The fullness of the tray tells me that’s at least one thing he didn’t lie about. I hurriedly fasten the rest of my nightgown, compelled by the delicious scent of hot food. And there certainly is a lot of it. More than I know what to do with. A mountain of ham and sausage to the left, eggs and flapjacks to the right, and one cathead biscuit at the top of the plate. He did all this for me? There’s only one plate and one fork, so unless he’s keen on sharing, this must all be mine. Right on cue, my stomach grumbles, so I push my conflicted feelings aside and quietly thank him.
Satisfied with his efforts to sop up the liquid, Warren kicks the shirt aside and points at the biscuit. “If you don’t want butter, I can get you some jam. Got all kinds of jams. Strawberry, fig, blueberry...”
“Butter’s fine.” My mouth waters at the thought of jam, though. Especially the blueberry. It’s been years since I’ve had the fresh, sweet spread. And if I’d told him yes, then I would have had a bit more time to compose myself withouthim around. But if he knows even something as simple as my preference of jam, he might use it as punishment later.
So no jam.
He runs a big hand through his hair, mussing the dark brown locks. “You sure? I meant to bring some up with me, but I ran out of room on the tray. Didn’t want you to have to move too much in case you were still sore from…from the birthing and all.”
A hint of red darkens his cheeks as he rubs the back of his neck, but Emmaline’s grunted cry rescues me from wondering whether he meant the birth or what came before. With her scrunched eyes and flattened rosy lips, her unhappiness at being put down is clear to see. I shove one more bite of savory ham into my mouth before her snort turns into a sharp wail. I’ll just have to hold her. That’s what a good mother would do, and I do want to be a good one to her.
“I’ll get her,” he offers as Emmaline’s legs draw up beneath her dress and her fists wave in infantile fury. “You need to eat.”
“No, I?—”
We both reach for her but Warren’s quicker. Swallowing down my distrust, I watch with sharp eyes as he carefully picks her up and eases beside me. “Come here, sweet baby,” he croons over her fussing and gently bounces her. “Tell Papa all about it.”
My brow twitches. Wait just a damn minute. “Papa? You’re not her papa.”
Any awkwardness he felt from only moments before dissipates with his roguish wink. “Oh, but I am. Just ask the sheriff and everyone else who saw us leaving town yesterday.” He shrugs. “I’ll be the only papa she ever knows, so may as well teach her to call me that from the start. Isn’tthat right, Little Bit? You’re Papa’s good little baby, aren’t you?”
The damn man has a point. Looking at the two of them together, her skin is almost the same shade as his. So is mine, actually, because of how tanned he is. And as much as I hate to admit it, if he comes to care about her, then he’ll have a reason for wanting to protect her, too. There’s nothing in the world I want more than for her to grow up safe, happy, and loved. All the things I never knew.
When the unwanted warmth of his arm brushes against me, I push down a flinch and hold a cloth out by one corner. “Here. She needs to be burped.” If he really wants to be a papa, this is a good start. But I’ll bet he won’t take it. Not when she might spit up onto him.
Once again, Warren surprises me when he takes the cloth. “I can do that. One burp, coming right up.” Tossing it over his shoulder, he curls Emmaline over his chest and pats her tiny back as she slowly rubs her face into him. Good Christ, his hand almost completely swallows her. “Come on, Emmaline,” he coaxes. “Don’t go to sleep just yet. You have to show Papa how big you can burp.”
Relieved to have his focus off of me, I scoop up some eggs with my sausage and try to understand him a little more.
“That was it? One tiny little push of air? Oh, Little Bit, you can do better than that.”
“You sound so disappointed.” He looks it, too.
“I am.” Exaggerated sadness hangs from his face before he perks up. “But that’s okay. She’s only one day old, after all. There’s plenty of time to teach her how to do it right, and she’ll be the best belcher in Hope’s Stand by the time I’m through with her, won’t you, Little Bit? Yes, you will. Andyou’ll even win against all the boys because girls are better than stinky old boys.”
As he wipes a bit of milky residue from her chin and talks nonsense to her, I can’t help but to take note of how different he seems from all the other men I’ve known. And to think of one of them cooing and making silly faces to a baby? Never. They’d look right into those innocent eyes and calculate how much profit they could gain.
But this man? It remains to be seen.
When my stomach rejects the idea of another bite, I ease my legs over the bed. A pang of soreness flows through my core, but I push it away. Breakfast in bed was shockingly unexpected, but surely this was a one-time thing. An afterthought of kindness that I don’t want to be expected to repay.
“What’s the matter?” Ever attentive, Warren switches a now drowsy Emmaline to one arm. That’s good because she’ll likely sleep until I’m finished cleaning.
Well, depending on how much of a mess he made. But I can’t leave her alone with him, even if he does call himself her papa. She’s not safe with anyone but me. Just as I try to think of the least offensive way to ask him to carry either her or the tray to the kitchen, he speaks again.
“Where you going? You need something? Goddammit, I knew that wasn’t enough juice.” A wince tightens his face. “Sorry…didn’t mean to cuss. Should have gotten you some more after I spilled it.” As he talks, somehow he deposits my sleepy baby into my arms while collecting the tray and empty glass for himself. That takes care of one of my problems. “Be right back.”
“No.” Mild alarm colors my protest. I need to earn my keep so he doesn’t demand payment in other forms. “I don’t need anything. I’m just going to go clean the kitchen.” Iwatch him closely, uncertainty pooling when his brow furrows. Is the kitchen not enough? “And then I’ll work on the rest of the house.”
“What? No. If I make the mess, I clean it up.” Warren lifts the tray for emphasis. “Same goes for any room in the house. You’re my wife, Mara. Not my servant.”
That’s the second time he’s said that. “But even a wife is expected to do house chores while the…husband”—I almost choke on the word—“is out working.” Surely that’s hint enough that he can leave us alone now. It’s not as if I plan on running away. Not now that Emmaline have some semblance of security.
“You’re a Shay now, wife.” A wide grin spills out of his twinkling eyes as if he knows something I don’t. “My family’s wedding present to us is taking care of the farm in my stead for the next year. That way you and I get all the time we need to learn to be a family.”
I suck in a breath and finger a button as he leaves. Forced into being a family is what he really means. I don’t want this…don’t want him. But now with the threat of his words hanging in the air behind him, it’s clear that I’m just as trapped as I was with Joe.
Even if the cage and captor are completely different.
