“It, uh…” My curiosity grows with how flustered he gets. “Yeah, it has some words.”
A man across the street catches my attention for a moment as he affixes something to the hotel front, but it’s too far away for me to read. I turn back to Warren and raise an eyebrow, determined to learn why he’s hedging. “Why don’t you sing them instead of just humming? Maybe she’ll like the words, too.”
“Mara, I…I, uh…” If he tugs at his collar any more, he’s likely to strangle himself.
Now my curiosity turns into bewildered suspicion, but I’m not sure why. “What on earth has gotten into you? Surely singing isn’t more difficult than humming, and you do that rather well.”
“Damn it,” he blurts out as a bit of redness darkens his cheeks. “The words aren’t proper for a baby or lady to hear.”
My back goes ramrod straight. “Warren Shay! Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been singing bawdy tunes to our daughter these last three months?”
“No,” he scoffs.
That’s a relief. It’s bad enough that it was three months of her teething, but?—
“Longer than that. The first time was when we were still at the doctor’s house.”
My neck snaps toward him. “At the—Warren Shay!” I can scarcely believe this incredulous shrillness is coming from me. “She was only one day old!”
A grimace and smile mix on his face as he shrugs defensively. “It worked then and it works now. Guess Emmaline takes after me in more ways than one.”
“Which one is it?” I demand when he starts humming again.
A wince, then, “Charlotte LaRue is her favorite.”
When he sheepishly tells me the lyrics, I’m so stunned that all I can do is laugh. “I want to be angry, but if Charlotte LaRue calms her, who am I to interfere?”
I have to shake my head in disbelief once more when Emmaline falls asleep and Warren ever so carefully passes her to me. Love for my little girl explodes in my chest as she gives a heavy sigh around the thumb in her mouth and nuzzles into me. Love tinged with fleeting grief when I think of how I never would have been able to hold her like this if I’d been successful with Abner’s knife.
Maybe God finally looked out for me for at least once in my life when Warren poked his head into the back of that wagon.
The man himself nudges me with his shoulder as he picks up the reins. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you telling me what you were thinking earlier.”
I laugh, but when the townsman from before approaches with his flyers, I lean without hesitation into the protection of Warren’s arm that slips around me. Not because I recognize him from before Warren, but because there’s only one man I want to speak to, and it’s my husband.
“Howdy, Warren,” the man calls out as he nods politely to me and fastens the paper to the building where we just had our photograph taken. “Ma’am and baby.”
“How’s the family, Jenkins?” Warren replies, his thumb working back and forth on my waist. Now that I’m close enough to read the print, I scan the words, only halfway listening to the conversation.
A Private Game of Chance for the Experienced Gentleman
When:Sundown on the first Saturday of the coming month
Where:The private back room of The Broken Wheel
The Game:Five Card Draw and Stud
The Wager:A respectable buy-in shall be required of each entrant and the determination to hold his own
The Prize:The entirety of the evening’s winnings
The Rules:All entrants shall behave themselves with conduct befitting a gentleman
NO WOMEN ALLOWED
“You joining in this year? Sure would be nice if somebody local finally beat Blackwood for once, that damn son of a bitch.” He grimaces. “Uh, pardon my language, ma’am.”
But I don’t pay him any mind because a ringing starts in my ears just as nausea churns my stomach.
