Trace (Bachelors And Babies Book 1)

by Pam Crooks

  He grunted. “What’s so bad about it?”

  She reached up and fussed with Harriett’s blanket, making sure it kept the sun off her. Which it did, perfectly.

  “It’s a silly tune about a man who falls in love with the tassels on a woman’s boots,” she said.

  Trace grinned. “Yeah?”

  “It’s true.” She swung her head. “I’m not making it up.”

  “Don’t know why you would.”

  “It’s called ‘Tassels on the Boots.’”

  “Want to sing it for me?”

  “I do not.” She could feel him watching her.

  “Okay. No problem.”

  They approached the end of the boardwalk, the last one on Wallace’s main street, signaling they’d reached the edge of town. As if they’d done so a hundred times before, they eased the carriage off the boardwalk and onto the road, this one less rutted and lined with grass, and resumed walking.

  Trace’s cabin wasn’t far ahead, and Morgana’s thoughts shifted from a stupid song to what the coming days of staying with him would bring.

  Funny how the place looked worse with Morgana beside him than it ever did since he’d arrived. Smaller, weatherworn and plain. The logs looked too rough, the windows too dirty. Nothing like the two-story, brand-spanking-new, seventeen-room mansion-like residence she was accustomed to living in and where he’d spent most of his time since arriving in Kansas.

  “Here we are,” he said dryly, stepping up onto the porch and pushing the door open with his free hand. He’d gotten good at doing things one-armed. “It’s not much, Morgana. In fact, I feel like apologizing. Wish it were nicer for you.”

  “Nonsense. It’ll do us just fine. Harriett won’t care, and neither will I.”

  She wrestled the carriage over the step, and he hurried to help her, moving aside while she squeezed the rig through the doorway.

  He appreciated her graciousness, but what was she really thinking when she paused in the dimness of the main room to look the place over? Made him wish he’d cleared the coffee cup and whiskey bottle from the table and picked up his dirty shirt from the back of the chair. At least, he’d yanked the quilt over the mattress on the bed, but even that looked sloppy.

  “Well.” She smiled a small smile. “How quaint.”

  He scowled. “You don’t have to be so nice about it. It’s not quaint and nothing like what you’re used to. Admit it.”

  He strode over to the window and pulled the faded curtain to one side, chasing away the shadows. Sunlight flashed across Harriett’s face, and her features scrunched. Trace quickly turned back toward the dimness to keep her from waking.

  “What I admit to, Trace McQuade, is that most people in Wallace, and likely all of Kansas, don’t live in the kind of house my mother is so determined to have.”

  He grunted. “My opinion stands.”

  “It won’t take long to straighten up and re-arrange a bit in here. Your little home isn’t used to having three people.”

  “Not my home, Morgana. It’s just a stopping point until ...” He hesitated, and the words trailed off.

  “... you get to Nebraska.” A shadow that had nothing to do with the poor lighting in the cabin crossed her face. In the next moment, though, she stood taller. “Do you mind if I move Harriett’s wicker basket to the corner, by the fireplace? We’ll use the carriage as her bed.”

  “Whatever you want. You know best.”

  “I don’t. Not really. But there’re a few things I’ve learned, and she does seem to sleep well in the carriage.” While she made quick work of placing the basket out of the way, she maneuvered the baby rig next to the bed and pulled out Doctor Cooper’s vaporizer and the knapsack from inside.

  Trace tugged the curtain aside on a second window and caught his reflection in the mirror perched on a nearby shelf. Unshaven, eyes reddened from lack of sleep and in need of a haircut he hadn’t had since leaving Texas, he looked in as sorry shape as his cabin did.

  “I’ll take her now, Trace,” Morgana said, drawing closer.

  She’d removed her hat. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders and down her back like an ebony waterfall, just as it’d been this morning when he arrived at her house with Harriett crying at the top of her lungs. She hadn’t taken the time to sweep that silken mass into a pile on her head like she usually did. Caring for the girl would’ve kept her from it; instead, a simple pair of tortoiseshell combs held those tresses away from her face, and a strong need to pluck them out and run his fingers through the shining strands roared through him.

  If he’d hadn’t had second thoughts about staying with her, just the two of them in his cabin, he was having them now. Serious second thoughts. This attraction to her, from the moment he’d first seen her standing on the ladder with that glass of lemon water in her hand, wouldn’t stop building, deeper and hotter and stronger. Warming his blood. Stoking a need he had no business having.

  He was leaving Wallace, he reminded himself yet again.

  She was staying.

  But that didn’t keep him from wanting to be with her, liking every moment when he was.

  “Trace?” she asked, peering up at him with those emerald eyes of hers, questioning and uncertain. “I have to feed Harriett. She’s hardly had anything to eat all day.”

  Morgana’s soft voice only added to the intimacy of being with her. The two of them, standing in the middle of the room, sharing the responsibility of caring for a sick little girl. Each depending on the other, and if that didn’t bind them closer like plaster to a wall, he didn’t know what would.

  She lifted her arms and took the child. Inadvertently, her arms slid along Trace’s chest and his hands brushed hers as they made the exchange as carefully as they could. But when she would’ve stepped back with Harriett cuddled against her, Trace curled his fingers around her waist, keeping her in front of him.

  “Morgana,” he said roughly. “In case you’re wondering about tonight, about ... sleeping arrangements for us, I have no intention of doing anything ... inappropriate.”

  Her lashes flickered, only barely, but enough to let him know she’d wondered, all right. Might even have worried over it.

  “I never thought you would, Trace,” she said quietly.

  “Of all of us, you have the most to lose in this situation,” he said. “Your reputation and all.”

  “I’m quite aware, yes.”

  “I’ll sleep outside. There’s a lean-to”—already, he dreaded it—“I can spend the night in there.”

  She frowned. “That doesn’t sound very appealing.”

  He refrained from agreeing. “One bed in here. No couch. Don’t have much choice. It’s only right, besides, that you’re the most comfortable.”

  She nibbled her lip. “Thank you, but I wish it could be different for you.”

  “I’ve slept in worse places.”

  Which he had. Riding for days on end, on the hunt for Slick-Shot Billy Hayes, had been grueling, uncomfortable and most times miserable. But he’d lived through it. The lean-to, in as sorry shape as it was, would be a definite improvement.

  Trace stepped back, and Morgana did, too. He indicated the pot of water on the stove, left over from his middle-of-the-night bottle-warmings.

  “I’ll show you how to work the burners,” he said. “While you’re feeding the girl, I’ll go outside and wash up.”

  Chapter 9

  Trace drew the razor over his chin one last time, rinsed the blade in a bowl of water and toweled off. A final inspection in the mirror convinced him he looked civilized again. Amazing what water, soap and a few minutes of time could do for a man who’d been more taken with caring for a crying baby than his own personal grooming.

  He tossed the water into the grass. He owed Morgana for the time to clean himself up. She was like an angel, sent down to him from heaven, not wanting to let the child out of her sight, and her selfless devotion humbled Trace. What would he have done without her so far? He hadn’t known the first thi
ng about a baby’s needs, and throw in a serious illness to complicate things, well, hell, he would’ve been good and lost, for sure.

  At least Morgana learned fast. She seemed to know what to do and when to do it. Once Trace put together the newfangled vaporizer the doctor gave them, lit the kerosene and the vapors started, Trace left her alone to feed Emma’s daughter while he went outside to shave and clean up.

  He ran a hand through his wet hair and reached for his shirt, draped over a bush. But he didn’t go inside. His gaze lingered over the Kansas horizon, green as far as he could see. Due north a good two hundred miles or so would be the sprawling Nebraska sandhills and the ranch he hoped to buy.

  Would he ever get up there?

  Yet, his mind shifted and envisioned a ranch right here in Kansas. Same sprawl of land under the same blue sky. Same wildlife, grass, water. Plenty of cattlemen built their spreads in counties all around Wallace. Their stock thrived, too. Might be he could save himself some time and trouble and do the same ...

  Where in blazes had that thought come from? Where was his need to get as far away from Texas as he could? What happened to his plans to escape his failures and forget about Slick-Shot Billy Hayes? What happened to revenge for Robbie?

  His jaw clenched. Morgana happened, that’s what. And one little girl who’d been left on his doorstep. Both had crashed into his life without him being able to do a damn thing to stop them.

  Scowling, he pivoted on his boot heel to head back inside, but movement on the road leading from town froze him in mid-step. A buckboard wagon, from what he could tell. Two people in the front seat. Beside them, another rider holding the reins to a horse, and Trace had a pretty good idea who’d come to call.

  He strode into the cabin and closed the door. Enveloped in the scent of the vapor, Morgana sat on the edge of the bed, rocking the baby back and forth, humming softly.

  She drew Trace, like the sun to the morning, and he squatted on his haunches next to her. She kept the child snuggled close, but Trace could still see how flushed Harriett’s skin was. He could hear how raspy and labored her breathing was, too. Her tiny fingers curled around Morgana’s thumb, as if she didn’t want to let her go.

  “How’s she doing?” Trace asked, keeping his voice low.

  “Sleeping again.” She lifted the miniature hand and kissed the knuckles. “How can one little girl sleep so much?”

  “The doctor said she likely would.” Trace’s mouth curved. “Better than crying, I reckon.”

  “She doesn’t want to eat.”

  “How much you figure she took?”

  She held up a bottle, still plenty full. “An ounce. Maybe two.”

  Trace frowned. “Not much, is it?”

  Funny how those details had come to matter ... number of ounces and wet diapers and hours slept. Details neither he nor Morgana had dealt with before.

  “She won’t get better if she doesn’t eat,” she murmured. “And she won’t eat because she’s not better.”

  Her worry pulled at Trace, and he reached toward her, gently tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. “Give her time, angel. That’s why we’re here. We’ll give her everything she needs. She’ll be a happy baby girl in no time. You’ll see.”

  Her gaze connected with his. Beneath a thick fringe of lashes, her eyes shone misty green, like leaves after a spring rain, their depths so deep he could fall right in if he didn’t keep himself from it.

  “I hope you’re right,” she whispered with the faintest tremble in her chin.

  “I am.”

  He vowed to make the words true any way he could. The urge to seal the promise rose within him, to touch his lips to hers, to console and reassure and learn their feel and taste, a rising so strong he forced himself to take a breath and ease away.

  “Company’s coming.” He cleared his throat and stood. “Your parents, I think.”

  Her brows lifted. “My mother’s here?”

  “Looks like it, yeah.”

  She sighed. “Oh, dear.”

  He didn’t know if he should be alarmed or amused at her reaction. Either way, he’d seen enough of Lila Goldwater to know she was a woman accustomed to speaking her mind, especially when it came to Morgana helping him care for Emma’s daughter.

  Outside, the jangle of harnesses melded with the clomping of hooves. A horse blew. The visitors passed by the window, far enough away to tell him they weren’t getting any closer. Given the quarantine, they likely wouldn’t even knock.

  He still clutched his shirt in his fist, and Trace quickly shoved his arms in both sleeves and headed for the door, buttoning buttons; once outside, he halted on the porch and finished up.

  Lila’s fingers flew to her mouth. Her audible gasp enlightened Trace to what she must be thinking, considering what she saw. Trace, with his hair wet and only now putting on a shirt, the tails hanging out. Morgana appeared beside him, the girl still snug in her arms.

  Before she could greet them, Lila twisted on the wagon’s seat, her face a mask of shock and indignation. “Morgana! Are you all right? What was happening in there?”

  Morgana blinked. Obviously, her thoughts didn’t follow her mother’s, and while Lila might’ve been entitled to her indignation given her active imagination, Trace brewed some indignation of his own.

  “It’s been a good three days since I’ve had a chance to shave, Lila,” he growled. “But now that you’ve got everyone thinking what you are, I’ll make the same promise to you and Stan and everyone else in Wallace that I’ve already made to Morgana.” He paused, reining in his temper. “She won’t come to any harm with me out here. She has my full respect. She’s safe and taken care of, and I’ll see her home just as soon as Harriett is better.”

  “Honestly, Mother. We’re barely settled in,” Morgana said with some blatant exasperation. “Trace has been the perfect gentleman. He’s as worried about the baby as I am.”

  Lila huffed. “Things can happen, Morgana. You know they can.”

  Morgana’s throat moved, but she stood as still as a statue. Trace wasn’t sure what the comment meant, or what Morgana was supposed to know that she found upsetting, but the words clearly struck a raw spot with her.

  “Alonzo told us of the seriousness of the situation,” Stan said, leaning forward on the wagon seat to speak around his wife. He appeared grim, but at least his voice didn’t carry the animosity and suspicion that Lila’s did. “It’s unfortunate you’ve been confined like this, but there’s no help for it, I guess. Alonzo wouldn’t have ordered it if he didn’t believe strongly in its necessity.”

  “Which is why we agreed,” Trace said.

  “Even though we are both very much aware of the risks, we expect discretion from everyone,” Morgana added firmly. “But if gossip spreads, we’ll rise above it.”

  Lila made a mewling sound, like a distraught kitten. “Morgana, I want only to spare you the ... distress of this situation.”

  “For what it’s worth, Lila, I think I can vouch for Trace.”

  Trace’s gaze swung to the rider accompanying the Goldwaters. Sheriff George O’Donnell held the reins to Trace’s sorrel. The man was as short as Sheriff Dowd was tall, as squat as Dowd was lean and as far as Trace knew, he was just as honorable and shrewd.

  Trace had made a point to introduce himself as soon as he arrived in Wallace. He wanted the local sheriff to know how to find him if Sheriff Dowd wired with news about Slick-Shot Billy Hayes. Trace and O’Donnell formed a liking for one another on the spot.

  “He’s gained a reputation as a damned fine bounty hunter,” the lawman said. “I’ve heard all about him from Sheriff Dowd. He and his posse rode with Trace way south in Texas awhile back, and you don’t gain folks’ trust if you don’t earn it.”

  Lila huffed. She refrained from comment, ignored Trace and leveled Morgana with a petulant frown. “You look like a country wife and mother standing there.”

  “Well, I’m neither, am I, Mother? And would it be so terrible if
I were?”

  “It’s not what we raised you to be! What of your dreams to be a harpist? To teach music? You can’t possibly want ...”

  “What I want is to be right here, helping Trace take care of this sweet, innocent child.”

  “Aren’t you worried you’ll get sick, too?”

  “If it happens, it happens.” She shrugged. “Better me than her.”

  Trace had never admired a woman as much as he admired Morgana. Her practicality, her selflessness, and her loving heart all wound together into making her one hell of a woman.

  Lila’s shoulders slumped. “We brought you the rocking chair. I thought you could use it.”

  Morgana’s gaze shot to the back of the wagon. A fiddleback rocker with varnished oak wood gleaming in the sun sat behind the driver’s seat. “The one you used with me and Caroline?”

  “Yes. Dodie helped me carry it out of the attic.”

  A smile of pure pleasure brightened Morgana’s expression. “What a glorious idea. I’m thrilled, Mother. Thank you.”

  “She’s packed enough food to last you both a month, too,” Stan said. “Everything on your list and then some.”

  Lila appeared aghast. “She absolutely cannot be here that long.”

  A month? Trace couldn’t even think that far ahead right now. Truth be told, he should be in Nebraska by then, anyway.

  He hoped.

  “I’ve brought a trunk with your things, too,” Lila said. “Dodie helped me pack it, and she remembered to add the baby’s clothes, as well, but if we’ve forgotten anything, just send word, won’t you?”

  “I’m sure you were quite thorough.” Morgana’s eyes shimmered. “And I’d hug you if I could. You’re taking good care of all of us, Mother.”

  Lila’s lip trembled. “I love you, Morgana, and I’ll miss you terribly. I want you home.”

  Morgana’s throat moved. “I know. Please don’t worry.”