Wedded For The Baby. Dorothy Clark

she instinctively started to pull away.

      “We couldn’t agree more, could we, dear?”

      He looked at her. His arm tightened. A reminder? She smiled up at him.

      “Do you need help opening these crates, Trace?”

      “No. I can do it.” Trace smiled, brushed some dust from his coat. “I may not look it now, Blake, but I grew up on a farm. I’m no stranger to a hammer.”

      A farm? She looked up at him, struggling to keep the surprise from showing on her face. He should have told her that.

      “Then we’ll be going back to the store. Ready, Audrey?”

      A spurt of envy rose at the way Blake Latherop looked at his wife. She squelched it. Being a spinster was her choice. She had her memories—and her fading hope. She fixed a smile on her face. “It was lovely to meet both of you. Thank you so much for the cinnamon rolls, Audrey. It is very kind of you.” She bit off the invitation to come again hovering on her lips, stood like a statue with Trace’s arm around her and returned Audrey’s wave. It wasn’t her place to entertain.

      The moment the wagon was turned and headed toward town, Trace moved away from her. She watched him head for the steps and her ire rose. They may be strangers—married strangers—but he needn’t ignore her. She deserved better treatment than that. “You should have told me you were raised on a farm.”

      He paused, looked over his shoulder at her. “Yes. We lived on Long Island. I’m sorry I forgot to mention that.”

      “Are there any more surprises in store for me?”

      “Most likely. As I’m sure there will be for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my hammer.”

      She stared after him, shocked by the change in his expression. His face had simply...closed—like a shutter on a window. Trace Warren was hiding something from his past. But then, she had her secrets, also. And what did it matter? This strange alliance would soon be over. She sighed and glanced at the sizable crates. Her curiosity stirred, but she ignored it. Whatever the crates held had nothing to do with her. But those cinnamon rolls did. She needed to take them inside. She glanced at a door a short distance from the table, walked over and peeked inside. It was another triangular entrance, this one with pegs holding a man’s raincoat with boots on the floor beneath it. A sound drew her attention. She looked through a door on her right and spotted Ah Key cleaning vegetables at a table. She’d found a back entrance into the kitchen.

      She turned to get the rolls and jumped at a sharp screech. Trace, his coat and tie removed, his collar open and shirtsleeves rolled up, was prying at the largest crate. His bared forearms strained against the opposing pressure. His sleeves rippled over the muscles in his upper arms and shoulders. Effort had his brow furrowed. The end of the board splintered and came free. He grabbed hold of the loose end, braced his foot against the crate and yanked, tossed the board aside and looked her way. “I think you’ll like what’s in these crates—if I ever get them open.” He ran his fingers through his hair then jammed the claws of the hammer beneath the end of another slat and pried.

      She took his words as an invitation and sat at the table, resting the baby on her lap and watching him work. He looked so different in his shirtsleeves with his tie off and his hair mussed—almost pleasant. And handsome. Trace Warren was a very handsome man.

      “That’s got it! I can lift it out now.”

      She jolted from her contemplations, watched him bend over an end of the opened crate and tug. There was a scraping sound, and a curved arm and portion of a straight spindle back and solid wood seat above legs attached to rockers appeared. “A rocking bench?”

      “For on the porch.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s something called a nanny bench. At least it will be as soon as I get it out of there and find the other piece.” He hung the end of the bench over the crate and strode into the house, coming back with Ah Key in tow and stopping by her chair. “Where would you like the bench, Katherine? Here by the kitchen entrance? Or by the front entrance?”

      Why was he asking her opinion? What he did was not her concern. She took a quick glance around. Because of the octagonal shape of the house, she could see in three directions—down the valley at the front of the house, down the road toward the Ferndale home and the town at the side, and toward the towering pines and wall of mountain at the rear. The gurgle of Whisper Creek flowing by was a pleasant, soothing sound. “It’s lovely here.”