Wedded For The Baby. Dorothy Clark
her singing. She looked at Howard resting against her shoulder, stared at the acrid mess running down her bodice. Her stomach clenched. She cradled his head with her hand, shoved with her feet and lurched from the rocker.
Howard wailed, flailing his little arms.
“Mr. Warren! Mr. Warren!” She raced down the hallway, the train of her long skirt flying out behind her, and almost crashed into Trace Warren as she rounded the corner. He caught her by the upper arms.
“What is it?”
“The baby’s sick!” She gulped the words, swallowed back tears.
“Calm yourself, Katherine. You’re frightening the infant.”
She willed herself to stop shaking, watched as Trace lifted a hand and touched the baby’s cheek and forehead. He glanced at her bodice. “He’s not ill, Katherine. He only spit up. Babies do that sometimes when they eat too much, or if they have too much air in their stomachs to hold the food down.”
“Then it was my fault.” Tears stung her eyes.
“It is no one’s fault. It’s a common occurrence when a baby is so young. He will outgrow it.” He looked at her. “He would have gone back to sleep if you hadn’t pan—if you hadn’t frightened him.”
“And now?”
He bent down and picked up the paper he’d dropped when he stopped her headlong rush toward him. “If you are calm when you change his gown, he should go back to sleep. I would expect him to sleep four or five hours. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve work to do.” He dipped his head. “Good night, Katherine.”
“Good night. I’m sorry for disturbing your work.” She watched him walk down the hall toward his room, annoyed by his cool composure. The man had no feelings! She marched down the intersecting hallway and into the baby’s room. How did Trace Warren know so much about babies? She could understand an apothecary knowing about cleaning and preparing bottles—even about feeding infants. But Trace Warren’s knowledge seemed deeper than that.
She shrugged off the thought, took a clean nightdress and socks for the baby out of the wardrobe and carried them with her to the table in the dressing room. She removed her dress jacket and the baby’s soiled clothes, laughing when he kicked his little legs in the air and waved his arms around as she washed his face and hands. She cooed at him while she changed his diaper and soaker, captured his little arms and pushed them through the sleeves of his clean nightdress. The long socks were big on his tiny feet and chubby legs, but they stayed in place.
She hummed the lullaby and carried him back to his crib, swaying with him in her arms. It was as Trace Warren had said—little Howard fell fast asleep. She kissed his soft, warm cheek, tucked him beneath the covers and hurried to her closet to unpack and change into her own nightclothes.
* * *
Trace stared unseeing at the page, disturbed by the quiet. It had been some time since he’d heard any sounds. He laid the book aside, rose from the chair and paced the length of his bedroom, pivoted and started back. He stopped at his slightly opened door, stood straining to hear against the silence. There was no baby crying, no hysterical calls for help. Were they asleep? He fought the urge to walk down the hall and listen at Katherine’s bedroom door, turned back into his own bedroom and resumed his pacing.
His training had betrayed him. Katherine’s frantic cry for help had brought his doctor skills surging to the fore. He scowled, rubbed the back of his neck, strode to the window and stared out into the night. He was being foolish. The baby was fine. The bottles had been prepared correctly—he’d made certain of that. And the infant’s diaper had been put on properly. Katherine had mastered that, though her other mothering skills were wanting. He’d have to help her learn to be comfortable with the baby if the Ferndales were to believe she’d been caring for him since his birth. And before Sunday. They had to go to church. It was expected. Only two days...
His strides lengthened, his slippers thudded against the carpet. It was impossible for him to settle to sleep with the concerns and questions tumbling around in his head. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. How could his carefully conceived plan have gone so awry? He had thought he had everything under control. But he had also thought he was in control two years ago. Charlotte... His chest tightened. His throat closed.
He stopped pacing, pushed the memories away. The situations were entirely different—except each had involved a woman with whom he was supposed to have shared his life. A woman who had died. Bile surged, burned his throat. He pushed back his shoulders, stretched his chest as far as possible and inhaled, compelling his frozen lungs to function.
Thankfully, Katherine Fleming had been on that train to care for the baby. Incompetent as she was in an infant’s care, she had likely saved the baby’s life. Something he, with all of his training and skill, had been unable to do for—
He jerked his thoughts from the past and focused them on the present, refused to acknowledge the future. He would find a way out of this situation. He had to. It brought to the fore all of the things he’d spent the past two years trying to forget.
* * *
The silk of her dressing gown whispered softly, and the soles of her matching slippers brushed against the Oriental carpet. Katherine walked to the window and looked out into the night. She’d never before noticed the quiet sounds her movements made. She was accustomed to the hustle and bustle of running the house and caring for her mother. Her bedroom had adjoined her parents’ room at the front of the house, and, even late at night, she’d been aware of her mother’s every movement and of the occasional carriage passing by. Here there was nothing but silence. It was unsettling.
Shouldn’t the baby be moving?
She crossed the room to the cradle she’d found sitting in the corner by the heating stove when she’d taken time to explore her bedroom. The baby was sleeping soundly. Was that all right? She resisted the urge to pick him up and make him move, leaned down and placed her ear close to his face then smiled at the soft little puffs of warm air that touched her skin. He was fine. She straightened and moved back to the window. She mustn’t allow herself to grow too fond of the baby. Already the thought that she would have to leave him made her heart catch.
She wrapped her arms about herself and stared out into the darkness, memories long buried rising on a faded sorrow. How different her life would have been if Richard hadn’t disappeared. She would have been married five years this December. They’d planned to have a Christmas wedding. And children.
She’d buried that desire deep beneath her grief when she’d learned Richard had gone missing, submerged it beneath her need to care for her parents in their last years. But it had surfaced quickly when she began to care for Susan Howard’s baby. She had to be careful.
She sighed and turned her thoughts from the baby. How long would it take Trace Warren to find another bride to take her place? How did a man go about such a thing in a town where there were no women? How had he entered into the arrangement with Miss Howard? They’d been strangers. It must all have been done by the exchange of letters. But how did one start such a correspondence?
She removed her dressing gown and slid beneath the covers then stared up at the swirled plaster ceiling shadowed by the low light of the oil lamp on the bedside table. The warmth of the covers eased the tension from her body. Her thoughts lost their focus, drifted. Trace Warren was taller than Richard...and broader of shoulder. And nice-looking—he was very nice-looking...
She yawned, snuggled deeper under the covers. The man was too reserved and aloof to be likeable. Kind, though... He was kind. And polite...
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив