, and her explanation blurred in his ears. He read the letter, then the newspaper article inside. As much as he’d been waiting and hoping for the news, it couldn’t have come at a worse time.
“Is everything all right, Trace?” Morgana asked.
“Not sure yet.” Removing his Stetson, he raked a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. Why did decisions have to come hard?
“You look like the sky is going to fall in.” Her head cocked with a slight pucker in her brows.
“Wish it were that simple.”
“Hmm.” Harriett’s dog fell from her reach. Morgana gave it back to her. “I’ll listen if you want to tell me about it.”
Trace wasn’t one to publicize his personal affairs, especially now, when they were a real mess and he had no intention of remaining in Wallace any longer than he had to, besides. But Morgana played a part in his time here. Of anyone, she deserved to know his intentions.
“I’m working with a banker in Omaha,” he said, tossing her the newspaper article. “He’s informing me about a ranch that’s for sale.”
She glanced down at the article but didn’t read it. She nodded, as if she understood.
But of course, she didn’t.
“Where is the ranch?” she asked.
“In Nebraska. The sandhills.”
Her throat moved above the collar of her dress. “That’s a long ways away.”
“It is.”
“So, why are you working here? In Kansas?”
“Just passing through on my way up from Texas. When I heard about your parents building this house, I figured I could do the work and earn some cash, too.”
She didn’t move. “Temporary work.”
“That’s right.”
Harder to admit than he thought it’d be. It was that look of hers. Stoic. As if she fought with everything she had to keep from showing what she was really feeling.
But why did it matter what Morgana Goldwater thought of him? Or his plans? Once her parents’ house was done, he’d ride out of Wallace, straight for Nebraska, and likely never see her again.
Her dark head swiveled, and she studied the Kansas prairie stretched out for hundreds of miles in all directions. She had a perfect profile, he mused. Feminine and ... perfect.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about you today, Trace,” she murmured.
He sat on a corner of the blanket, drew his knee up and rested his forearm on top. That intrigued him, her thinking about him. “And?”
“I’ve decided on a few things.”
“Like what?”
Her gaze moved back toward him, her eyes a troubled green, like a lagoon.
“I’ve decided you aren’t married,” she said.
“You decided right.”
“At least, not currently.”
“Never have been.”
“Because if you were, you wouldn’t be taking care of a baby alone.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
Harriett grunted, as if she’d tired of laying on her back playing with a stuffed dog. Morgana reached over and turned her gently onto her stomach, and the child seemed placated by the change.
“What I haven’t figured out,” Morgana continued. “Is how Harriett fits into all this.”
“It’s complicated.”
“What’s even more complicated is ... how you’re going to take her to Nebraska. By yourself, I might add. To buy and work a ranch.”
The weight of it settled heavily on his shoulders. He rubbed a hand over his face, a fatigue settling so deep in his bones it might never come out.
“It’s a problem, Morgana.” The admission sounded rough in his own ears. “Only a few ways I can think of to solve it.”
“Such as?”
“The obvious.”
“Meaning, don’t take her to Nebraska.”
“It’s not realistic to even try.”
“Which means you’ll need to find someone else to take care of her.”
Trace nodded. “Figured I could ask a doctor. Or a priest. You got a church in town, right? They might know of someone willing to take an infant in.”
“They’d be a stranger to her, Trace.” Tired of her stomach-laying, Harriett clenched her fists and kicked her legs, warning of an impending tantrum. Morgana patted her back.
“I’m a stranger, too,” Trace said.
“Are you?” She appeared taken aback.
“She’s young. She’ll adjust to someone new.”
“Do you know how cold-hearted that sounds?” As if to shield her from the unpleasantness, Morgana scooped Harriett up and cuddled her on her lap. “Which brings me to the next obvious question.” She paused. “Her parents.”
“Gone.”
Her delicate brows arched. “Forever?”
He nodded. “Mother’s dead. Father just ... disappeared.”
“She has no one else? No other family?”
“Like I said, Morgana. Complicated.”
She sighed and dropped a gentle kiss onto Harriett’s dark head.
Trace narrowed an eye. Wasn’t easy to talk about the last option he had. Reckon it was the worst one, too. But that’s what it was. An option.
“Could be an orphanage is the answer,” he muttered.
She gasped, horror rounding her eyes. “You’ll do no such thing, Trace McQuade.”
“They take in children with no parents,” he growled, disliking his own logic and hating how defensive he sounded. “There’s likely one in Kansas City or Omaha. Maybe somewhere closer, I don’t know. Haven’t had time to check, but—”
“They’re horrid places.”
“They’re a roof over her head and meals every day, and many are run by the kindness of prayerful nuns, who—”
“Have never had a child of their own and never will!”
“Morgana.” He grated her name, his frustration all but unrestrained. “You’ve never had a child, either, and here you are, taking care of one.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Of course, it is!” Her shoulders squared. She inhaled. Exhaled. “Perhaps I can ... I will consider—”
“The hell you will.” Trace snatched up his banker’s letter and the newspaper article and clutched them both in his fist. “Just so you know, I’ve been thinking of you today, too.”
She stilled. “Have you?”
“And I’ve decided you’re not prepared to take in a child any more than I am. You’re not married, either, and you have no means to support yourself.”
“But I will soon! My grandparents—”
“Your mother, if nothing else, won’t allow it.”
That shut her up, which meant Trace had won the argument, though he felt no victory from it. “I’ve got to get back to work, Morgana. I’ll come for the child when I’m done.”
Teeth gritted, he left her sitting there, holding Harriett as if she’d never let her go.
Chapter 5
Morgana sat at the
kitchen table with Harriett on her lap and her mother’s copy of Ladies’ New Book of Cookery open in front of her. The household guide was an essential source of practical information, providing advice on everything from how to make a happy home to carving a turkey.
But it was the section on cooking for children that captivated Morgana. She considered herself an intelligent person, yet the guidance offered within the chapter left her feeling inept. Throughout her adult life, and since moving to Wallace, and especially since her ordeal last summer, she’d been isolated from the world many women her age lived in and was bereft of the knowledge mothers learned, one way or another.
Had she grown up with a house full of brothers and sisters, or if her mother had been less dependent on housekeepers and nursemaids, certainly the prospect of caring for Harriett would seem less daunting. The infant was, sadly, an innocent who had lost her parents through no choice of her own, and well, Morgana intended to give her the best care anyone possibly could in the time she had left.
She refused to think of what Trace intended for the baby girl. One moment, Morgana wallowed in sympathy for his predicament. Another, her heart filled with dismay that he would pawn off the sweet girl onto strangers. How could he even consider it? How could he live with himself?
All because of a ranch he’d never seen, let alone owned.
She didn’t know what the future held for Harriett. Not even Trace did. But she pored over the pages with a thoroughness that would’ve made any professor of motherly duties proud. The more she read, the more enlightened she became on the preferred diet for a child, their different constitutions and intellectual capacities, and oh, goodness, her head quite spun from it all.
A knock sounded on the side door, and her concentration evaporated. Since Dodie had left for the day, and her parents retired to their sitting room after supper to read, she rose from the table to answer the door herself, balancing Harriett in her arm.
Trace stood on the porch, thumb in his hip pocket, shirt sleeves rolled up. With his Stetson tipped back, his stubbled cheeks showed even scruffier, and how did a man who’d gotten sweaty and dirty after working all day look this fascinating?
His gaze settled over her, as if he attempted to gauge her mood. As if he expected her to still be miffed with him.
“Did you finally decide it was time to quit working?” she asked quietly, her miff long gone in her day-long quest to learn how to take care of Harriett.
“Wanted to put in a full day.”
“Well, you’ve certainly done that.” If only all men possessed the strong work ethic he did. Her father was fortunate to have him on the payroll. She stepped aside. “Come in.”
“Hope I haven’t taken advantage of you, Morgana. I know it’s late.”
Had she sounded like he had? When it came to Harriett, she’d do anything Trace asked, for as long as it took. “You haven’t. I had no plans this evening.”
“Glad you didn’t, then.” The smooth, leathery tone of his voice revealed his appreciation. The genuineness of it. “How has she been?”
“A pleasure. Have you had supper?”
“I’ll eat when I get back to the cabin.”
“You must be starved.” Honestly, the man had the stamina of a bull. “Wash up, and I’ll warm you a plate.”
“Morgana.” He remained unmoving. “Caring for the girl has been enough help already.”
Her chin lifted. “Her name is Harriett.”
“I don’t expect you to feed me, too.”
“Well, I’m going to. You might as well have your supper while I give you some instructions.”
His brow arched. “Instructions?”
“Yes. For tonight.”
“I’m hoping she’ll sleep all night,” he said, mouth quirked.
“That would be best, wouldn’t it?” Especially after the last one, which appeared to have been rough on both of them. “But in case she doesn’t, you need a plan.”
“For?”
“Comforting her. Soothing her to sleep.”
He sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t have a knack for it.”
“It’s much too soon to give up on her. Go on, wash up. I’d rather you didn’t ride home with her in the dark.” Morgana turned away, taking a step toward the stove. Had she been too bossy? In case she had, she turned back. “Please.”
He still hadn’t moved, as if the decision whether to accept her offer of a meal warred within him. Finally, he smiled. “Guess supper sounds mighty good, after all.”
“Of course, it does.”
Satisfied with her victory, she settled Harriett on her hip and pulled a clean plate and glass from the cupboard. By the time she set them on the table, Trace had dried his hands.
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.
“Yes. Hold Harriett for me, if you would, while I get food from the oven.”
He hooked his Stetson on the back of a chair, ran his hand through his hair and sat, took the baby and set her on his lap, the child’s back against his chest. Harriett twisted, looking up at him with her blue eyes wide, as if she’d never seen Trace before.
“She’s not going to start crying, is she?” Trace asked, appearing vaguely alarmed.
Morgana closed the copy of Ladies’ New Book of Cookery and set it aside. If he knew what she’d been studying, Trace might think her ignorant of a woman’s duties in the home, which of course, she was. At least, many of them. Something she intended to change.
“I should think not,” she said. “But she hasn’t seen much of you today, so maybe she’s just not quite sure who you are yet.”
“She was up with me the whole night,” he said, his tone wry. “You think she’s forgotten me already?”
She laughed. “I doubt she’s forgotten you, Trace.” She dipped a washcloth in a pan of fresh, cool water. “Here. Let’s give her this.” After wringing out the majority, she dangled the cloth in front of Harriett, giving her time to grasp it and take a corner into her mouth. “She’s been warm today. She likes sucking on the cloth. I think it refreshes her.”
“Could’ve used one of those myself in this heat.”
She smiled at the picture that made, Trace sucking on a washcloth. “I won’t be but a moment with your supper.”
Taking hot pads, she pulled a pan of chicken pot pie from the warming oven, carried it to the table and went for a spoon. After ladling a good portion on the plate, she headed for a platter of sliced watermelon, a serving of yesterday’s lemon pie and a pitcher of water from the ice box. Within moments, Trace had a hearty meal in front of him.
“Looks mighty good, Morgana.”
“You’ll find it tastes good, too.”
She’d de-boned the chicken herself, a messy job, but worth it for the bones left behind. Dodie had showed her how to make broth, add rice and, once cooked, mash the rice with a fork. Morgana used one of her mother’s demitasse spoons to feed Harriett, and she’d gobbled up the meal as if it were the best she’d had.
Considering how disordered her life had been of late, maybe it was.
Morgana took her onto her own lap and brushed the curls from her temple. Harriett’s skin seemed cooler, and Morgana credited the wet washcloth for it.
Trace shoveled in a forkful of chicken and pastry, chewed and swallowed. He scooped up another.
“You’d make a fine wife and mother, Morgana,” he murmured.
“Hmm. No one has told me that before.”
“Anyone can see it.”
“Actually, no one has.” She caught the washcloth before Harriett dropped it onto the floor. “Seen me act like a wife and mother before, that is.”
“Why aren’t you one yet?”
She draped the cloth onto Harriett’s head, which the baby enjoyed pulling off again.
“Should I think you’re being rude and much too forthright in your questioning?” she asked, her pride a bit wounded. He wouldn’t know how often she’d feared being a spinster her whole life.
“Hope not. Beca
use I don’t mean to be.”
In that, she believed him. He didn’t seem the type to be impolite. In fact, he’d been exceedingly respectful, not only to her, but to her parents, as well.
“I’ve yet to find a man who wants me for myself and not for my father’s success with his mercantile.” She hesitated. “And the financial support it could offer.”
He nodded, chewing, listening.
“I’ll be of age soon and have plans of my own,” she added.
“Such as?”
“To be independent and support myself, without help from my parents.”
“Admirable.” He nodded, took another bite. “How?”
“By teaching music lessons to the children in Wallace. I daresay the townspeople could use some culture around here.”
“Music lessons.”
“Harp and piano.”
His brow arched. “I’m impressed.”
She shrugged. “It’s all I know, really.”
“Can’t read a note myself.”
Her gaze lowered. His interest compelled her to keep talking. “If we still lived in Kansas City, I’d be quite happily established by now.”
“So, why don’t you move back?”
“Because I need to be with my parents here. Especially my mother.”
“That right?”
“She’d be ... quite distraught if I left home. Her preference would be that I live with her forever.”
Both plates of supper and dessert emptied, he finished off his water, down to the last drop. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Morgana, comes a time when a mother needs to untie her apron strings. Her daughter needs to let go of them, too.”
“My mother has been through more than most.” Should she be offended by his honesty? He spoke the truth, after all. “I didn’t want her to suffer more.”
He remained silent, no doubt pondering her explanation, upon which she refused to elaborate. She had no need of his pity, or even his compassion, once he learned the truth. If he thought her immature or unwilling to leave her parents’ protection, well, she wasn’t going to explain herself.
“I’ll be buying my own house soon,” she said proudly. “I have one all picked out in town.”
