by Pam Crooks
“Not too far away from your mother, then.”
“No. But enough to make me independent.”
“Why not buy now if you have it all picked out?”
“Because I refuse to secure a loan from my father.”
He nodded. “But the house is for sale?”
“It’s been available all spring, and my family’s attorney assures me there’s little interest. I’m hoping it’ll still be for sale when I’m ready.” She paused. “In two months and seventeen days.”
His mouth curved. “Which is?”
“My twenty-first birthday.”
“Ah.”
“And the day a trust fund my grandparents set up for me matures.”
“Nice.”
“I’m fortunate, yes.”
Having lost interest in the washcloth, Harriett squirmed and yawned, and Morgana smoothed the baby-fine hairs off the child’s temple. As much as she enjoyed visiting with Trace, she couldn’t continue. The sun had dipped too low on the horizon already.
Trace stood and gathered his dishes. “I’m obliged for the supper, Morgana. Can’t think of a better way to fill my belly than eating a meal as good as this one was.”
Her chest warmed at his compliment. She couldn’t take credit for all the cooking, but she’d pitched in and helped with what she could. She stood, too. “I’ll pack you some bottles for Harriett. I’ve got the formula all mixed for her.”
“Appreciate it.” He set the dishes by the water basin. “I’ll bring my horse around and meet you out front.”
Too soon, before she wanted the time to come, she stood beside the sorrel with Harriett against her shoulder. One-handed, she stuffed several bottles into a saddle bag, adding the knapsack full of new diapers and a sleeping gown.
“Be sure to boil a pot of water and immerse the bottle until the milk isn’t cold anymore, Trace. Test several drops against your wrist to be sure. Warm milk in her tummy should help her sleep tonight.” A thought occurred to her. “You do have a pot, don’t you?”
His dark eyes glittering with amusement, he glanced her way while tying the white wicker basket to the back of his saddle. “Reckon I can find one, yeah.”
“Very good. After she’s taken the bottle, you may have to hum to her. Gently. Not too loud.”
The basket attached, he turned to face her. The glittering amusement was still there, in the shadows of his Stetson. “Can’t say as I know many songs fit for a baby.”
She tilted her head back to see him fully and thought again how ruthless he looked with his stubbled cheeks. How wild. If he found her instructions funny, she was quite serious in giving them. “It doesn’t matter what the words are. It’s the hum she’ll find soothing.”
“Got it.” He nodded, but his hard mouth twitched. “Anything else?”
“There is one more thing, yes.” It seemed to her he stood much closer than was necessary, but her feet refused to move away. She tried hard not to lose her train of thought. “Put her basket on the floor while she sleeps. It’s small for her, you know. She could roll right out.”
“Never noticed it being too small.”
“She needs a crib, Trace,” she said quietly.
He shifted. Frowned. “She’ll get one. Eventually.”
She rubbed Harriett’s back and relished how good she felt, relaxed and close to sleep. “Well, I won’t be using the white basket while she’s here, so you may as well not even bring it anymore. She can sleep in the carriage. It’s bigger, and she’s safer, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She drew in a breath. “I guess that’s it for now.”
“Then I’ll mount up. Hand her to me when I’m in the saddle.”
She stepped back, and he swung a long, jeans-clad leg over the horse, creaking the saddle’s leather. Leaning down, he reached for the child, and she carefully eased Harriett off her shoulder and into his arms. He re-positioned her to sit in the saddle with him, and with one hand holding her snug, he took the reins with the other.
But he didn’t ride off. Instead, his gaze connected with hers and hung on, the pull of it so deep, so magnetic, she nearly swayed from the intensity.
“Can’t thank you enough, Morgana. The girl needed you today more than you know,” he said, his voice rough. Husky. “I did, too.”
When before had she been told she was needed? Appreciated? Useful? So long ago, it seemed, maybe never and not nearly often enough, and she tucked his admission deep inside her heart where it would always stay.
“See you in the morning.” He touched a lean finger to the brim of his hat and turned the sorrel into an easy walk away from the house.
Morgana nodded, waved and did all the things one did telling another good-bye. But already, she missed them both, and they weren’t even out of the yard yet.
Chapter 6
Later That Night
Morgana was sure morning would never arrive. Her convoluted thoughts, the incessant tossing and turning, and the worry for Trace and Harriett stole away any chance of sleep and immersed her in a churning pool of endless what-ifs.
What if Harriett couldn’t sleep, either?
What if she was crying at this very moment, her little face red and crumpled, her fists tight and legs flailing in a baby’s temper?
What if she was hungry? Would Trace remember how to warm her bottle? Would he know how Harriett found comfort in being snuggled close? Would Trace hum, softly and gently, rocking side to side until Harriett fell sleep?
Had Trace learned how to do all those things, like Morgana had?
But through her worry, other thoughts came, too. Pleasant, happy thoughts, like the memory of them sitting together at the kitchen table, their conversation easy and plentiful while Trace ate his supper and Harriett sat on her lap, content with her cool washcloth.
The three of them, like a family.
Perhaps it was then she finally fell asleep. Sometime after she wallowed in that fantasy like a piggy in the mud and before she derided herself for the foolishness of her whimsey. What was it about the silence in the middle of the night that fueled her imagination and turned it real? Made her wish for things that could never be?
By the time she awakened, sunlight flowed in through her new lace curtains. She slipped out of bed, opened the window, leaned on the sill and breathed in the morning air. LeRoy and his crew of workers hadn’t arrived yet, and the absence of their hammering and voices confirmed the early hour. Not even Dodie was here, filling the house with the scent of fresh-brewed coffee while she prepared breakfast. Only the warblers whistled their sweet tunes in the ash tree across the yard, reminding her how she’d sat with Trace beneath its shade yesterday, and the thoughts of being with him rushed into her mind all over again.
In a burst of dismay, she pushed away from the sill. This obsession with him had to stop. Their futures would never intertwine, not with Trace so insistent on moving to Nebraska. A move that had nothing to do with her.
Or, sadly, Harriett, either.
She wasn’t going to think about Trace anymore. She had to get dressed and start her day before he arrived, and she quickly donned a dress in cream and brown printed cotton, then sat at her vanity to do her hair.
The brush slid through the thick tresses in long strokes, and despite her resolve, her thoughts landed back on Trace all over again. The uncertainty over how much longer he’d work on this house, mostly. How long he’d remain in Wallace, too. It wouldn’t be unreasonable, she supposed, for him to be compelled to act quickly on the purchase of his ranch. If he didn’t buy it, of course, someone else would.
If only that could be the answer.
No ranch for Trace to buy. Which meant he’d stay in Wallace for a little while longer, and as selfish as that sounded, it would be the perfect solution.
She sighed.
And the wrong one for him.
She reached for her pins, and just as she lifted the dark mane to slip in the first one, a sound halted her.
The
chirp of a bird, perhaps. One of the warblers she’d heard only a few moments ago? But it didn’t sound quite the same, and she cocked her head, listening to the unusual cry, not unlike a wail, high-pitched and frantic. One a baby would make ...
She gasped. Harriett? Surely not, but Morgana leapt from her vanity to the window and sighted Trace riding across the yard with the child cradled in his arm. Her little legs kicked out beneath her sleeping gown, fists flailing, and oh, it was her making those cries ...
Morgana swung away and rushed from her room. Lifting her skirts, she fairly flew down the stairs, across the parlor, flung open the door and was on the porch before Trace reined in.
“Trace, what’s wrong?” she asked, descending the three steps in an unladylike leap.
“Wish I knew, Morgana,” Trace said roughly. “She’s been like this for hours.”
“Hours?” she asked, aghast. “Give her to me.”
He leaned from the saddle and set the infant into her uplifted arms. Tears moistened Harriett’s cheeks, which were all flushed and red from howling. Sympathy coursed through Morgana in waves.
“Poor baby,” she crooned, taking the gown’s hem and wiping her little face. She snuggled the child close while moving her body into a rhythmic sway, back and forth, like she’d done only yesterday. She cooed and soothed and dropped a plethora of kisses onto Harriett’s warm forehead.
Trace dismounted and strode to her side. “Got her to fall asleep well enough, but it must’ve been after midnight when she woke up. Never did fall asleep after that. Nothing I did calmed her.”
Harriett’s cries had slowed to hiccups. Morgana had never heard a more pathetic, heart-wrenching sound.
“She’s exhausted,” she murmured.
“I missed you last night,” Trace said huskily. “Couldn’t help thinking you’d know what to do with her.”
Morgana’s gaze flew to his. No man had ever told her such a thing. That he missed her. So what if it was just because he was at his wit’s end with a baby that wasn’t even his? He’d thought of her and wanted her there to help him, and as pathetic as it sounded, it moved her. His needing her help.
He stood close beside her, so close she could feel the fatigue emanating from him, like summer heat off the Kansas prairie. Another morning’s worth of stubble darkened his cheeks, and his hard mouth carried a frown, as if the turn his life had taken spiraled out of his control, and he didn’t know how to make it right again.
“Harriett’s not the only one who’s exhausted,” she said quietly, resting her hand on his chest, unable to help herself. “You are, too.”
His gaze held hers. “Didn’t think morning would ever get here.”
“I know.” She nodded, understanding.
She drew upon every shred of good manners her mother had ever taught her to keep from smoothing her palm over his gray shirt, to explore the breadth of his chest, to feel the contour of every muscle, too, and the strength so much a part of him.
All in the name of comforting him, of course. Because he seemed to need it.
Instead, she clung to propriety and took a firm step back.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked with admirable calm, in case he hadn’t had time to make any.
“Drank it all night to keep me going,” he muttered. “Thanks, though.” He turned, took the knapsack from his saddle bag and handed it to her. “I’d best get to work. I’ve got one more coat of paint to put on the widow’s walk. When I’m done, I’ll check on the girl.”
Morgana didn’t move. “Her name is Harriett.”
Trace’s mouth tightened. He touched a finger to the brim of his hat, took the reins to his sorrel and walked away.
“Morgana. You’re going to spoil her by holding her so much,” her mother said from the doorway of the front room.
“She cries when I lay her down.” Morgana kept her voice hushed. Harriett had finally succumbed to a light doze, and Morgana didn’t want their conversation to rouse her. She continued her walk down the length of the room, pivoted and headed back to the other side. Again.
“Of course, she does.” Despite the vein of acrimony in her tone, Lila strode forward. “Though I must say, you and Caroline did the same thing when you were babies.”
“I can’t bear it when she cries.” She frowned at the flush in Harriett’s cheeks that wouldn’t go away.
“You’re getting much too attached to her. It’ll be difficult when Trace leaves. He’ll take her with him, you know.”
Morgana changed direction and met her in the center of the room, giving her a firm look. Of all the uncertainties and anxieties sitting heavily in her heart, that was the last one she wanted to hear. “Now’s not the time to discuss it, Mother.”
Morgana fully expected her to disagree and drive home her point in order to get in the last word, which she dearly loved to do.
Amazingly, she merely sighed, as if she conceded—however reluctantly—Morgana was right. Even more amazing, she leaned closer to get a better look at Harriett.
“Perhaps she has a stomach upset,” she said. “Give her some catnip strained with a bit of tea. It should help calm her.”
“I don’t think her stomach’s upset.” At least, not according to the symptoms described in the care of children chapter in the Ladies’ New Book of Cookery. “She’s not had the indications for it.”
“What do you think is the matter with her, then?”
“She’s been warm all morning. And she sounds a bit wheezy. She doesn’t want her stuffed dog or a wet washcloth to hold, she won’t take her bottle, and she just acts so weak, like she barely has the strength to move.”
“Hmm.” Her mother laid a hand on Harriett’s forehead. “She has a fever.”
Morgana bit her lip. “Yes.”
“She’s sick with something. Poor thing.”
Morgana’s eyes stung. This first admittance of compassion and concern from her mother was nearly Morgana’s undoing.
“I have to take her to the doctor,” she said.
Lila stiffened. “Trace should take her to the doctor. The child is not your responsibility.”
“Of course, she is. I’ve agreed to care for her and want to, besides. Why wouldn’t I see to her medical welfare, as well?”
Lila made a sound of distress. “You’re not her mother. You’re a single woman acting like one. People will be quite curious about this—this blatant attachment you’ve formed over her, and never mind Trace being a stranger in town or that he’s shown up with this foundling of whom you know nothing about.”
“They can gossip all they want. We’re not strangers to it, are we?” she shot back.
Lila’s lips thinned. “We are not, I’m afraid, but I see no reason to fuel further speculation. You, in particular, have had your share of it.”
Morgana certainly didn’t need to be reminded, and she had no patience with her mother’s concern with everyone else’s opinions of the Goldwaters’ business.
A foundling. Honestly.
“Harriett has fallen asleep.” Determined to change the subject, Morgana strode toward the new carriage parked next to the sofa, conveniently positioned for easy gliding. As gently as she could, she laid the baby inside. Harriett barely stirred, thank goodness. Morgana straightened. “Will you please rock her while I go outside to speak with Trace?”
“You’re as stubborn as your father, Morgana.” But Lila complied, grasping the handle and moving the wheels back and forth, as if the carriage were a cradle.
Promising she wouldn’t be long, Morgana left, closing the door quietly behind her. She descended the steps and rushed around to the side of the house, only to meet Trace coming right at her. She yelped in surprise and stumbled back to avoid careening into him.
“Whoa.” His low voice reflected mutual startlement, and his hand settled on her waist to steady her, gifting her with the immediate sensation of his warm palm through the cotton fabric of her dress. “What’s your hurry?”
“Harr
iett needs a doctor.”
He pulled his hand away and breathed an oath. “Is she sick?”
“Yes. She has a fever.”
“A fever.” He didn’t move. “That’s probably what made her cry so much.”
“I suspect so.”
“I’m coming with you. I’ll need to let LeRoy know.”
“If you can’t, I’m perfectly willing to go without you.”
“Morgana.” The troubled, muddy brown depths of his eyes latched onto hers. “I wouldn’t think of it. Whatever’s wrong with the girl, I need to hear it from the doctor so he can tell me what to do about it.”
She didn’t bother to remind him, yet again, Harriett had a name. “All right. Of course. It’s just a few blocks to Dr. Cooper’s office. I’ll meet you on the porch in five minutes.”
“Fine,” he said with a curtness that left Morgana no doubt that Harriett being sick was not something he wanted to hear.
Chapter 7
Dr. Alonzo Cooper was thorough, Trace had to admit. Nothing escaped his examination of Harriett, from a good look at her eyes, ears and throat, to her fingers and toes and everything in between. He poked, prodded and thumped, saying little but only emitting the occasional grunt. With Morgana’s assistance, he took a temperature reading with his thermometer, which confirmed what they already knew. Harriett had a fever.
But it was the extensive listen with his stethoscope that concerned Trace most. Maybe Morgana even more. She sat on the edge of her chair, perched only a few feet from the examination table. Her teeth worried her lower lip, and her hands clasped so tightly in her lap, her knuckles turned white.
From the look on her beautiful face, she likely expected the worst. Trace had to fight hard from taking her hand into his own. She could use the comfort.
For that matter, so could he.
Trace had learned long ago to trust his instincts. Most of the time, they served him well, his attraction for Emma excepted. They’d even helped him earn his reputation as a damned fine bounty hunter, his hunt for Slick-Shot Billy Hayes excepted, too. Now, his instincts warned whatever the doctor found wouldn’t be good.