Wedded For The Baby. Dorothy Clark
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her straight in the eyes. “There is none. I have told you I am not interested in any form of personal relationship with a woman, Miss Fleming. Therefore, I am asking if you, in your concern for the baby, would be willing to enter into an in-name-only marriage with me.” Her gasp told him what she thought of his proposal. He rushed on. “It would be only temporary—until I can think of a way to save my shop and my home and make other arrangements for the baby’s care. You see, Whisper Creek is, as yet, only the beginning of a town. There are no women available for me to hire to care for the baby.”
Katherine Fleming was clearly shocked. She moved her mouth but no words came forth, only an odd sort of choking sound. He took a breath and laid out the rest of it before her. “There is one thing more. Should you agree to my business offer, we will have to act as newlyweds in front of others to keep Mr. Ferndale, the town founder and holder of my contract, from discovering the marriage is not a normal one.” His bitterness boiled over into anger. After two years of grief and loneliness that was the last thing he wanted to do with this far too attractive woman! He harked back to his doctor’s training, held his face impassive. “In private, you will have your own well-furnished bedroom with unlimited access to the rest of the house as you choose. The house has every modern convenience. And, of course, I’ll pay you a wage for your services as nurse to the baby.”
* * *
Katherine sank back onto the bench, too stunned to speak...to even think. She stared up at the man in front of her, unable to credit what he had said. Marry him? She didn’t even know him! She tried to answer, to tell Mr. Trace Warren what she thought of his absurd proposition, but couldn’t find her voice. All that came out was a sort of choking gasp. What sort of man would even think of such a thing? A selfish one! Mr. Warren had agreed to Miss Howard’s condition that he accept the baby as his own in order to fulfill that contract! What a cold, heartless—The baby stirred and began to cry. She looked down at him, so tiny, so helpless, in her arms. Her heart squeezed. If she continued on her journey to visit her sister, what would become of the infant? Who would care for him? Surely not Mr. Warren! He hadn’t even looked at the baby.
It would be only temporary.
No. The man was insane! His plan ludicrous. She should run for the train as fast as she could! But how could she live with herself if she left a helpless baby to an unknown fate at this callous man’s hands? She cuddled the baby close, reached beneath the blanket and brushed her fingertip over his tiny hand. He quieted. Her chest tightened. Her throat constricted. The baby needed her. And she was free of all obligations. What should she do?
Follow that still, small voice inside you, Katherine. The Lord will lead you.
Her face drew taut. Not anymore, Mother. The familiar pang wrenched her heart. What had she to lose if she agreed to Trace Warren’s proposition—a few weeks of idle time? Her chance for a normal life of love and happiness had vanished with Richard almost five years ago. Her life was an empty shell. And if she could help the baby, at least it would give her some purpose.
She caught her breath and looked up at the stranger standing in front of her. “Very well, Mr. Warren. For the baby’s sake, I will agree to your proposal according to the conditions you have stated.” Had she actually spoken those words aloud? She hastened to qualify her agreement. “However, I want those conditions set down in writing before any such marriage takes place. And the agreement must also state that you will find a replacement for me as your temporary stand-in bride and nurse to the child as quickly as possible.”
“Thank you, Miss Fleming. It shall be as you ask.” Tension strained his voice. “Have you trunks on board?”
Her trunks. She hadn’t even thought of them. “Yes, three. And my valise.”
He gave a curt nod. “Give me a moment to see to their off-loading, and we will go to my store and take care of that matter of the written arrangement.”
“There is one thing more, Mr. Warren.”
He halted, looked down at her. “And what is that, Miss Fleming?”
“I have no experience, beyond the last two days, of caring for an infant.”
He glanced at the baby she cuddled. “The baby seems satisfied with your care of him, Miss Fleming. And I am a desperate man. My offer stands.”
She watched him walk to the conductor, purpose and confidence in his stride. Her legs were trembling. Her entire body was trembling. Had she done the right thing? Or had she lost her mind? She rose to her feet and took a tentative step to test the strength of her shaking legs before Trace Warren returned. The baby squirmed, began to cry. “Shh, little one, shh. I’ve found your new father.” As cold and indifferent as he is. “Everything will be all right.” Would it? Could she be sure of that? She closed her eyes, swallowed hard against the churning in her stomach.
“This way, Miss Fleming.”
Her heart lurched. She opened her eyes, stared at the stranger she was about to marry and nodded.
“If I may assist you...” His hand grasped her elbow. She walked beside him down the steps and over to a runabout. She waited, her heart pounding, while he placed the baby’s valise on the floor, then grasped her elbow again and helped her take her seat. She shook her long skirt into place and tucked her feet out of sight beneath her hems, then patted the crying baby while Trace Warren loosed the reins and climbed to the seat beside her.
“Is the baby hungry? If so, I will take you to the house, though it is farther away—a little more than a mile out of town. I purchased a few cans of lactated milk in case there was a need. You can feed him while I write out our arrangement.”
Lactated milk? She stared at him, taken aback by his knowledge of such a thing. She had been unaware of it until she started caring for the baby. “I fed him a bottle just before the train pulled into the station. I don’t know why he’s so fretful.”
“Perhaps he senses the tension of our situation.” He clicked to the horse, shook the reins. The buggy lurched forward. “If so, he will quiet as things calm down.” He turned his head, and their gazes met. He didn’t look nervous. Obviously, it was her. “I will stop at the shop. It’s on the way to the church.”
The church! She stiffened. The baby wailed. His little body went taut beneath the blankets. She patted his back, forced herself to relax and studied the buildings ahead. There were not many of them. Mountains rose behind them, dark and menacing in the dusky light.
“Here we are. This is my shop.”
She looked at the narrow building in front of them, the tasteful sign above the front door centered between two small-paned windows. He climbed down, tossed the reins over a hitching rail and came to her side. “If you need me to, I will hold the baby while you step down.”
His voice was brusque, strained. Clearly, Trace Warren was not eager to hold his new son. But he had to, sooner or later. And, in her opinion, sooner would be better. What her mother called her “German stubborn” rose. She stared at him a moment, then nodded and handed the baby down to him, though she was reluctant to let go of the tiny bundle. At the moment she wasn’t sure if she was comforting the baby, or if holding the baby was comforting her. She rose, and Trace Warren cradled the swaddled baby in one arm and held his free hand up to assist her.
She placed her hand in his and stepped down, surprised by the calm, if not loving, way he held the tiny baby. Perhaps everything would work out well for Susan Howard’s son. Trace released her hand, and the cold night air chilled the place where his long fingers had curved around her palm. He handed her the baby, assisted her up the steps to the porch, then opened the door for her to enter. The warmth of the shop was comforting after the cold. Should she uncover the baby’s face? She decided to leave the blanket in place unless he fussed.
Dim light spilled from an oil lamp chandelier hanging over a long, paneled counter. Bottles and crocks, weights and balances stood beside a neat array of mortars and pestles of varying sizes on the polished surface. Mr. Warren moved behind the counter, pulled down the lamp and turned up the wick. Light played over a cabinet with small, neatly