Wedded For The Baby. Dorothy Clark

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      She was angry, and he didn’t blame her. He’d sounded cold and clinical and uncaring—just as he’d intended. All the same, her anger stirred his conscience, riled his guilt and spoiled his appetite. A baby deserved love and tender care. It wasn’t the infant’s fault he couldn’t bear the sight or sound of him. He rose and walked out into the back entrance, grabbed his coat and hat and shrugged it on as he crossed the porch. Dawn was just a promise at the top of the mountains, but it was bright enough he didn’t need a lantern.

      The blast of a train whistle echoed down the valley. The seven-ten would be here in a few minutes. He was running late. He’d be hard pressed to get the store ready to open before the train arrived. He frowned, trotted down the steps and loped toward town.

      * * *

      Katherine laid Howard in his cradle then hurried to the window beside the writing desk and opened the shutters. Sunshine poured in. She forgot her purpose, stood in the cheery light and marveled at the snow-capped mountain behind the house. The rugged granite soared upward to where white patches of snow filled its gullies and hollows. A feathery gray mist rose from the icy top to form clouds in the vast blue blanket of sky overhead. The beauty of the scene brought a wish that she was able to capture the sight in oils on canvas. At last she understood what Judith had meant when she wrote home saying the mountains in New York were mere hills when compared to the towering mountain ranges in the West.

      Laughter bubbled up at the thought of her sister. How astounded Judith would be when she learned what had happened. Reminded of her task, she sat at the desk and dipped the pen in the ink bottle.

      My dearest sister,

      You are no doubt surprised to receive this letter when you were expecting me to arrive on your doorstep. Obviously, my plans have changed.

      Oh, Judith, I have so much to tell you, I don’t know where to begin. You had best sit down and take a deep breath, my dear sister. I’m married! Well, not truly so. It is strictly a business arrangement for the sake of a little two-month-old baby boy. There is, of course, no intimacy involved.

      My husband (oh, how strange it is to write those words!) is Mr. Trace Warren, an apothecary whose shop and home is in Whisper Creek, a new town recently founded here in Wyoming Territory. I met Mr. Warren last evening when I delivered the baby to him. He is an intelligent, kind and polite man, but cold and reserved enough to make you shiver like a New York winter’s day—though there is something compelling about his eyes.

      But I am getting ahead of my story. I shall start at the beginning. When I boarded the train to come west, there was a young woman with an infant seated at the back of the passenger car. She appeared to be very ill, and, as the other passengers seemed to want to stay their distance from her, (I presume they were afraid of catching her illness) I took the seat across the aisle and, seeing her distress, offered to hold her baby so she could rest. Yes, I know—I could “hear” Mother saying, “Katherine, you are too softhearted for your own good,” but the poor woman needed help. She was too weak to tend to herself, let alone her infant. And no one was paying her any mind, Judith! I couldn’t simply ignore her need. Or the baby’s crying.

      Howard whimpered. She wiped the nib of the pen and hurried to the cradle, her long skirts whispering over the rug with her quick steps. Howard was fast asleep, his stubby little blond eyelashes resting on his chubby pink cheeks. Tears stung her eyes. Was he dreaming of his mother? No. Trace said he was too young. She was the one who remembered Susan Howard’s pain at leaving her infant when she passed from this world. Her chest tightened at the memory. She resisted the urge to pick Howard up and cuddle him, went back to the desk, picked up the pen and continued her letter to Judith.

      * * *

      “Have you something that will help a scratchy throat?”

      “Indeed I do, madam.” Trace took a bottle off the shelf on the wall behind him and held it out to the elderly woman. “This will ease your discomfort. Take one spoonful every four hours and sip water in between the doses to keep your throat well lubricated. Or, if you prefer, I have Smith Brothers cough drops you may use for that purpose.”

      “May I take the elixir and then use the cough drops in between the doses?” The woman placed a plump hand on her ample chest and gave him an expression of long-suffering. “Mind you, I have a fragile constitution.”

      He had seen women of her sort when he was a practicing doctor—most of them perfectly healthy, but lonely and wanting attention. He arranged his features in a grave expression and put a cautionary note in his voice. “It will be fine to use both. But don’t have more than one cough drop in between the doses. You don’t want to overmedicate your throat.”

      She smiled and nodded, obviously pleased by his admonition. “I’ll take a bottle of the elixir and a dozen of the cough drops, thank you. And I’ll be careful to do as you say.” The woman sighed, slipped the bottle into her purse, dropped a coin onto the counter then adjusted the wool wrap covering her round shoulders. “And thank you for your concern. When one appears healthy, it is difficult to make others understand you have a debilitating malaise.”

      “Indeed.” He opened one of the Smith Brothers cough drop envelopes and scooped in a dozen of the round drops from the large glass jar. “Here you are, madam.” He handed her the envelope and her change. “Now, don’t forget—one cough drop only between doses of the elixir.”

      The woman beamed. “I’ll remember.” She stuffed the envelope of cough drops into her reticule, put the change into her coin purse and left the store.

      The bell on the door jingled a merry goodbye.

      He turned his attention to a man who had stepped up to the counter. “May I help you, sir?”

      “I’m in need of some sort of tonic for my wife and daughter. They have a distressing stomach ailment, and are unable to hold down any food or drink.”

      His doctor’s training surged to the fore. “Have they a fever, or aches or pains, or any other symptoms beyond vomiting?”

      The man frowned and tugged at his ear. “Not that I’m aware of. They haven’t complained of anything but their stomachs.”

      “I see.” He studied the man’s discomposure. Obviously, he hadn’t been paying much attention to his family’s sickness. “And how long have your wife and daughter been ill? When did this ailment begin?”

      The man’s face brightened. “Two days ago. Shortly after we boarded the train.”

      “And does the sickness come over them in waves?”

      The man gave an enthusiastic nod. “That’s what my wife said.”

      “Then I believe your wife and daughter are suffering from motion sickness.”

      “What’s that?”

      “A stomach illness caused by the rocking of the train. It’s quite common, and will have no dangerous effects as long as they are treated and can take nourishment to prevent any dehydration from occurring.” He walked to the refrigerator at the end of the counter, took out two bottles and placed them in a bag. “This tonic should take care of the problem. When you return to the train, immediately give your wife and daughter each two spoonsful then wait until ten minutes pass and give them both another two spoonsful. After that they may take a spoonful whenever they begin to feel queasy in their stomach. How much longer will you be riding the train?”

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