by Pam Crooks
If only he’d say something as he went along. Evidently, waiting until the examination was complete before deciding upon a diagnosis was what doctors did. Trace hadn’t been to one in so long, he wouldn’t know. As for bringing a child in ... never.
Finally, Dr. Cooper straightened with a heavy sigh and removed his stethoscope from his ears. “You can get her dressed now, Morgana.”
While he made notes in a journal, she wasted no time in taking a clean diaper and positioning Harriett over it; she covered her hips and pinned the edges into a snug fit with an efficiency that left Trace marveling.
But she didn’t put the child in her sleeping gown. Rather, she sat back down again, cuddling Harriett close with the stuffed dog in front of her, though with her lethargy, she showed little interest. Morgana leveled the doctor with a steady regard.
“Well?” she asked crisply.
He set his pen down. White-haired and balding, he sported a long moustache, goatee and wore a vested suit. According to Morgana, he’d been practicing medicine for decades, and she trusted him implicitly. He peered over his wire-rimmed glasses and, though Morgana did the inquiring, he directed his attention at Trace. “I must say, yours is a most extraordinary situation.”
Trace’s mouth twisted. “Couldn’t agree more.”
“You say you know nothing about the baby’s background? Or the health of her mother?”
Except that she’d been shot? Ravaged by infection? That he’d been the culprit responsible? Trace shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Was she prone to respiratory issues?”
“In the time that I knew her, never.”
“Except for the child’s journey from Texas to Wallace with her cousin and the woman accompanying him, you don’t know where she’s been exactly? Who she might have been exposed to?”
Trace’s brow lifted. “Exposed to?”
“I fear she has influenza.” The doctor’s troubled gaze bounced between Trace and Morgana. “Which, of course, could easily turn to pneumonia. The wheezing in her lungs is most disturbing.”
Morgana moaned. “Oh, no.”
“While pneumonia is serious for anyone, for an infant like Harriett, it could be quite dangerous.”
Trace’s blood chilled. “Meaning she could die?”
“Worst case scenario, yes.”
Morgana lifted trembling fingers to her lips. Tears welled in her eyes, turning them misty green. The tiny sound she emitted tore into Trace like a bullet.
His chest tightened. Her suffering, and Harriett’s, too, was his fault. No one else’s. Didn’t matter who the girl was exposed to. If Trace hadn’t shot Emma, she’d be alive today, taking care of her baby girl, like any mother would. Harriett would be healthy, strong and happy. She wouldn’t have had to endure a long, grueling journey to Kansas, and who knew what kind of folks she’d been around or what kind of care she received along the way?
He slid his arm around Morgana’s shoulders. Might be he didn’t have the right, but she needed to know he was as affected as she was by the mess he’d gotten them all into.
“I hope I’m wrong about the influenza,” the doctor said. “If she improves in the next few days, I’ll know I am. I’m hoping for it.”
“In the meantime?” Trace asked.
“I’m afraid all three of you must be immediately quarantined.”
“What?” Trace and Morgana yelped in unison.
“I don’t have a choice. Influenza is exceedingly contagious. I can’t risk an epidemic in Wallace. It could spread throughout our surrounding counties in no time.”
Trace scrubbed a hand over his beard-roughened face. Could matters get any worse?
“Quarantine? Are you sure?” Morgana asked. “I mean, really, Doctor. I can hardly believe that would be necessary.”
“You should believe it, and you must. I’ve never been more serious,” he said sternly.
She appeared stricken at the vehement admonishment. “Of course, you are. I’m sorry.”
Trace squeezed her shoulder in commiseration, letting her know he could barely believe it himself.
“What happens next?” he asked.
“Finding a place to stay,” Dr. Cooper said.
“My parents’ house,” Morgana said. “There’s plenty of room.”
Dr. Cooper shook his head. “You’ll only expose them to the illness even more, Morgana, as well as Dodie. The construction workers, too.”
“But they’ve already been with Harriett,” she said. “In fact, just this morning, my mother helped me—”
“No, Morgana. Influenza remains a mystery to us. We don’t fully understand the illness as a contagion. We aren’t certain when your household would’ve been most susceptible. What is certain is that we cannot risk further exposure in hopes they will be spared.”
“Spared,” she whispered. “You mean I can’t even go home? At all?”
“I’m afraid not. Is there someplace private where you can stay for a few days until it’s safe to return to your parents?” he asked, gentler.
Her throat moved. Trace suspected the immensity of their dilemma was only now beginning to crystallize in her head.
“There’s a house in town I’ve been wanting to buy. The Widow Simpson’s place. It’s vacant. Perhaps there,” she said.
“On Clark Street?”
“Yes.”
“No.” He shook his head. “It will take time to arrange it. Time you don’t have.”
“I could consult with my father’s attorney. I’ll ask that he hurry to present her with my offer.”
“It’s a good suggestion but not viable,” he said firmly. “Nor is a hotel or the boardinghouse.”
She hesitated. “The mercantile, then. My father has a supply room ... oh, that probably won’t work, either.”
“Too many customers,” he concurred. “No place to keep a sick baby, for sure.”
Then, as if she only now remembered Trace was there, she turned, tilting her dark head back to look up at him. The heavy fringe of her satin-black lashes failed to hide her bemusement and utter loss in finding a solution.
“My place,” he said simply.
She blinked. “Your place?”
“It’s on the edge of town. No one around. Completely private.”
“Excellent,” the doctor said, as if the matter was settled.
“I can’t stay with you, Trace.” She drew back. Her jaw lagged; her wide eyes appealed to him with full-blown dismay. “It wouldn’t be proper at all. The gossip would be awful, and my mother, oh, she’ll throw a fit.”
Dr. Cooper made a sound of disparagement. “Let the tongues wag, Morgana,” he said before Trace could attempt to reassure her. “Would you rather folks become gravely ill and suffer from our failure to protect them?”
Her face had gone pale. She swiveled a blank gaze toward the older man. “No, but there must be another place more suitable.”
“You’ll need two places, then, that will accommodate the three of you. If you can think of suitable quarters, I’ll be happy to consider it. As for your mother, Lila has endured gossip before and rose above it. Quite well, I might add. Having her daughters kidnapped by outlaws is much more sensational than caring for a sick baby away from the population.”
Trace didn’t move. Kidnapped by outlaws?
“It was hard on her, Doctor, as you well know,” she said stiffly. “I would not want her subjected to that ordeal ever again.”
“Nor do I.” He regarded her, his gaze piercing. “Well? Have you a better place in mind besides Trace’s suggestion?”
Her glance bounced between them. One moment passed, then another. And another.
“No,” she whispered, so softly Trace had to strain to hear the lone word.
“It’s decided, then.” Dr. Cooper made more notations in his journal. “I’ll give you a vaporizer to take with you. It’s newly patented and quite effective. Place it close enough to Harriett that she can benefit from its healing vapors.”
> Morgana appeared dazed, but she nodded in apparent comprehension. Trace didn’t blame her for being overwhelmed by the change their lives had taken. Hell, he never expected it, either.
“Give the child a warm bath, but make it cooler if her fever warrants it,” the doctor continued briskly. “Dress her in light clothing, similar to her sleeping gown today. She’ll be more comfortable. Don’t do anything that will cause her to grow heated. Her fever is too high as it is.”
“We won’t,” Trace said firmly, just in case the man thought Morgana would be alone in her care-giving.
Dr. Cooper, in apparent sympathy to Morgana’s befuddled state, reached over and patted her arm. “Don’t worry, my dear. We will be most discreet. I’m quite aware you’re unmarried, like Trace. Folks won’t know you’re occupying his home if we don’t tell them.”
She tsked with her tongue. “You know as well as I do you’re being too kind. But this isn’t about me and Trace, is it? It’s Harriett we must be concerned about.” She sat straighter, compelling Trace to withdraw his arm from around her shoulders. “If I make a list, will you take it to my father at his store? He’ll see that I get everything we need for the time that I’m away.”
“Certainly. I’ll assure him of the seriousness of this illness. Your parents must understand I’m giving you no choice in this matter.”
“I’ll need my horse,” Trace added. “Left him at Morgana’s.”
“Stan will see that you get him.”
Trace stood and took the doctor’s hand in a firm shake. “Thanks for everything. I’ll settle up with you as soon as I can get to the bank.”
“You say you’re a carpenter?”
“I can handle a hammer, sure,” Trace said. “My plan is to get myself a ranch and raise cattle, but I’m doing carpentry work in the meantime.”
“Maybe we can barter my fee. My wife says I need some more shelving in my office here.” He smiled.
“Sounds good.”
Trace no sooner said the words than he regretted them. He hadn’t intended taking on more work after he finished the job at the Goldwaters’. His stay in Wallace was only temporary. He had a new future waiting for him in Nebraska.
Yet, already the dream seemed to be slipping away from him, like fine sand through his fingers. Once again, Emma’s daughter had turned Trace’s plans upside down and inside out. Made him think he’d never get that ranch he needed. Would never get to start a new life after his failures in Texas, either.
His gaze lowered to the baby, who seemed to be more in Trace’s thoughts than out. She hadn’t fussed a peep during Dr. Cooper’s examination. Didn’t have the gumption for it, Trace supposed. The girl seemed plumb worn out. How long would it be before she felt like herself again?
If she ever would.
Trace’s belly clenched. Damned scary Harriett was that sick.
Morgana held her in the crook of her arm while she wrote items on a piece of paper. Wordlessly, Trace bent and placed a hand under the baby’s warm head, another over the diaper and laid her against his shoulder.
Harriett exhaled a small breath into his neck and settled in. Her eyes never opened, as if it didn’t matter who held her, only that someone did. Someone she never questioned would take good care of her.
And if that wasn’t trust, Trace didn’t know what was.
His glance shifted and found Morgana watching him, her pencil halted in mid-air. He didn’t know what she thought, but he’d swear that was approval in the depths of her emerald eyes. It was there in the faint softening of her mouth, too.
Approval for what? That he’d taken Harriett without her asking him to? That he’d wanted to hold the girl, out of sympathy and yeah, a whole wagonload of worry and hope that she’d get better soon?
If Morgana approved, then that made Trace think he hadn’t been doing enough to be approval-worthy, and the guilt stung deep. With his palm on Harriett’s bare back, Trace turned away and stood at the window. Lace curtains covered the glass, but it didn’t matter what happened outside anyway, and he took a moment to soak in the feel of holding a baby against him.
Emma’s daughter.
Strange knowing it, even now. Seemed ages ago since he’d seen Emma or talked to her. Of course, last he had, neither of them had an inkling she’d die young or that her baby would wind up in Trace’s care.
Life turned irregular sometimes, for sure.
A horse cantered by, and even through the lace, the beauty of it struck him. Trace lifted the edge of the curtain to get a better look. A palomino. Flashy, with silver mane and tail.
Real pretty, that horse. Wasn’t often he saw one similar. Last time he could recall, it was back in Texas, in the brush country. Slick-Shot’s horse had been a palomino, too, and it was only because Trace had been thinking of Emma and her dying on his account that got him to remembering that.
Then, the palomino was gone, past the doctor’s office to who-knew-where in town his rider wanted to go. Trace dropped the edge of the curtain and turned back to Morgana, his thoughts shifting to having her at his cabin, just the two of them taking care of Harriett.
Chapter 8
Morgana pushed the carriage down the boardwalk while Trace held Harriett one-armed with a light blanket thrown over her to ward off the sun. If she weren’t quite so preoccupied with the worrisome twist of events the little girl’s illness had taken for them, she would’ve savored walking beside Trace.
Well, truth be told, she did savor it.
He stayed close, making her aware of his lean, tall body next to her and how the top of her head reached just past his jaw. He walked near enough their shoulders occasionally bumped, and the sensation of being with him was ... exceedingly pleasant.
She could get used to walking with Trace McQuade, as if they belonged to one another, without a care to who saw them or what they might be thinking. After all, he was a stranger in town, and she was the daughter of Wallace’s most successful merchant. Trace carried himself with such confidence and agility, exuding a certain power she found much too compelling, and he turned more than a few female heads. That he held a baby and Morgana pushed a carriage, well, curiosity would run rampant, the gossip mill would begin to turn, and she certainly didn’t blame them for any of it.
Staying at his cabin would only fuel the tittle-tattle embers into full-roaring flames.
It couldn’t be helped, she supposed. They were acting under doctor’s orders, and if the citizens of Wallace found their situation scandalous, there was nothing she nor Trace could do about it. Harriett’s illness took priority, as much as shielding the townspeople from her contagion did.
If, indeed, she had one.
Time would tell, like Doctor Cooper said. She trusted him in that. Until they knew for sure how the baby’s health would fare, they had to act with utter precaution with everyone’s best interests in mind.
Even at the cost of Trace’s and her own.
They reached the end of the long boardwalk leading them away from the doctor’s office. Trace squatted slightly, keeping Harriett nestled against his shoulder while reaching down to grasp the carriage’s frame with his free hand, and lifted the rig while they stepped off the boardwalk. Morgana kept the carriage several inches above the road, avoiding the ruts in the dirt, and once they crossed to the other side, they set the carriage down again.
Trace hadn’t spoken much since they left Doctor Cooper’s office. Most likely, his thoughts traveled the same path hers did, though he struck her as a man unconcerned with wagging tongues. Still, now that it was done, did he regret suggesting his cabin as a place for them to take Harriett? Was he having second thoughts about being with her? Perhaps he resented this delay in his plans to finish working at her parents’ house so he could move on to Nebraska and buy his ranch.
Yes. That had to be it.
As much as she understood his side of it, Morgana was determined to make the best of their situation. Was it really so bad he had to stay in Wallace a little longer than he int
ended? Surely, he realized his responsibilities for Harriett took precedence, didn’t he?
To change the direction of both their thoughts, she pointed to a small white-washed house with deep red trim located a half block down.
“That’s the Widow Simpson’s place,” she said.
His glance swiveled in the direction she indicated. “The one you want to buy?”
“Yes. It’s the perfect size house for me, don’t you think?”
His glance shifted again, this time to the row of structures across the street. “Except there’s a saloon right there. Too close. Won’t be safe for a woman alone. Might be why it hasn’t sold yet.”
She nodded. Thinned her lips. “Hmm. My mother said the same thing.”
“Brawls and drunks are sure to be trouble now and again.”
“Well, if Widow Simpson found it satisfactory to live there, then I will, too.”
“I’m inclined to agree with your mother, Morgana. It’d be best to wait until a house in a better location came along.”
Before she could disagree, he placed a hand against the small of her back, nudging her forward. But now that he’d mentioned the saloon, her attention fastened onto the noise spilling out through the batwings.
She halted again. A piano belted out notes that scraped the edges of her mind, pulling out memories like a noxious weed from the ground.
That song.
Once, in what seemed a lifetime ago, she’d suppressed the ditty, stuffing it deep into the recesses of her brain in hopes she’d never have to think of it again. Now that she heard the melody, she realized she hadn’t forgotten it at all.
Maybe she never would.
“Everything all right, Morgana?” A slight frown pulled at Trace’s mouth.
A woman’s voice rose over the music, too far away to decipher the words, but Morgana didn’t need to hear them to know what they were.
“I’m fine,” she murmured.
“You’ve gone pale as flour,” he said. “I don’t think you’re fine at all.”
“I am, truly.” At least, she thought she was, and she resumed walking. Perhaps she could discuss a few details with him, after all, as a therapy of sorts. Just to see if she could with a semblance of calm. “I was thinking of that song playing in the saloon. I detest it.”
