The Farmer Takes A Wife

Chapter Two

Somebody took a wrong turn somewhere, Rafe decided grimly as he set the grocery bags down on the counter and stared boldly at the woman holding up the wall. Late thirties, if he guessed right. Sickly, too, if he were any judge of red noses, chapped lips and rashy cheeks. Of course, the wet weather could account for that, but the lady did look a sorry mess. He had no idea who she was, had no idea why she was there, but he did know one thing: the town of Primrose never entertained.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice soft. But nobody—not the adults, in any case—could fail to perceive his underlying displeasure.

“Hey, Dad, this here is Maggie Tremont,” Amos announced, excited beyond anything to be the bearer of news. And such news! A stranger invading Shangri-la could not have been more exotic to his young eyes. “She’s lost, Dad! And guess what? She’s a doctor, no kidding!”

Maggie watched as Rafe reassessed her through the filter of this new information. No matter—she could have been the Queen of Sheba—she knew what he saw was unimpressive. When people said your nose was your best asset, you knew your mirror didn’t lie. If her gray eyes sparkled when she laughed, she knew nothing about that. And though her skin would never be radiant there was something to be said for a smattering of freckles and pink cheeks, even if they were a bit feverish just at the moment. If something in Rafe’s eyes made her regret her lack of beauty, Maggie tamped down her unexpected reaction as quickly as it rose. Her confidence in her abilities was too finely rooted to be influenced by a sour glance from a man, even if he did have broad shoulders.

Vaguely, she listened as Louisa explained her arrival to Rafe. It was vexing, the way they talked as if she weren’t there, but feeling queasy, she did not interfere. Common sense told her to mind her manners. She had a feeling that being snappish wouldn’t get her anywhere with this pair. But containing her irritation wasn’t easy, the way her head was throbbing. Couldn’t they see how sick she was and that she only wanted a bed?

“Yes, my name really is Doctor Margaret Tremont,” she said wearily. “I’m one of the small crew of doctors who work for the Mobile Clinic of New England.”

Rafe studied her thoughtfully. “We use their services, but our association is with a Doctor Marks.”

“Yes, I know him, he’s a great guy, and don’t worry, I’m not his replacement. Listen, I don’t even belong here in New Hampshire. I work the Massachusetts corridor because I live in Boston. Technically, I’m not even on duty! I mean, there I was on 93 South, and then…I wasn’t!” she sighed.

Rafe’s look was disparaging. “I know the highway wanders when you cross the state line, but not that much.”

“Enough to lose my way,” Maggie said ruefully, wondering if getting lost was a cardinal sin in these parts. “Like I said, I’m unfamiliar with this area. I passed Concord hours ago. But give me a month and I’ll be able to tell you all the landmarks. I have a very good sense of direction…usually,” she declared with a light laugh.

Rafe was skeptical. “You’ve strayed pretty far from home for someone with a good sense of direction. Boston is miles south of here.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Maggie smiled wryly. “Somewhere, somehow, I took a wrong turn—majorly! There were a few moments when I was absolutely petrified I’d fall off the side of the mountain. Right about when the asphalt turned to mud. If I were you, I’d call the department of highways and complain.”

“What makes you think we haven’t?” Rafe asked coldly.

Maggie was startled by his sudden flash of temper. “Yes, I guess you would have,” she said diplomatically. “Well, lucky for me I saw that sign for Primrose. It led me here. Mrs. Haymaker was just about to offer me a room for the night when Amos appeared—weren’t you, Mrs. Haymaker?”

Maggie held her breath, hoping Mrs. Haymaker’s sense of justice would come to her aid. If she didn’t find a bed in the next five minutes, she was going to collapse on Louisa’s mucky linoleum floor. Quickly, she moved to the Formica counter and rummaged about in her bag for her checkbook. “Is a hundred dollars for the night fair market value, Mrs. Haymaker?”

The generous offer was rewarded by a gasp from Louisa. “And permission for Amos to build me a fire—if that’s all right with you, Mr. Burnside,” Maggie added, her chin a stubborn line.

Rafe sent her steely look, but she noticed that he didn’t say, either way. A hundred dollars was a lot of money and they all knew it.

“Cabin three will do, Amos,” Louisa said quickly. “Last I checked, there was still a bit of wood in the fireplace.”

Amos was thrilled to be allowed. “Will do!” he said, saluting smartly as he tugged his hat over his golden fall of hair.

“Thank you, Amos,” Maggie said quietly, and was rewarded by his big, red blush. “I’ll bring my van around as soon as I pay Mrs. Haymaker.”

His slender shoulders hunched against the rain, Amos grabbed the cabin key from the wall board hook and dashed out the door, a damp chill sweeping the room as he left. The crisis, real or imagined, was over. “Thank you for allowing me to stay, Mrs. Haymaker. I’ll just make you out that check and be on my way. I’m pretty tired.”

Rafe must have understood something of Maggie’s misery because, even though he looked as if he’d swallowed a lemon, he did back off. “I’ll go help the boy,” he muttered.

Louisa, too, seemed relieved. “Look here, Rafe. The little miss is a godsend. Her being a doctor means you won’t have to drive me over to Bloomville next week, to see that podiatrist fellow—if she would look at my feet, that is.”

“I never complained,” Rafe said tersely, as he headed for the door.

“I know that, Rafe. You’re as good as gold about that sort of thing. But it would be one less chore for you.”

“I would be happy to examine your feet, Mrs. Haymaker,” Maggie said quickly as she followed Rafe, “just as soon as I’m on my own.” Then, no longer able to hide her exhaustion, Maggie bid Louisa good night. Standing outside, sheltered by the tiny porch, they both hesitated, neither anxious to step out into the storm. Every gust of wind sent a heavy spray of cold rain across their cheeks.

“I guess we had better make a dash for it, before we really get wet.”

“Really get wet? What do you call this?”

The flickering yellow porch light barely lit the way, the relentless rain blurred the path, but Maggie could see Rafe clear as day. They were so close his breath was a warm whisper, and all the rain streaming down her body could not cool the heat suddenly coursing through her veins. Standing in the dark, wet wood of a misbegotten town, she watched his dark eyes narrow. It was there in his look, his reluctant gaze on her mouth, his slight, but unmistakable interest. She could almost see his own surprise, and his dismay, before he turned on his heel and hurried into the night.

Shaking sense into herself, Maggie tried to calm her beating heart. When she could breathe again, she made a mad dash for her van, turned on the ignition and blasted the heat high until some warmth crept back into her body. When she could wriggle her toes, she drove around back, to the line of cabins hardly visible. Thankfully, one reflected light. Ignoring her headache, she pulled a heavy valise from the back of the vehicle but it was so heavy, and she was so weak, she could hardly lift it. Frustrated, she left it where it fell and headed for the cabin, her sneakers making squishy, wet sounds that made her regret her rubber boots, buried somewhere in the back of the van. Next to the cold pills, she told herself ruefully.

The path she followed was short, but led directly to her cabin. And no matter what that grumpy man said, Louisa Haymaker was interested in clients, if that scraggly pot of flowers standing by the door was any indication. The poor woman had obviously tried to bring some color to the otherwise dreary establishment.

Swinging wide the cabin door, Maggie hurried into the cabin. It was a shabby room that had seen better days, but she hadn’t been expecting much. The bed was covered with a worn chenille spread, the curtains dusty, the furniture stained. Across the room, kneeling by the fireplace, Amos was trying valiantly to light the smokiest fire she had ever seen. Coughing loudly, she hoped the sound would herald an end to his struggle. Amos scrambled to his feet, embarrassed, but full of pluck.

“Don’t you worry, miss, I’ll have this fire lit in a jiffy,” he promised as he worked some kindling into a fresh bundle.

“Maybe you want to use some paper, too, Amos. Those sticks look a bit moldy. What do you think?”

“Rafe says that using paper to start a fire is cheating.”

“Your father has a lot of opinions,” Maggie said neutrally.

“Oh, yes, ma’am. He’s the smartest man in Primrose. Everyone says so.”

“Do tell,” Maggie murmured as she discovered the heating unit that stood beneath the window. Raising the metal lid that covered the controls, she flipped the switch that indicated heat and was rewarded with a short, loud bang, a few clickety clacks, and finally, a low hum. Holding her hand over the feeble jet of air, she actually felt something resembling warmth. Turning to Amos, she sent him a rascally smile. “That’s cheating, Amos, and you may tell your father I said so!”

“You may tell him so yourself,” she heard a deep voice grumble.

Maggie turned to find Rafe Burnside looming in the doorway, holding the valise she had abandoned. He probably didn’t even know he was looming, but there could be no other word, he was such a big man. A big, grim man.

“I found your bag sitting in a mud puddle.”

Maggie watched as he strode into the cabin, casting a long shadow that seemed to block out the cheap plastic furniture, the dingy yellow wallpaper, the frayed blue carpet. His lanky body stood out in stark relief, and when he brushed past, to set her muddy valise near the bed, he carried the scent of the woodlands. Unnerved by the impact he had on her, Maggie strove for a semblance of normality, digging for it in the bottom of her bag.

“Here, Amos, please let me give you something for all your help,” she said pulling out her wallet. “I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”

His eyes angry slits, Rafe froze her with a curt warning. “Amos doesn’t need your money, Doctor Tremont. Whatever the boy does, he does out of kindness.”

Embarrassed, Maggie quickly backed off. “I didn’t mean to insult anyone. I just thought—”

Whatever she was going to say didn’t matter because Rafe was gone, out the door before she could finish her sentence. Amos scrambled to his feet to follow his dad, but not before he left with one last sunny smile. “Good night, Doctor Tremont.”

“Thank you, Amos. Good night. It was so nice to meet you.”

Then Amos was gone, too, following hard on his father’s footsteps. Maggie watched from the cabin door as they climbed in their truck, listened as Rafe turned on the ignition and drove away, until the only thing visible was the distant flicker of red taillights, a blur in the pouring rain.

Leaning against the doorjamb, Maggie took a moment to catch her breath. What on earth had just happened? What made her heart beat so fast? Surely not the sight of a grown man in desperate need of a shave? Suddenly her whole world was askew, hostage to new emotions. Worrying that her nose wasn’t quite as chapped! Wondering whether her bedraggled state was that off-putting. Wondering when she was going to see that dreadful man again because, no matter what he thought of her, she found herself suddenly consumed with thoughts of a total stranger!

Primrose. The town that time forgot.

Standing in the middle of a drafty, moldy cabin, shaking her damp curls free of their confining clip, Maggie had a hunch that whoever named the town had been generous. To be named after a flower was unlooked for charity whose bounty had been repaid a long time ago. Certainly there was nothing charitable in the angry scowl of a bitter man.

When Maggie woke early next morning, the room heater had warmed and dried the air, but the rain outside was still an unpleasant patter that didn’t know it was July. It was the drippy faucet her nose had become, not to mention her raging headache, and aches and pains, that said there was no way she was leaving her bed. The doctor who cured everyone else had finally succumbed to her patients’ ailments. One too many coughing, wheezy patient had finally done her in. Ignoring her own health had been a big mistake, she could see that now. What else could you say when you were stuck in the middle of nowhere with a respiratory-tract infection and not a cup of tea in sight? Too drained to even use the bathroom, she burrowed back beneath the warm covers, clutching a handful of soggy tissue to her nose. At some point, a glass was pressed to her lips and she obeyed the gruff voice commanding her to drink. Tea, sweetened with honey, a balm to her burning throat. But no matter how much the gruff voice ordered, she could not manage more than a few sips. Her strength was negligible and she sank back into a deep sleep, unaware of the calloused hand that gently brushed her damp hair from her cheek. She figured she had dreamed it, had imagined, too, the scent of pine that floated on the air.

The only thing that roused her later that day was Louisa Haymaker poking hard at her shoulder.

“Come on, Doctor Tremont, time to wake up. It’s going on one o’clock, and I brought you a nice cup of chamomile tea and some aspirin.”

Stirring reluctantly, Maggie pried open her swollen, watery eyes to find Louisa Haymaker’s pendulous face hovering over hers. Spotting the tea cup sitting on the night table, she tried to rouse herself into a sitting position, but was unable to do so.

“Look, miss, you have to wash down these aspirin. When I didn’t see you this morning, I figured you were probably feeling a bit poorly.”

“I am feeling poorly!” Maggie croaked as she swallowed the aspirin Louisa had brought, sounding more like a frog every minute. “But weren’t you here? I thought…”

“My, my, you are a sick little thing, aren’t you?” Louisa declared grimly. “And you a doctor! Well, what am I to do?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Maggie promised. “Just let me stay a few days and I’ll be fine. It’s only a cold.”

Humph. “DoctorTremont, I lived through three influenza epidemics. I think I know the flu when I see it.”

The next time Maggie woke, it was to the sound of chirping birds and bright sunlight streaming through the window, lighting the room and warming her face as it dappled across the bed. She had no strength to move, but she could turn her head, even if it felt like a rock quarry. When she did, she was surprised to see Rafe Burnside staring at her from a nearby chair, his long legs sprawled awkwardly before him.

“It’s about time you’re up,” he grumbled.

Groggy and headachy, Maggie didn’t say anything, but, oh, for goodnes’s sake, there went her heart thumping away again, at the very sight of him. What was it about this man that sent her into a tailspin? It was almost elemental, the way her body swung into high alert, even with a fever! Clearing her throat, she pretended not to be affected by his presence.

“What time is it?” she asked hoarsely.

“Near noon,” he said as he rose to his feet. “Why do you want to know the time? It’s not like you’re going anywhere, is it?”

“Force of habit,” Maggie said irritably. “What are you doing here?”

Rafe’s mouth twitched. It had been a long time since someone sassed him and he found it amusing. “I was passing by and stopped to see how Louisa had survived the storm.”

“How did she do?” she asked on a spate of coughing, forgetting that she had seen Louisa that very morning.

“A whole lot better than you,” Rafe said, handing her a box of tissue. “She only suffered minor damage. Her storm door needs fixing, a few branches snapped, but beyond that, nothing major. I’ll clear out the branches and see to the door when the weather clears.”

“You take good care of her. Are you related?”

“No, but in Primrose we don’t have to be related to take care of each other. On the contrary, she sent you some tea,” he said, his voice thickly ironic.

Embarrassed by her blunder, Maggie would have liked to ask Rafe to leave, but the way he fussed with the thermos, it seemed he wasn’t going to until he served her tea. And though he might take her in dislike, Maggie noticed that the hands that helped her sit upright were careful to be gentle. Big, coarse hands, the sunburned hands of a farmer, thick at the wrist, sprinkled with black hair. Handsome hands, in their own way. She blushed when he caught her staring. Still, there was nothing in his manner that said he remembered the night before, or that anything had passed between them. And perhaps nothing had.

“What I wouldn’t give for a shower,” she murmured as he plumped up the pillows behind her.

“An idea that has merit,” Rafe agreed as he handed her two aspirin, “but not an immediate prospect. Maybe tomorrow. Hot tea and aspirin, for now.”

“Well, I appreciate your bringing it over.”

“Louisa asked me to.”

His terse retort made her blush. “Well, thanks anyway,” she said, chagrined by his bad humor. “I think I can manage the rest.”

“Really? Then I can leave? I’m off duty?” he asked as he poured her some tea.

But, weak as a kitten, the steaming cup shook so much in Maggie’s hand that she was forced to accept Rafe’s help. His know-it-all smile was so maddening that she found it hard to be gracious. She was annoyed, too, that he smelled so soapy clean and she felt so grungy. Hated that when he bent his head, his silky, black hair brushed her forehead, and was soft, and smelled of pine trees. But she hated most that when he held the cup of sweet, fragrant tea to her lips, his hand grazed her lips. She was glad that her falling hair hid the rush of heat that stained her cheeks.

“Where is Amos?” she asked between sips, deciding politeness was the best policy.

“The boy has his chores to do,” Rafe said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh. Of course. Well, tell him I said hello.”

Rafe said nothing.

“It looks like the rain’s let up.”

Rafe only nodded.

So much for small talk. Perhaps a show of interest in Primrose…“So, are you the town mayor, or something?” she asked lightly.

“Feeling better, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You just told a joke, I thought you might be perking up a bit.”

“That wasn’t a joke. I just thought—”

“Louisa insisted I check up on you, remember?”

Gee, thanks.

“I have to admit, though, she was right. You look pretty lousy.”

Clutching the blankets to her chest, Maggie slid back down the pillow, wishing he were more…well, gallant…It was easier than telling herself she wished she looked like Greta Garbo in the final scene of Camille. She could not know the bewitching sight she made on her own, her auburn curls fanning the pillow, her large brown eyes a stark contrast to her pale, translucent skin.

“I guess I look too sick for you to throw me in my van and point toward the highway.” No doubt he was wishing he had done just that, the way he was staring at her. The thought that he couldn’t do so was oddly comforting.

“Something like…On the other hand, I wouldn’t want to have you on my conscience.”

As if you had one!

“Well, if there’s nothing else you need,” he said, suddenly busy with the thermos, “I guess I’ll head back home and see what Amos is up to.”

“If you gave me the number of a local restaurant, I could order in.”

Caught off guard, Rafe surprised her with the hint of a smile. “We don’t have restaurants here in Primrose!”

“No restaurants?” Maggie’s face reflected her amazement. “Not one?”

“Not one! Not even fast food.”

“What do you have in town?”

“We don’t really have much of a town, Doctor Tremont. More like a loose confederation.”

“A confederation of what?”

“Of families, Doctor Tremont. Families who take care of their own. We need help, we ask each other. It’s worked pretty well, so far.”

Chapter Three

Maggie slept off and on the next few days, gulping down the tea and aspirin Louisa periodically brought her. Nibbling on toast, she worked her way up to eating a boiled egg on the third day, the day her fever broke and she could feel her nasty bout with the flu start to break up. No one was more grateful than she when, waking that morning, she could stretch without setting off a time bomb in her head. A perfect opportunity to sneak in a long-overdue shower.

Planting her feet firmly on the cold parquet floor, she found she was steadier than she’d expected. On that positive note, she headed for the bathroom, stripped to the buff and stood beneath the shower, delighting in the blessedly hot stream of water that rained down on her clammy, sour skin. Shampooed and soaped, she left the shower ten minutes later, not wanting to test the capacity of Louisa’s hot water tank. By the time she found a fresh nightgown and dried her hair, she was exhausted. Flicking back the blankets, she slid back into bed, asleep in moments. An hour later, turning on a stretch, she opened her eyes to find Rafe standing by the lone, small table, cradling a small covered pot.

“Do you always enter without knocking?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“I knocked, but you didn’t hear me, and this pot is pretty hot. Are you always so cranky when you wake up?”

Rummaging about in a cardboard box he had also brought, Rafe removed a bowl, some utensils, and a bag of bright red apples. “From my farm. I own an apple orchard. The Burnside Apple Orchard.”

“You grow apples? Why, they’re beautiful,” Maggie admired.

“Fresh from the tree. They’ll be crisp, maybe even a little tart, it’s a bit early for apples.”

“I prefer tart apples. And I appreciate your effort. Really! An apple a day, you know…”

“Yeah, well. It doesn’t seem to work too well for you.”

“Maybe that’s because they weren’t from your orchard.”

Rafe turned away, but Maggie could tell he was pleased with her compliment. “So, I guess you’re on the way to recovery, if those wet towels in the bathroom are any indication,” he said, glancing at the damp brown ringlets that haloed her face.

Surprised that he noticed, Maggie said nothing. But his fleeting look reminded her that she was wearing only a thin nightgown. She was careful to bring the blankets with her, when she scooted up against the pillows.

“I feel like I just survived a ten-round bout with Mohammed Ali,” she laughed, “but I’m definitely on the mend. Don’t believe that pile of tissues,” she warned when she saw him eye the overflowing wastebasket beside her bed. “I’m sneezing less. And if my appetite is any indication…Whatever you have in that pot, kind sir, set it right down here!” she commanded him. “I’m going to eat the whole thing!”

“It’s only a Scotch broth. Last night’s dinner. But it seemed the right thing to bring.”

“Last night’s dinner? Well, I’m not complaining. But what is a Scotch broth?” Maggie asked as she dipped her spoon in the bowl. “Not that I wouldn’t eat whatever it was. It smells heavenly.”

Rafe’s shaggy brow rose. “You mean you actually like turtle soup?”

Seeing Maggie hesitate, Rafe sent her a lopsided grin. “You just said you’d eat anything,”

“Well, yesss…I suppose…”

“For Pete’s sake, lady! A Scotch broth is a soup made from lamb and barley.”

“I knew that!” Maggie said, ignoring his skeptical look as she tasted her first spoonful. “Wow, this is wonderful.”

“I’ll tell Amos you said so. It was really his idea to bring you some.”

“But you were the chef?”

Walking to the window, Rafe said nothing, but Maggie was beginning to realize that Rafe Burnside didn’t bother to answer the obvious. Studying his back, she ate quietly, but not as much as she’d thought she would. Her stomach refused to take in more than a few mouthfuls. Setting aside her bowl, she leaned back with a sigh.