A Funny Thing Happened...

‘Jemima, come and eat.’

She plonked two mugs of tea on the table, sat down and attacked the cheese. He ate his way through a bowl of chicken soup and two doorsteps of bread with slabs of cheese, and watched as she ate at least two bowls of soup and three chunks of bread.

‘Where the hell do you put it?’ he asked in amazement as she started on a slab of fruitcake.

‘No lunch,’ she said round a mouthful of cake. ‘Have some—your grandmother made it.’

He did, and it was good. Very good. He had more, with another mug of tea, and wondered if the cold or the exercise had sharpened up his appetite.

Finally he ground to a halt, and his hostess took the plates and stacked them by the sink.

‘Hands,’ he said to her, catching her on the way back from her second trip to the fridge.

‘OK.’ She reached for some handcream by the sink, ordinary handcream that wouldn’t cope with a good bout of spring-cleaning, never mind what she’d been doing, and he took it from her and put it down.

‘Antiseptic?’

‘What?’

‘Antiseptic cream—the sort you put on cuts.’

‘Oh.’ She opened a cupboard and took some out, and he sat her down, pulled up a chair opposite and spread some into her hands. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

He wasn’t sure. He didn’t tell her that. He didn’t say anything, just rubbed the cream gently into the sore fingers until it was all absorbed, then put more on. ‘Got anything tougher than that?’ he asked, tipping his head towards the handcream.

‘No. Well, only the bag balm that we use for cracked udders. It’s in the barn, on the shelf by the door. That might do something.’

‘I’ll get it.’

‘Tomorrow will do—’

He stood up and put her hands back on her lap. ‘I’ll get it,’ he repeated, and pulled on his coat and boots. He took the torch, leaving her with the lantern, and went across the yard to the barn. The snow was still flying horizontally, but whether it was fresh snow or just drifting he couldn’t tell. Whatever, it was freezing and he was glad to reach the shelter of the barn, cows or not.

It was warm inside, comparatively, warm and full of soft rustlings and sleepy grunts, and the grinding of teeth as they chewed the cud. One of them—Bluebell?—came up and sniffed at him cautiously, and he held out his hand and she licked it, her tongue rough and curiously gentle.

Perhaps cows weren’t all bad, he thought, and scratched her face. She watched him for a moment before backing off and rejoining the others, and he thought her eyes were like Jemima’s—huge and soft and wary.

He found the cream on the shelf where she’d said, and went back across the Siberian wasteland to the welcoming light from the kitchen window.

It really was bitterly cold in the wind, even colder than it had been an hour before, or perhaps it was because he wasn’t working. He went into the lobby, shucked his coat and boots and opened the kitchen door.

She was asleep, curled up in the chair by the fire, Noodle on her lap, Jess at her feet, and he stood there for a moment enjoying the warmth and watched her. Did she need her sleep more than the cream? If she did, would she even wake up if he just put it on?

He unscrewed the lid, eased one of her hands out from under the little white dog and smeared a dollop of cream onto the palm of her hand. She mumbled something in her sleep, and then went quiet again, and he massaged the cream into the cracks and fissures of her hands while Noodle sniffed the cream and went back to sleep.

She didn’t move again, just lay there with her head on one side, propped against the wing of the chair, while her chest rose and fell evenly in sleep.

She was exhausted, he realised. Exhausted, overworked and under-funded even without the snow and the power cut.

What would she have done without him?

Coped, was the answer. He knew that, just as he knew he couldn’t have left her to fend for herself alone.

He made more tea and drank it, sitting in the other chair by the fire, Jess leaning on his leg while he fondled her ears and watched Jemima sleeping and thought how gutsy she was and what a contrast with the superficial and fickle women he dealt with in his normal daily life.

She had that pioneering spirit that had conquered the Wild West, he thought—grit and determination and sheer bloody-mindedness, coupled with resourcefulness and humour.

. Interesting.

It was a shame they were going to be so busy that he wouldn’t have time to get to know her!

Jemima woke at midnight, a crick in her neck and Sam asleep in the easy chair opposite her. She watched him for a moment, enjoying the sight of him stretched out in front of the Rayburn, legs crossed at the ankle, his dark hair tousled and boyish above those sinful black lashes.

He had good bones, she thought idly—good bones and stamina. She pushed Noodle onto the floor, opened the little fire-door in the front of the Rayburn and shovelled in coke and slag to keep it on overnight.

The last thing they needed was that going out!

Sam stirred and mumbled something, and she looked down at him and wondered what she would have done if he hadn’t stayed.

Coped, of course, but only just barely and not for long. A day? Two, maybe? No more than that.

She reached out and shook him gently, with a hand that no longer hurt.

‘Sam? Time for bed.’

His eyes flew open and locked with hers, and the message in them was warm and sleepy and unmistakable. Then he smiled, a lazy, sexy smile that made her pulse hammer and her mouth go dry as he unfolded out of the chair with a groan.

‘I don’t suppose you meant that the way it sounded,’ he said regretfully, and a smile played around his eyes, taking away any offence.

She smiled back. ‘No—I wouldn’t have the energy.’

‘I wouldn’t notice—I’d be asleep.’

They laughed softly, and she put the dogs out for a moment before heading up the stairs. It was much colder in the bedrooms, and she hoped he was a tough and hardy type, or he’d freeze to bits. She remembered her first taste of winter here. It had taken a bit of getting used to, but she’d managed.

‘You’re in here,’ she told him, and pushed the door open. The bed looked neat, the room quite welcoming, but it was cold. ‘I’m sorry it’s not warmer. I’ll get you some extra blankets. If you leave the door open the heat’ll come up from the kitchen.’

She reached into the airing cupboard, pulled out a couple of blankets from the bottom and handed them to him. ‘I’ll leave the lantern hoe—don’t flush the loo, because we haven’t got any water. I’ll get some buckets in the morning. Anything else you need?’

He shook his head.

‘Right, I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘What time’s milking?’

‘Five, usually.’

His jaw sagged slightly, then he nodded. ‘Wake me.’ ‘I can manage—’

‘Just do it.’

She smiled. He wanted to be a hero? Fine, he could be a hero. ‘See you at five, then. Goodnight, Sam—and thanks.’

She went into her room, leaving the door ajar so she had some light, and changed quickly into her pyjamas. Her teeth were scrubbed in a dribble of water, she wiped her face with a cleansing pad and dragged a brush through her hair, then curled up under the covers, rubbing her feet inside the thick bedsocks to keep them warm.

Five o’clock was going to come awfully soon...

Sam was freezing. He pulled on a sweater over his one pair of ‘just-in-case’ pyjamas, put on a second pair of socks and threw the other blanket over the bed before huddling back under the covers and shuddering with cold.

He must be even more spoilt and pampered than he’d realised.

The wind rattled the window, shaking the glass in the frame and swirling cold air round the room. So much for the warmth coming up from the kitchen!

He tucked his face under the blankets and blew on his hands, trying to warm them, but all he managed to do was make the bed tepid and damp. In the end he tucked the blankets round his head, curled up in a ball and lay still.

There were no night sounds other than the wind. It was strange. He’d stayed with his grandparents just down the road in the summer once, and he could remember the sounds of the night—the owls hooting, the rustling of countless little animals—he’d used to sit on the windowsill and listen to them, and try and imagine what they all were.

His bed dipped, and something cold and wet pushed into his face. His eyelids flew up and his mouth opened to yell when a loud purr echoed round his head.

A cat.

Dammit, he’d nearly died of fright! It nudged him again, and he reached out a hand and scratched its ears and chuckled, the tension draining out of him. A cat he could cope with. It curled up against his chest, and after a moment the purring slowed down and stopped. The warmth seeped through against his chest, and, seconds later, he was asleep.

It was light when he woke—light with the sort of brightness that only happens with a full moon on snow. He shoved the cat out of the way, got stiffly out of bed and went to the window, peering at his watch.

Five-thiriy-and there was a light in the barn, a thin sliver of yellow seeping round the sliding door. He pulled on his clothes in the moonlight and limped down the stairs, hideously aware of every muscle, to find a note from Jemima propped up against a mug on the table.

‘Gone fishing,’ it said. ‘Didn’t want to disturb the cat.’

He smiled and put the kettle on. However busy she was, she’d have time to sip a cup of tea. The Rayburn needed revving up, and he studied the controls for a minute and decided that it probably needed some breakfast. He found logs in the lobby and pushed them through the little door of the firebox, and once it was packed he opened the vent to allow more air in.

The dogs watched him uninterestedly. Was he eating? No. Therefore they might as well sleep, curled up on the twin chairs. He scooped Noodle up and sat down, and she washed him vigorously before settling down again on his lap.

It reminded him that he needed a shave, but water was short and a beard might keep his face warm in the wind.

Not that it would have much chance to grow before the power came back on, whenever that might be. He put Noodle down and went into the parlour to phone the electricity board.

Still no further news, except that it would be some time and thousands of homes were out. He fiddled with a little radio on the kitchen windowsill and found a local station, which told him that a helicopter had flown into some power lines in the blizzard and knocked out half of Dorset.

So, still hand-milking, then—and hauling the water.

Great.

The kettle boiled and he made tea, pulled on his coat and boots and went out. It was cold and crisp, his breath making little puffs on the bright moonlit air, but the wind had dropped and the sun would be creeping over the horizon in an hour or so. Strange how fickle February could be.

He trudged across the yard towards the barn, slid the door back and was greeted with a smile that warmed him down to the bottom of his boots.

‘My hero!’ she said with a laugh, and she got stiffly to her feet, pressed her hands into the small of her back and stretched, giving a little groan.

‘Sore?’

‘Am I ever. I thought I was fit. How about you?’ He grinned. ‘Oh, I can feel muscles I didn’t know I had.’ He gave her her tea. ‘How are the hands?’

‘Better.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I never really thanked you—I fell asleep while you were doing it.’

‘It’s my magic touch—and anyway, you were already asleep.’

‘I wonder why?’ She buried her nose in her mug and drank a huge gulp of tea, then sighed. ‘Gorgeous. I was dying for tea. I thought I might finish the cows and come and get some, but they’re being really awkward. They just won’t let down for me this morning. I don’t think the water’s very warm any more, that’s the trouble.’

He drained his mug. ‘I’ll get you some. I put the kettle back on the hob.’

‘You’re just a regular sweetheart. Remind me to thank Mary for lending you to me.’

He leant back against the wall, arms folded. ‘Just as a matter of interest,’ he said slowly, ‘where is their farm?’

She coloured slightly. ‘Over the hill.’

‘About three or four hundred yards?’

‘Something like that.’

‘So I could have got there last night.’

To her credit she met his eyes. ‘Possibly.’

He smiled slowly. ‘Just think,’ he said, ‘what I might have missed.’

Something sad and a little desperate happened to her eyes. ‘Yes, just think. You could still have been in bed now.’ She handed him her mug. ‘Better get on.’

He went back to the kitchen, filled the bucket with hot water and poured her another mug of tea. She’d drunk the first almost in one gulp. He wondered why she’d looked sad when he’d talked about getting to his grandparents. Did she think he’d go? And leave her, with this lot to do?

She didn’t know him very well, he thought, picking up the tea and the bucket. After he’d delivered them he carried water into the house, some to the kitchen, some to the bathroom, and then he went back to the barn.

‘Fill the troughs?’ he suggested.

She looked at him in amazement. ‘Aren’t you going?’

‘Without my car? You have to be kidding,’ he joked, but she nodded, as if she thought it was perfectly reasonable.

‘In which case...’

Hope flickered in her amber eyes, and if he’d cherished any illusions about being able to escape, they evaporated like mist in the early morning. He couldn’t abandon her—and if he did, his grandmother would kick him straight back down here again before he was even over the threshold!

‘I’ll fill the troughs,’ he said, and wondered why the thought of shifting a hundred and fifty buckets of water made him want to whistle...

CHAPTER THREE

THE dawn, when it came, was glorious. The wind had gone, the sun sparkled on the snow and if she hadn’t been so phenomenally tired Jemima would have loved it.

Sam, for all his bucketing, seemed full of energy this morning, and she wanted to hit him for it. She’d listened to him whistling cheerfully as he brought the water up from the stream—seventy-five times, or thereabouts—and now he was shovelling snow away from the barn doors and making paths from the house to the hens, the calves and the stream.

Still, she wasn’t surprised. As a boy he’d never sat still for a minute. ‘There’s some sand somewhere you can put down on those paths,’ she told him, sticking her head out of the hen house.

He looked round at the farmyard. Snow had come straight off the field across the road and dumped itself on the yard, and Jemima took one look at his expression and hid a grin.

‘Any helpful suggestions where I should start looking?’ he said mildly.

‘Ah.’ She gave up and grinned. ‘How about ash from the bottom of the Rayburn?’ she offered.

His expression cleared. ‘Good idea. Got a metal bucket?’

‘By the back door—it’s got ash in it. If you’re going in, could you take these?’

She handed him a basket of eggs and he peered at them and cocked his head on one side with a quizzical grin. ‘I wonder what’s for breakfast?’ he murmured.

She laughed. ‘Put the kettle on, too. We’ll do the paths together in a minute.’

She ducked back inside the hen house, collected and packed the last of the eggs and checked the water, then shut them up and went across to the house. She wondered when he’d remember who she was, if he ever did, and decided to let it go on a bit longer before saying anything. It made the day more interesting, waiting for the penny to drop, she thought as she kicked off her boots.

The warmth wrapped itself round her like a blanket as she went in, and she dropped into a chair by the Rayburn and propped her feet on the front edge. ‘Oh, bliss,’ she groaned, and shut her eyes.

A hard, lean, masculine hip nudged her ankles. ‘Come on, out of the way. I’m trying to cook.’

She cracked an eye open. ‘Cook?’ she said disbelievingly.

‘Cook. Put some handcream on and keep out of the way. Is there any butter?’

She got up and found butter, then milk, then cut some bread and put it in the toaster.

‘When did you intend to have breakfast?’ he asked drily, and she muttered and flipped the bread back out of the lifeless tool and plopped back into the chair.

‘We’ll have bread,’ she suggested, and he. laughed, turning those astonishing navy eyes on her so her heart hiccuped. Wow, she thought, if he really set out to be charming he could be a real stunner—

‘How do you like your eggs?’

‘Soft and creamy.’

‘Ditto. Right, up you get.’

She was suddenly ravenous. The heap of rich, golden scrambled egg was cooked to perfection, and she stabbed her fork into it, forgetting all about Sam and his gorgeous dark blue eyes.

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