by Pam Crooks
Which she hadn’t, but barely.
“What do you think?” Morgana asked, eying the physician with her dark brows puckered.
Doctor Cooper turned away to stuff the stethoscope back into his black medical bag. “Fever’s broke.” Latching the bag, he set it aside and gave her a smile, then broadened it to include Trace, too. “Her temperature is normal now. Her eyes are clear. Skin is cool to the touch. I’d say she’s turned the corner.”
Trace didn’t move. “You mean, she doesn’t have the influenza anymore?”
“Could be she never did. Most likely, it was a respiratory illness all along. She’s got some remaining congestion, but that’s to be expected.”
Morgana pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh, my goodness. I could cry from pure happiness.”
The doctor nodded. “Good news, certainly. I’m taking you out of quarantine, too. No need for it.”
Trace should have been happy. Hell, he was happy, knowing that Harriett wasn’t as sick as she’d been. But being in quarantine with Morgana had its benefits. Pleasurable ones. He’d enjoyed being with her, getting to know her better, just the two of them taking care of Harriett. No distractions. No real worries. And he knew Morgana enjoyed being with him, too. It was there in the times she looked at him, even written in her smiles and in her touch.
He didn’t know what would happen next. Or how often he would see her. Or how he would spend his time when he couldn’t be with her. Or how she would ...
Despite the tightness in his chest, Trace managed a normal grin. “Must’ve been the vaporizer.”
“It helped, certainly.” The doctor stood, a bit stiffly, and Trace hurried to give him a hand. “You say it caused the fire?”
“It did,” Trace said, grim.
“Seems the apparatus brought all kinds of good, then, in a roundabout way. Hard telling what would’ve happened between you and Slick-Shot if that fire hadn’t started when it did.” The doctor leaned in closer. “Your jaw is swollen, by the way. Put some ice on it when you can.”
Could’ve been worse, wrangling with Billy in that cabin, but Trace assured him he would. At least, neither of them had been shot, and Trace was glad he’d gotten the upper hand in that round of fisticuffs. He could live with a few bruises as a result.
“Got to finish taking care of them hooligans,” Cooper said. “They’re hurting, for sure, but they’ll live. I wanted to give Harriet a quick exam first. I’ll let folks know they don’t have to steer clear of you three anymore.”
He hurried off, stopping to speak to the sheriff along the way. Word would spread fast. Trace sat again, and Morgana peered closer at his jaw.
“He’s right about your jaw, and your lip is puffy.” She skimmed her thumb over his reddened knuckles. “You’ll need to soak your hand in some Epsom salts, too. I’m sure my mother has some over at the house.”
Before he could relish the opportunity to have Morgana fussing over him, Sheriff O’Donnell approached.
“Don’t mind saying, I’m going to sleep better at night now that those ruffians are in custody,” he said, hunkering beside them.
Trace shrugged, his gaze lifting to the activity around him. The lingering scents of smoke and charred wood hung in the air. The cabin was still standing, though most of the interior had been burned and only a few possessions spared.
Men and horses remained scattered around the yard, the mood somber, yet relaxed. The urgency of capturing the band of outlaws had given way to relief and a patient wait while Doctor Cooper finished tending the gang’s injuries. Wouldn’t be much longer until it was time to escort the whole bunch to jail.
“I think we’ll all sleep better,” Trace said, drawing his knee up. Might be he hadn’t given the lawman enough credit for his thinking and planning. “How did you know?”
“That the gang would find you?”
“And to know when they did.”
“Got Calvin Lombardo and his boys to thank for it. They was the ones who happened to find Slick-Shot’s camp on their land, in a valley not far from here. Calvin rode in to let me know last night, and his boys stayed back to keep an eye on the gang. Soon as they broke camp and rode out here, one of Cal’s boys skedaddled into town and informed us. The other stayed behind to keep watch. Had to climb a tree to stay hid.” He rubbed his jaw. “If it was up to Stan, we would’ve camped out here all night, waiting for the gang to show up. But there was the issue with the quarantine, you know. We had to be careful. Folks wanted to help, but they was leery, too.”
Morgana’s nod joined Trace’s.
“We understand,” they said in unison.
“You’ll get both bounties, Trace.” The sheriff smiled. “The ones for Slick-Shot and Mustang Mae. Combined, they’re a pretty penny.”
Trace grunted. He hadn’t even given them a thought.
“Enough for you to buy that ranch you’ve been wanting,” O’Donnell added, watching him.
“Reckon so.” Funny, Trace didn’t feel excitement for it, though.
O’Donnell sighed. “Don’t mind sayin’ I wish you’d stick around these parts. You’d make a lot of folks happy if you would.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. Got some decisions ahead of me, I’m afraid.”
“I know you do. Don’t mean to make your business my own.” He stood. “You’ll figure it out. Just let me know what you decide. I’m curious.”
“I’ll do that.” They shook hands, and the lawman hurried off.
Morgana shifted Harriett to her shoulder and patted her back, encouraging a burp.
“He’s right, you know,” she said, not looking at him.
“About what?”
“About folks being happy if you’d stay.”
The way she spoke softly, as if it were something she was reluctant to admit, pulled at him, and he couldn’t resist moving in closer to nuzzle her temple.
“Should I hope you’d be one of them?” he murmured.
She angled her dark head toward him, her mouth barely inches away. “You’d best be careful, Trace McQuade, or I might think you’re one of the most obtuse men I know.”
He chuckled. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Their breaths mingled, and he could just about taste her lips. His mind already imagined how they’d feel against his ... until Stan Goldwater approached, and she moved away.
Trace stifled a frustrated sigh. He didn’t have much choice but to give the man his attention and hope he wouldn’t accuse Trace of taking too many liberties with his daughter, right here where half the town could witness.
But Stan didn’t seem to notice his timing could’ve been better. He carried Harriett’s singed wicker basket, along with a crate of her sleeping gowns and feeding bottles, too. He set both on the grass.
“We’re able to salvage a few things,” he said, his shirt sleeves stained with soot. “Lost more in the fire, though.”
“Nothing in there that was worth much, I don’t think. Didn’t know you were in there cleaning the place out, Stan,” Trace said over a stab of guilt. “I should’ve helped.”
“Nah. Rest up after what you’ve been through. Better you’re here to talk with the sheriff and Doctor Cooper, and be with Morgana and the baby, too. We were happy to do it. Didn’t take us long. Wasn’t much to go through.”
He patted Harriett’s dark head, and the child chose then to bellow out a burp, which earned a laugh from all of them.
“Glad she’s feeling better,” Stan added, his gaze bright.
Made Trace think the man got emotional over that burp. Like he’d gotten attached to the little girl and the things she did.
And wasn’t that something Trace had done, as well? Gotten attached to Harriett?
Stan roused and exhaled. “I’ll ride into town and bring the buckboard back.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll need a different place to stay, Trace. The cabin isn’t livable anymore.”
“I figured. It’s a shame, but I’ve got a few options. Might be a good time to ask the
Widow Simpson if she’ll rent her place out to me for a while.”
“Folks around here will do what they can to help you out. You just need to ask.”
Moved, knowing it was true they would, Trace smiled. “I will.”
Promising to be back soon, Stan straightened and hurried off.
“I like him,” Trace said, watching him go. “Reminds me of my own father when he was still living.”
But Morgana wasn’t listening. Her gaze fixed on the wicker basket, of all things. She pointed, leaning closer. “Look, Trace. There’s something stuck in there.”
A corner of the basket had been burned through, and the flames had eaten right into the mattress. There, in the stuffing, looked like the corner of an envelope. Trace wrestled it out. A packet of some sort, thick and flat.
“It’s got your name on it,” Morgana exclaimed.
Emma’s handwriting jumped up at him and grabbed him by the throat, for sure. He couldn’t imagine what shenanigans she was up to, hiding that envelope the way she did. How did she expect him to find it? How could anyone?
But now that he had, he ripped the flap open. Inside, a stack of cash wrapped in letter paper and tied with string wrung a gasp from Morgana and held him frozen with surprise.
“It’s from Emma, isn’t it?” Morgana said. “The money that Billy and Mae were looking for.”
Still, Trace tried to comprehend it. So much cash. She’d taken one hell of a risk. How had she managed it?
“She wrote you a note, Trace,” Morgana said, giving him a nudge. “Hurry. Read it.”
Hardly aware of his own fingers moving, he loosened the string and unfolded the paper. Morgana read aloud with him.
Trace,
Sometimes life finds a way to admit to mistakes and make up for them. I’m sorry my father and Billy rustled your cattle. I’m giving you the money back on their behalf.
Love, Emma
The money for his rustled cattle? Trace sat back. “I’ll be damned.”
Morgana laughed softly. “You’ve become a rich man today, Trace.”
It seemed he had.
And his life hovered on the brink of being changed forever.
Chapter 15
One Week Later
“I declare, Lila, you make a lovely picture with that baby in your arms.” Beatrice O’Donnell, the sheriff’s wife, smiled before taking a sip of tea from the pink-flowered china cup.
“You certainly do.” Cecilia Sherman, who owned the hardware store with her husband, smiled, too. “Why, it’s almost as if you were truly her grandmother, instead of ...”
As if she realized what she was about to say, Cecilia’s words trailed off, and her tea cup hovered in mid-air.
Morgana held her breath at the impending gaffe. Even the other women, all five of them gathered for their weekly luncheon together, appeared apprehensive for her mother’s reaction.
Cecilia cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Lila. I hope I didn’t speak rudely.”
But Lila merely continued rocking Harriett in the fiddleback chair Stan had managed to pull unscathed from the cabin’s smoky ruins. She smoothed the sunny yellow dress she’d bought for Harriett to wear while meeting these women, some of the most influential in Wallace’s small society circle and whose opinion meant far too much than it probably should. At least, in Morgana’s opinion.
“Not at all. We know Harriett’s arrival into our lives is quite irregular, don’t we?” She dabbed at a bit of drool in the corner of the baby’s bow-shaped mouth with a piece of hemmed flannel. “But we mustn’t forget that none of it is her doing. It’s a shame she’s deprived of her parents, and it’s not her fault they weren’t able to raise her.”
“But it’s a blessing she has you all as her new family now.” Kitty Clark, whose husband was one of the town’s early founders and even had a street named after him, spoke more matter-of-factly.
Lila hesitated, her gaze finding Morgana. “We’ll be her family as long as she needs us. There are ... some decisions that have yet to be made.”
Morgana’s glance dropped to her embroidery, but she could barely focus on the needle and thread. No matter how tactful her mother tried to be, the truth still kept Morgana awake at night and worrying during the day.
“Well, she’s been through the gamut, being so sick and all. We’re happy she’s the picture of health today.” Doctor Cooper’s wife nodded with more seriousness than happiness.
“Yes,” Lila murmured, drawing her knuckle down Harriett’s chubby cheek. “She gave us quite a scare at first.”
“Such a beautiful child, she is.” Beatrice regarded Harriett fondly. “Why, with her dark hair, she could be Morgana’s daughter. And Trace McQuade, as dark and handsome as he is, one would never know he wasn’t her father. The three of them would make a fine-looking family, certainly.”
Morgana had heard enough.
She set her embroidery hoop aside and stood. “Mother, I’ll take her upstairs and put her in her crib. It’s her naptime anyway.”
“Oh, Morgana, let me hold her a little longer.” Her mother’s mouth threatened a pout. “She’s napping so peacefully, it’s a shame to disturb her.”
“We’d love to just look at her a while longer, if we could,” Kitty said kindly.
The ladies’ attention centered on Morgana with an air of mutual expectation, and Morgana gave up. It wouldn’t hurt to let Harriett bask in their adoration for a little while longer, she supposed.
“All right.” She managed a conciliatory smile. “I’ll check on her in fifteen minutes. How does that sound?”
“Well, maybe not long enough, but we’ll see how she’s doing by then, shall we?” Lila asked sweetly.
Morgana refrained from rolling her eyes at the manipulation. Her mother well knew Morgana tried to keep Harriett on a schedule now. She also knew Morgana wouldn’t make a fuss in front of these women.
“Yes, we shall,” she murmured.
She bent over Harriett before leaving the room, and her heart filled with love at the innocent countenance. The baby had formed quite an appetite of late, and she’d filled out nicely. With her tummy full of lunch, she slept deeply, and her mother was right. It was a shame to disturb her. Resigned, Morgana left the women to their chatting and headed to the kitchen.
Dodie straightened from removing a pan of raisin cookies from the oven and closed the door.
“What are you doing in here? Had enough?” she asked knowingly, her eyes glinting with amusement.
“Yes,” Morgana said. “They’re lovely women, but they’re my mother’s friends, not mine.” She sighed. “All they want to talk about is Harriett and her future with us. Except, I don’t even know if she has a future with us, and it’s making me fairly crazy.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m supposing it would.” Nodding her commiseration, Dodie scooped a cookie off the pan with a spatula. “Would you like one? It’ll make you feel better.”
“Then I’d best eat the whole batch,” Morgana retorted and took the treat, setting it down on the table to give it a minute to cool. “Have you seen Trace?”
“He was here earlier, but then he left.” Dodie shrugged.
Morgana frowned. “He’s been doing that a lot lately.”
“He just said he had a meeting and that he’d be back later.”
“That what he tells me, too. Meetings, meetings, meetings. But he never says what for. Or who with. He’s much too evasive.”
Except, Morgana knew. Or at least, she thought she knew. In fact, she’d pretty much convinced herself it was about that stupid ranch in Nebraska his banker told him about in the letter. After all, he had the money to buy it now.
Dodie set another cookie in front of her and added a third. “He’ll have to 'fess up at some point, you know. He can’t keep you in the dark forever. You both have Harriett to plan for.”
“We certainly do.” Morgana took a bite of the first cookie, then another before finishing it and reaching for the second. “I think I’ll jus
t have to put my foot down and demand that he tell me what he’s been up to. At least as far as it pertains to Harriett.”
“If it pertains to her,” Dodie said.
Still holding a cookie, Morgana pressed her palms to her eyes and moaned. What if those meetings weren’t about his ranch at all? What if he was looking into an orphanage for Harriett? How awful would that be?
“By the way, your father sent something over for you with this morning’s order. The delivery boy said to be sure to give it to you.”
Morgana lowered her hands. In front of her, right on top of her cookie, Dodie laid a newspaper, folded in half, then in fourths, with a notice circled in pencil.
She stared at the small print, blinked, then read it again.
“Calvin Lombardo is selling his ranch,” she said, stunned.
Dodie nodded. “I heard he wants to retire in town. Working the ranch and the livery has gotten to be too much for him.”
“My father wanted me to know Mr. Lombardo is selling his ranch,” Morgana said, her mind working. “Why?”
“Think about it, Morgana.”
She was thinking about it, all right. Its close proximity to Wallace. To her parents. Lots of grass and water, with plenty of room for cattle to thrive. There was even a railroad near by ...
She stood, so suddenly her chair nearly topped backwards. “I have to leave, Dodie. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Clutching the newspaper in one hand, her cookie in the other, Morgana dashed from the kitchen and out the door.
Trace backed the buckboard wagon up to the Goldwaters’ new carriage house, set the brake and jumped down.
“This is the last of ‘em,” he called to Leroy, on the roof pounding nails with the rest of his crew.
“Thanks, Trace. Appreciate it. Should be able to finish the shingling up in a few hours, and this little beauty of a carriage house will be about done.”
“Let me unload, and I’ll be up to help you.”
After he stacked the bundles of shingles into a neat pile and emptied the wagon bed of the rest of the supplies, Trace headed across the yard to the work bench for his tool belt, lifting his Stetson and wiping the sweat from his forehead along the way. Another hot afternoon, and he wasn’t particularly looking forward to spending it on the roof.
