LITMIR.BIZ

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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 labeled drawers sitting on the floor beside multiple shelves holding stoppered jars and bottles that hung on the wall.

      “I’ll only be a moment, Miss Fleming—Katherine.” He removed his hat, withdrew paper and pen from a drawer and placed it on the counter. “Forgive my familiarity, but as the townspeople have to believe our marriage is a normal one, I think it would be best if we used our given names. Please address me as Trace.”

      “Very well.” Considering the magnitude of what she was doing, that small impropriety was insignificant. She watched him dip the pen and begin writing, and it suddenly all became real. She was going to marry a man she didn’t know! Her stomach flopped. She squelched an urge to run out the door and looked around the shop to calm herself. At least he was neat. And he had good manners. And was adept at handling a small baby. Those were all good things.

      How could the scratch of a pen on paper be so loud? She lifted the baby to her shoulder and hummed softly to deaden the sound, stole a glance at Trace Warren bending over the paper. The light gleamed on the crests of the waves in his dark blond hair and shadowed his face. What color were his eyes? Surely, she should know the color of his eyes before she married him!

      “I believe that covers all of the points of our arrangement.”

      She jerked when he spoke. He lifted his head and looked at her. Blue. His eyes were blue with a gray cast to them. And intelligent, cool and reserved in their expression.

      “If you would read this agreement over, Miss—Katherine. I had made arrangements to marry Miss Howard immediately. Pastor Karl is waiting.” A muscle at the joint of his jaw twitched. Mr. Warren was not as calm as he appeared. The discovery made her feel better.

      He turned the contract so she could read it. She tried her best to concentrate, to remember all that she had insisted be included. It seemed as if everything was there, including his signature and the date. She freed her hand, folded the paper and tucked it in her purse.

      * * *

      Trace donned his hat, trimmed the wick on the chandelier and led Katherine Fleming out of his dark shop. The train whistle blew twice, sending its message of imminent departure into the stillness of the evening. He saw Katherine look toward the station, staring at the beam of light piercing the dark from atop the engine—no doubt wishing she were aboard the train. He wished it, too. But he could not manage without her to care for the baby. His carefully conceived plan had become a trap. He clenched his jaw and locked the door, pocketed the key and adjusted his hat.

      “If you don’t mind, we’ll walk. The church is just there, across the road and down a bit. It’s not worth the time to take the buggy.”

      “Walking is fine. It’s a pleasant evening.”

      Pleasant? He stole a look at her. The word was a mere politeness. Even in the pale moonlight he could see the tension in her face. Admiration pushed through his anger. Katherine Fleming was a very tenderhearted and brave woman to go through with this marriage for the sake of an orphaned baby who had no family connection to her. He led her toward the glow of light spilling from the windows of the church, aware that he should offer her some words of comfort or encouragement, but there were none in him.

      “It’s very quiet.”

      Her soft voice blended with the sound of her traveling gown’s hem brushing over the hard-packed dirt, the whispering murmur of the waterfall in the distance. Was the slight huskiness in it normal or nervousness? He nodded, forced out a polite reply. “Yes. It takes a little while to get used to the silence when you’re accustomed to the rush and noise of city life. Watch the rut.” He took her elbow, helped her over the rough spot in the road and then wished he hadn’t—she was trembling. “But it’s active enough here during the day with all of the building going on. The construction work stops when the sunlight fades and the last train goes through. When that happens, the general store closes and the town, what there is of it, shuts down.”

      “I see.”

      Whisper Creek gurgled in the distance. Cold air swept down from the mountains and across the valley. He breathed deep and stared at the glow of light from the church. Almost there. His chest tightened. He never would have signed that contract if he’d thought the marriage clause applied to him. He’d been sure his being a widower had made him exempt. But when he’d arrived in Whisper Creek and approached John Ferndale about it, his argument had fallen on deaf ears. The town founder had insisted he either fulfill the marriage clause or turn his new shop and home over to him. And now here he was—trapped in a marriage he wanted no part of.

      Pain stabbed his heart. Bitterness soured his stomach. It was even worse than he’d expected it to be when he’d devised the marriage-in-name-only scheme. Katherine Fleming was nothing like his wife in appearance—quite the opposite. But having her walking beside him brought back the memories of his life with Charlotte he’d struggled to bury over the last two years—even the small ones, like the rustle of a woman’s skirts. And the baby! He’d thought enough time had passed that he could block any emotion, stop any feeling, but he was wrong—so wrong.

      A vision of his tiny unborn son he’d fought so hard to save after Charlotte died trying to give birth filled his mind. He bit back a groan, fought the wave of guilt that flooded his heart. All of his knowledge, all of his skill and talent as a doctor, all of his desperate prayers, had not been enough. His tiny son had never taken a breath or opened his eyes. Charlotte, Charlotte darling, forgive me.

      He sucked cold night air through his clenched teeth, forced his lungs to accept it. It wasn’t worth it. No amount of money was worth this agony of guilt and pain. He would go to John Ferndale tomorrow and sign over his shop and house, then leave Whisper Creek on the next train. He would find employment somewhere and—No. That was no longer an option.

      He jammed his hand into his suit pocket and fingered the folded letter with the shaky handwriting on the back. I, therefore, give Mr. Trace Warren full custody of my baby... There was no way out. He couldn’t just walk away. He was trapped by his own cleverness in trying to save his shop and house and build a facsimile of a normal life.

      He halted, stared at the church looming out of the darkness before them. “Here we are, Miss Fleming.” He squared his shoulders, looked at her standing there holding the baby with the golden light from the window falling on them. He pulled in a breath. “I truly appreciate what you are doing to help the baby. I give you my word, I will find another solution to my problem as quickly as possible.”

      “Thank you. I shall hold you to our arrangement, Mr. Warren.”

      “Trace.”

      There was a small catch of her breath in the silence. “Trace...”

      He escorted her across the small stoop, his boots echoing on the wood planks.

      The train chugged off down the valley.

      He opened the door, tightened his grip on her elbow and they walked into the church.

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