The Farmer Takes a Wife
Barbara Gale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my dad, Louis Rubinstein,

who would have enjoyed hiking on Rafe’s mountain.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

A town is saved, not more by the righteous men in it, than by the woods and swamps that surround it.

—Henry David Thoreau, 1862

Her windshield wipers on high, Maggie tried not to panic as she nudged her van closer to the shoulder of the road, struggling to keep to the narrow mountain pass. Using cuss words she didn’t know she knew, she swore in no uncertain terms that this trip was definitely going to be her last. She was getting too old for this nonsense. Let the younger doctors do it. A hair-raising drive through the rain-swept mountains of New Hampshire was not her idea of a good time, even if it was July. As a roving doctor for the Mobile Clinic of New England, Maggie had long accepted that getting lost was a part of the job, and usually saw it as an adventure. But her adventures usually took place in Massachusetts, where she lived. She had only offered to do the New Hampshire route as a favor to a sick friend. Not that the last two weeks hadn’t been wonderful. It had been easy to fall in love with New Hampshire and the White Mountains, and the wonderful people who had taken her into their homes and hearts. But in this moment, nursing a cold and running a fever, she was in no mood to explore another country lane. Lost in the mountains in the middle of a major thunderstorm, no cell phone reception, her thermos empty and her gas tank not far behind…Cuss words were the least of her problems.

Well, there was a lesson to be learned. From now on, she would definitely pay more attention to the weather report, as she would have done if she hadn’t been so anxious to get back home and nurse her wretched cold. The thought of crawling into bed with a box of tissues had been so compelling she’d ignored her common sense. And to make matters worse, if that were possible, her sneezes were coming on fast and furious, she was running low on tissue, and—doctor that she was—there wasn’t a single cold pill in her black bag! Oh, if only she had followed her instincts and made that U-turn four miles back! On the other hand, if she didn’t find a gas station pretty soon she wouldn’t be making any turns. She supposed she could pull over and sleep in back of the van until someone found her. Surely the state police patrolled these roads. No question, a tall, handsome trooper was just what she needed.

No, a trooper and a cup of hot tea.

Actually, the way she was feeling, she could skip the trooper.

Maggie was fighting a migraine when her luck finally turned. Squinting hard, she was sure her feverish eyes had caught a glimpse of something. Yesss! Obscured by shrubbery and barely discernable through the relentless sheet of gray rain, but yes, that was a sign propped against a low-limbed tree, its post long since rotted. The white paint was peeling, and half the letters were missing. Nevertheless, it was a road sign, and with it, the promise of civilization. Please God, let it say Bloomville, the way her map promised.

Pr m se

P p. 350

3 il s

Promise? It certainly did not say Bloomville. It was a pity she was not more familiar with New Hampshire.

Pop. 350 Tiny.

3 ils. Was that three miles, or thirty miles? Glancing at her gas gauge, Maggie prayed it was only three, as she pointed her van in the direction of the sign.

Ten more minutes later, barely able to sketch the lone, battered gas pump just visible through the pouring rain, she pulled into a gas station, her relief almost palpable. That last clap of thunder had sent her heart thumping so wildly she didn’t even care whether the gas pump was operable, if only another human being was around to offer her company. Leaning across the console to peer out the passenger window, she fought the sense of unreality that met her eyes. Murky and desolate did not bode well for a hot cup of tea. Hopefully the scruffy OPEN sign dangling from the door didn’t lie, because the dark window of the store looming past the pump was no shimmering invitation to travelers. Everything about the place said uninhabited, even if the sign said otherwise. Well, welcomed or not, this was one stop she wasn’t going to pass up. Grabbing her bag, Maggie left the shelter of the van to dash through the summer storm.

“Helloanybodyhome?” Knocking on the door of the tiny store was a given, calling out hello was an act of faith. Hopefully, someone would hear past the drumming of the rain. Not surprised when no one answered, Maggie jiggled the door knob, relieved when it gave way. Maybe the OPEN sign was for real, but the musty odor that greeted her was a message of stale disuse. She was careful to remain just within the doorway, until she was sure of her safety. Traveling as she did, she had a great many rules in place. Even from a distance, she could tell that the meager supply of shelved merchandise was coated with a thin layer of dust. Littered with yellow newspapers, a narrow Formica counter skirted the far side of the shop. A hundred years of soda cans were crammed into a large garbage can, the only evidence of any attempt at order. Her heart rebelled against the lack of sanitation, the sight more unnerving than fear for her safety. Boldly, she flipped a nearby light switch, grateful when it lit the drab store, even if it didn’t do it all that well.

“Helloanybodyhome?” she called again. Surely somebody must live there. Idly, she checked the expiration date of a bag of peanuts resting on a rusty metal rack. The crackle of foil was apparently more effective than her shouts.

“I assume you plan to pay for that.”

Startled, Maggie turned to see an elderly, thickset woman materialize from behind a ragged green curtain that may have once been velvet. A heavy gray braid haloed the crown of her head, her hollow eyes were brown pebbles in a pasty face that hadn’t seen fresh air in months.

“Hi,” Maggie said, managing a polite smile. “I was just passing through and stopped for gas. Well, passing through might be a bit of an overstatement. I think I’m lost.”

“You think you’re lost?” the old woman repeated, her gravelly voice mocking.

Maggie’s answer was a light, singsong laugh. “Okay, yes, I’m pretty sure I’m lost. I was heading home to Boston, and took a wrong turn, but the way it’s raining, I was glad to find this place. I was trying to find a town called Bloomville and maybe spend the night there, but this isn’t Bloomville, is it?” she said, looking about her. “I think the sign I passed a mile back might have said Promise, but I’m not entirely sure. I don’t know New Hampshire all that well.”

“It’s Primrose,” the woman snapped. “No promise here,” she snorted.

Not precisely hostile, Maggie consoled herself as she watched the old woman shuffle slowly toward the counter. Relying heavily on a cane for support, she was doing a bad job of hiding her pain, wincing as she settled herself in an old rocker. As a doctor, Maggie’s heart went out to her, but she knew better than to say. “I’d like to fill up. I honked, but no one answered.”

“Well, it says self serve so that may be why,” the woman said dryly. “Besides, these old legs stopped serving gas a long time ago. I’ve only got high test, though, missy. Sold the last of the regular last week. But seeing as how I’m the only gas station this side of the mountain, I guess you’ll take it.”

“And be glad of it,” Maggie said, unfazed by the woman’s prickly humor. “Am I right in assuming that you’re the owner of this gas station?”

“No other reason to be here,” the woman said tartly as she propped her feet on a stool. From the corner of her eye, Maggie noticed that although they were wrapped, almost bound, in heavy stockings, the swell of the old woman’s ankles could not be disguised. She must be in terrific pain, Maggie thought, but an unlikely candidate for sympathy, if the proud look in her eyes was any indication.

“Well, then, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go fill up.”

“I don’t mind. And I won’t forget to add the price of those peanuts you’re holding, neither.”

I bet you don’t, Maggie sighed, shoving the bag of peanuts in her pocket as she dashed back into the storm. Her hoodie totally inadequate, she bowed her head against the cold, wet rain and ran to the pumps, fighting a sudden onset of sneezes. If she didn’t dry off soon, she was sure to wake up with pneumonia—that is, if she was lucky enough to find a bed.

Filling her tank as the rain beat down on her shoulders, the prickly feeling on Maggie’s neck told her the old woman was watching her every move, although what she could possibly see through those filthy windows was beyond Maggie. Maggie herself could hardly read the pump gauge for the downpour, and she was standing right beside it. Returning to the store on the edge of a piercing clap of thunder, she shook herself free of the rain and rummaged about in her bag for some tissue. Now, not only was her nose running, but her hair was a wet mop. “It is wet out there, isn’t it?” she laughed.

Undeterred by the woman’s lack of response, she plowed on. “You know, I’d be as glad of a hot meal as much as for that gas. If you could direct me to the nearest restaurant, I’d be grateful.”

A disapproving look clouding her eyes, the old woman ignored Maggie’s question. “I see you’re driving one of the New England medical vans.”

“Yes…yes, I am. I’m surprised you could read the words through the rain.”

“My eyesight ain’t gone yet, missy.”

Okaaay. Maggie tried for polite. “Are you part of the county circuit?”

“Mayhaps. We’re supposed to be part of the Bloomville Township circuit. When they remember us, that is,” the woman snorted. “Bloomville is way over on the other side of the mountain. I guess it’s hard to see for the trees,” she said acerbically.

Maggie almost laughed but caught herself in time. The woman might be cranky but she did seem to have a sense of humor. “Sounds like you make use of the Mobile Medical Van.”

“We do, when it shows up!”

Maggie frowned to hear an accusation hanging in the air. “Are you saying that the van missed an appointment?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying! It was supposed to be here last April but it never showed.”

Uh oh, so that’s what this was all about. And it was quite clear who was going to take the blame for the no show. “Ma’am, if the van never showed, I honestly wouldn’t know why. My own route usually keeps me in Massachusetts. I’m doing New Hampshire this month, for a friend. Did you call to ask what happened?”

“Of course I did, but I got the usual runaround. No one knew, said they’d investigate…blah…blah…blah.”

Maggie was taken aback. “They’re usually pretty good about those things. How about if I make some calls…when I’m back on my feet, I mean. I seem to have come down with the most god-awful cold.”

If the woman didn’t notice how sick she was, she did when Maggie went off into a spasm of sneezes. Retrieving a soggy wad of tissues from her pocket, Maggie blew her nose so loudly she sounded like a foghorn. Not that the old woman probably cared. She seemed more concerned with the absence of the medical van than extending Maggie any hospitality. Given the shape her feet were in, Maggie didn’t blame her. But she herself wasn’t in good shape, either.

“Look, ma’am,” Maggie explained on another nasally honk. “I guess I made a wrong turn somewhere, probably more than one,” she admitted grimly, “but at this point I have no choice but to find a motel. So, if you could point the way, the nearest one will do.”

“Gas…food…a motel room…” the old woman muttered. “I doubt I remember the last time we had a visitor, these parts.”

I can’t imagine why. But clenching her teeth, Maggie forced a determined smile. “That doesn’t bode well for me.”

“No, it doesn’t,” the old lady agreed, not an ounce of sympathy in her shrewd, rheumy eyes.

Chilled to the bone and feeling downright miserable, Maggie wanted a motel room badly, a dry bed on which to lay her aching head. She most certainly did not want to be stalled, which she suspected the old woman was doing—and thoroughly enjoying herself in the process. On the other hand, she didn’t want to alienate the one person who could point the way to a safe haven, if she so chose. Worse came to worst, Maggie supposed she could sleep in her van, but an uneasy glance out the window said that would be a worst-case scenario. It might be July, but it was pouring cats and dogs outside, and besides, sleeping in a van filled with medical supplies would be uncomfortable, not to mention cold. Not that she hadn’t slept in a car before, but she was seventeen at the time, and Tommy Lee had been a mighty warm blanket, and—Relinquishing the hope of a hot cup of tea, she pleaded her case one more time. “Look, ma’am—”

“The name is Louisa Haymaker. Ma’am makes me sound old.”

“Mrs. Haymaker, then,” Maggie apologized, feeling like Alice in Wonderland. “I’m cold and wet, tired and hungry. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m coming down with pneumonia. All things combined, I can’t possibly drive another mile. Surely there must be someplace around here I can stay. If credentials help…” Maggie hated to put herself forward, she hardly ever did, but this seemed an excellent time to trade on her position. Shifting her huge leather tote, she rummaged through her belongings until she pulled out a stethoscope, better than any business card, and dangled it in the air. “Did I mention that I was a doctor? Does that get me any points?”

Finally, a flicker of interest in those rheumy, old eyes! Flashing her Boston Mercy Hospital ID, Maggie rushed on. “Look, Mrs. Haymaker, my name is Doctor Margaret Tremont. I’m not feeling too well and I just want to go home, but since I can’t, I want a hotel.” Catching her breath, Maggie placed a twenty dollar bill on the counter. “I don’t think I paid you for the gas.”

Snakelike, Louisa Haymaker’s hand shot out to pocket the money. Maggie noticed she didn’t bother to offer any change. “And the name of a motel? If you could recommend one, I would be on my way.”

But whatever help Louisa Haymaker might have offered was interrupted by the unexpected crashing of the rickety screen door, which made them both jump. Shoulders hunched against the wind, a small boy rushed in, bringing with him violent gusts of cold air until he managed to slam shut the door.

“Louisa, where are you? We’re heeere!” The boy’s cheerful greeting in the face of the thunderstorm was heartwarming, and his careless trail of rainwater made Maggie smile, but it did nothing for Louisa Haymaker’s temper.

“Amos Burnside, how many times do I have to tell you not to slam that door! If it falls down—no, when it falls down—who’s going to fix it, I’d like to know? Just look at the mess you’re making!” she croaked, pointing with her cane at the water pooling at his feet.

Chagrined, the little boy looked down at the puddle his boots had made. The way his baseball hat covered his face, it was hard to tell, but Maggie wondered if he was about to cry. She judged him to about seven or eight years old, and his soft, high-pitched voice told her she was right.

“Louisa,” he protested. “I can’t help it if it’s raining.”

“Fine! You’re right, child. Look, we have a guest.”

Amos followed the direction of Louisa’s eyes. Shocked to see a stranger, he tugged free his hat to get a better look, startling Maggie with his head of silky, corn yellow hair.

“Who are you?” he asked, his shimmering blue eyes wide with surprise.

Surprised by his ethereal beauty, Maggie wondered who was responsible for this angel in desperate need of a haircut. “My name is Margaret Tremont,” she explained between two violent sneezes into the last of her dusty tissues. “But my friends call me Maggie.”

“You sure sneeze loud,” he said gravely.

“She’s sick, can’t you tell?” Louisa scolded him. “Young miss stopped for gas. She says she’s a doctor.”

Amos’ smile was an engaging confection of pure pleasure and unabashed curiosity. “Really? An honest-to-goodness real doctor?”

“Honest-to-goodness,” Maggie promised with a watery smile.

“Wow! Wait till I tell dad! I’mAmos Burnside, but my friends call me Amos,” he said with artless candor.

“Glad to meet you, Amos,” Maggie rasped. “Uh oh, I think I’m starting to lose my voice.”

“Louisa’s right, you do sound sick. If you’re a real doctor why don’t you make yourself better?”

“Amos, if I knew how to cure the common cold, I’d not only feel better, I’d be a rich woman.”

“My dad says that too, every time I get a cold! If I knew how to cure a cold would I be rich?”

“The richest boy on earth, my friend.”

“Well, then, maybe that’s what I’ll do when I grow up!”

My hat’s off to you, kid, Maggie murmured to herself. And if you could manage to do it by tomorrow, I would be grateful.

But Amos had moved on to new territory, in the way that children did. In one sentence, or less.

“WhatareyoudoinghereDoctortremontissomeonesickhowlongareyoustayingitsnotsafetodriveatnightintherainmydadsaysso—”

“Whoa, young man! That’s a lot of questions. Well, let’s see. No one is sick here that I know of—except me,” she explained with a small laugh. “I was on my way home—I live in Boston—when I got caught in the storm and stumbled into Mrs. Haymaker’s gas station. My good luck because I was nearly out of gas. I would be glad, as well, to stumble into a warm bed with a box of tissues! As a matter of fact, I was just asking Mrs. Haymaker directions to the nearest motel when you arrived.”

Amos turned to Louisa with a puzzled look. “Louisa, why didn’t you tell her about the cabins out back? Sorry, doctor, Louisa must have forgot because we don’t get many visitors to Primrose.” Amos smiled as if it were his fault. “You must have missed the sign.”

“I seem to have missed many signs,” Maggie said, sending Louisa a flinty look.

“Louisa owns the motel out back. It’s called Jack’s Haven, after Louisa’s husband, Mr. Jack, except he’s not her husband anymore because he’s dead, but he would be her husband if he were still alive. Wouldn’t he, Louisa?”

“Amos Burnside,” Louisa said, cool as a cucumber, “you know as well as anyone those cabins are unfit to rent. Cold as all get out, and damp, to boot,” she told Maggie firmly. “If you’re sick, you’ll want a better place to stay, somewhere warm, where the roof isn’t about to fall on your head.”

“Louisa, the roof isn’t going to fall down! Dad patched them just last week,” the boy reminded her. “Don’t you remember? I helped! And anyway, there is no other place to stay. If it really is that cold in the cabins, I’ll be glad to help you build a fire. Dad taught me how to do it last weekend when he took me camping and—”

If looks could kill, Amos would have been a photo in the old woman’s memory box, but there was nothing Louisa could do to stop the boy talking without embarrassing them both.

“I’d be glad to build you a fire, Doctor Tremont,” Amos promised Maggie with an earnest smile.

Biting her lip to keep from smiling, Maggie was all grave politeness. “Thank you, Amos. I would be grateful for your help.” Good lord, from what cloud had this child fallen?

“Well…” Louisa hesitated, but knew she had no choice. Maggie must be allowed to stay, unless Louisa wanted to make a scene. “I suppose it would be all right…for just one night.”

Maggie didn’t like that timeline, but if her foot was in the door, she would not ask for more. “Thank you, Mrs. Haymaker. The idea of driving to Bloomville was daunting, and the thought of sleeping in my car was…um…alarming.”

Amos was impressed. “You drove all the way from Bloomville?”

“No, I got lost looking for Bloomville,” Maggie explained. “I know from my map that Bloomville is not that far, only fifty miles or so, but with all the rain, I could hardly see the signs.”

“It’s far enough that I’ve only been there once,” Amos said mournfully.

“But how could that be?” Maggie asked with surprise. “It’s only on the other side of the mountain.”

“My dad goes once in a while, on an emergency, and to get groceries and stuff, but he never lets me go with him. He says there’s nothing there, that we have everything we want here at home. Rafe says—”

“Who is Rafe?” Maggie asked.

“Rafe is my dad. Sometimes I call him dad, and sometimes I call him Rafe. He’s getting Louisa’s groceries out of the truck. Rafe says that people who leave home sometimes lose their way back. Like my mom. She left when I was a baby and we never saw her again. Rafe says—”

“Amos!” Louisa snapped, visibly alarmed at the boy’s indiscretions. “I don’t think—”

But before Louisa could explain further, the door swung wide and a rain-drenched man strode through the door, bringing with him the scent of wet leaves and damp wool. Tall as he was broad, he moved with grace as he slammed shut the door with his boot heel, his arms balancing three brown bags filled to overflowing with groceries.

“Amos,” the man said, his voice admonishing yet gentle at the same time, “you sure did disappear in a hurry. You were supposed to see if Louisa was awake, then come back and help me with these groceries.”

Maggie was intrigued by the low timbre of the gentle voice that still managed to sound stern. But whereas Amos Burnside was a ray of sunlight on this dreary, gray day, his father—it could be no other—was a rough caricature of beauty, his weather-beaten face a maze of deep creases and a day-old beard beneath a battered gray, felt hat.

And Maggie could not stop looking.

A silky black curtain, his long, dark hair clung damply to his forehead. His eyes were black coals beneath a thick, black brow. His nose was strong and straight, and a square jutting jaw lent him a sensual, masculine air. If his stained denim jeans and mud-splattered work boots weren’t enough evidence of a life led outdoors, his bulky plaid jacket added to the impression. But it was the size of him that was most remarkable. Standing at about six feet two, and maybe half as wide, he was one of those men who insinuated with pure, male presence. Maggie guessed there was probably no space he wouldn’t dominate.

Something in the air must have revealed her presence because, suddenly on the alert, Rafe turned in her direction, still clutching the brown bags. Finding her, his eyes grew wide and he fixed her with a searching look, his demeanor changing with his discovery. His fierce frown didn’t help to disguise his annoyance, either. Maggie tried to smile, but he wasn’t buying into it. Watching his mouth work itself into a thin line of displeasure, she felt herself flush with embarrassment. But it was too late. She was a butterfly pinned by a single glance from his piercing blue eyes. Eyes that were at once outraged, contemptuous, and yet…revealed a concentration of interest. Surely it was the same look that Adam sent Eve when he stumbled on her for the first time.

Maggie’s immediate impression was that no happiness lived here, that the sway of Rafe’s shoulders was too stiff, that something about this man said he had aged too quickly. Maybe it was the way he moved…slowly…as if it took great effort—not precisely a careless restraint, but perhaps a result of indifference. But something told Maggie that where this man stood had once been beauty—happiness, too, maybe—even if it were only the vaguest shadow dance, now. Maggie marveled that she saw so much at once, and dismissed herself as fanciful. No doubt it was the reason her breath had caught in her lungs.

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.

“You know, that gorgeous sun…It would be nice to sit outside a while. Only a few minutes,” she said quickly, when she saw him frown.

“I suppose,” he shrugged. “If you managed to walk to the shower…It is July, after all. Your being a doctor, you would know what’s best.”

His irony not lost on her, Rafe set Maggie’s valise on the bed and told her he’d wait outside. Minutes later Maggie joined him, wearing clean jeans and wrapped in a blue wool sweater. Settling in a wornAdirondack chair, she leaned back and sighed happily. “Hmm, just what the doctor ordered. Sunshine, the best medicine.”

Almost, she could feel him frown. “Are you really a doctor?”

“Really and truly,” she promised. “I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me that.”

“Maybe it’s because you look so young,” he said, staring thoughtfully at her red toenails as they peeked from beneath her sandals.

Maggie blushed. Compliments about her looks came rarely, and she was never sure how to accept them. And then, she wasn’t even sure he had complimented her. His voice had sounded approving, but carried a gruff quality she could not account for.

Maggie had Rafe’s approval, even if she didn’t know it. The freckles dusting her pale cheeks, her pointy chin high, a smile on her pink lips, Maggie had no idea how appealing she looked. She had always disparaged her unruly brown curls, but watching them gleam in the sunlight, admiring their red and gold glints, Rafe thought she looked…nice. Not that he cared. He didn’t care. It was just a thought.

“Where’s Amos?” she asked, her face tilted to the warm sun.

“Busy.”

“Oh, right. His chores. I forgot. But isn’t it Sunday?”

“Cows don’t know about Sunday.” Rafe snorted. “Or Christmas, or the Fourth of July, for that matter. They just know they like to get milked.”

“When does he have time to play, with all those chores to do?”

“When his chores are done. It’s good for kids to have responsibilities. It’s only two cows. When he’s done, he’s going canoeing with his friends.”

“No canoe trips for you?” Maggie smiled.

“Not in years,” Rafe said, his eyes flat and unreadable.

“Does that mean that you took time from your own chores to deliver that stew?”

“I can handle the extra load. I’ll finish up my chores as soon as I leave here. What about you? Now that you’re on the mend, don’t you have a schedule to keep, somewhere to be?”

“Trying to get rid of me already, Mr. Burnside?” Maggie grinned. “Watch out you don’t hurt my feelings.”

“You were supposed to be here in April, so I thought maybe—”

“Mr. Burnside, you mistake the matter. If you are referring to the medical van, I wasn’t supposed to be here, or anywhere near here, and furthermore, I have no idea what happened to the van, last April, as I’ve already explained to Louisa. But I swear,” she said, plainly exasperated, “first thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to call the office and find out what’s going on. I hope to be able to satisfy everyone concerned,” she added pointedly.

“People have a right to health care,” Rafe insisted. “We pay our taxes just like the folk in Bloomville—who just got a fancy, new hospital, by the way—so we have a right to expect the van to show up when it’s supposed to. This isn’t the kind of town where you can get on a bus and go see your doctor. There is no doctor. A town like Primrose—” Rafe hesitated “—a town like Primrose has special needs. I just want to see them met. Like a visit from the van, now and then. We’re not asking for a hospital, or even a clinic. A thing like that brings complications.”

“Complications?”

“Bureaucracy…government officials asking dumb questions…five tons of paperwork to fill out just to remove a splinter…that sort of thing. But a visit from the van, time to time, that would be nice. Anything really serious, we go to Bloomville.”

Surprised by Rafe’s passionate outburst, Maggie didn’t know what to say. “Mr. Burnside, when I call the department, maybe I can get them to juggle my schedule and let me stay.”

“They should, if they know what’s fair,” Rafe said quietly.

“I can only try,” she warned.

“Don’t worry, I won’t count on it.” Rafe shrugged impatiently as he Rose to his feet. “Well, seeing as how you are finally able to move about, I don’t think you’ll be needing me anymore. Louisa says to tell you she’ll provide you with your meals until you leave. Another day or so, and you’ll feel your old self again.”

“Gee, thanks,” she murmured. “Just what I want, to feel like, my old self.”

And almost, Maggie thought, astonished by the sight, almost Rafe’s lips twitched. But no, that couldn’t be. She might not know Rafe Burnside very long, but intuition told her that laughing was alien to the man.

Maggie watched as Rafe headed for his truck, a mud-splattered red Ford that had been new in another lifetime. His long denim-clad legs made short work of the muddy path, his dusty boots were a sure step on the rough road. Truly, he was a son of the soil. A lonely man doing a lonely job, she mused as she watched him drive away, his battered gray hat shielding his eyes. All those hours alone, clearing land, seeding, harvesting his apples, threshing (whatever that was), milking cows, cleaning out the barn…What did he think about, perched high on his tractor day after day, hour after hour, row after row? How many times had he conquered the world in his imagination? Or did he only think about the price of seed, whether his son was going to need a new pair of boots the coming winter? Or perhaps he had no imagination; maybe he just emptied his mind and let his thoughts float on the wind. Row after row, endlessly, every season. It made her wonder if she could do it. It made her wonder why he did.

Dozing in the late afternoon sun, Maggie had the strangest dream about a tall, suntanned man, cornstalks, and endless fields of soft, green clover tickling her bare feet. She was almost disappointed when Louisa woke her, tapping on her shoulder in the twilight of the evening. “Wake up, Miss Tremont. I thought you might want to join me for dinner. Nothing fancy, but I didn’t think you’d turn down a hot meal.”

Her offer was a welcome invitation to Maggie’s growling stomach. “You’re right, Louisa, I wouldn’t. Rafe Burnside mentioned you had offered to feed me.”

Louisa was surprised. “Rafe was here?”

“That he was,” Maggie said as she stretched herself awake. “Earlier this afternoon.”

“Strange. I wasn’t expecting him.”

“He brought me some Scotch broth.”

“How interesting,” Louisa murmured.

“It was delicious! Unfortunately, I couldn’t eat too much, but not for want of trying. My stomach just wasn’t ready.”

Following the old woman’s lumbering steps down the path, Maggie listened to Louisa’s cane tapping on the uneven slate pavement. Since the rain had stopped, the path had become less muddy, but it was still a slippery slope. She wondered how safe it was for Louisa to live alone but didn’t like to pry. She had made enough demands on the poor lady.

Louisa’s home turned out to be a small apartment situated above the store. Following the old woman up a rickety flight of stairs, Maggie was welcomed into a living room filled with a lifetime of memories and mementoes.

“How nice,” she said, taking a close look at the fading pictures on the wall.

“If I had a housekeeper, now that would be nice,” Louisa chuckled as she set a pitcher of iced tea on the kitchen table. Set for two with pretty, speckled blue dinner plates, Louisa apparently hadn’t expected a refusal. The tumblers were old jelly jars, and the forks and knives had long since lost their sheen, but the tablecloth was snow white. And whatever Louisa was cooking smelled terrific.

“Beef stew,” she announced, as she placed a hot pot on a trivet in the center of the table.

Maggie was thrilled. “That smells amazing! It’s been a hundred years since I had a home-cooked meal, and now, two in one day, I feel spoiled. Although I have to warn you, my stomach is not up to par.”

“Eat what you can. I won’t take offense.”

“Good. Then I’ll start with that terrific-looking bread,” Maggie said, reaching for a thick slice. “Back home, I eat mostly cafeteria food. I spend a lot of time at the hospital,” she explained when she saw Louisa’s questioning look. “Boston Mercy Hospital. That’s where my office is. I have a small private practice, too.”

“So, you run around a lot. No family?”

“No family,” Maggie admitted.

“It sounds lonely,” Louisa observed.

Maggie was startled. Sometimes it was, but how could Louisa know? Disconcerted, her thoughts wandered as she buttered her bread. It was true. Although she had not put it into so many words, loneliness was at the core of her dissatisfaction, many months, now. It had begun to manifest when she allowed herself to be talked into mountain climbing—when she knew darned well she hated hiking! It had been the reason she had joined a gym, wondering if she needed more exercise. It was the reason she had joined a book club, thinking that perhaps she needed the intellectual stimulation. She knew she needed something, she just didn’t know what, was only sure of a restlessness come upon her, the last year or so.

“Is this bread homemade?” she asked, wanting to escape her somber thoughts.

“Sourdough,” Louisa said, unaware of the nerve she had hit. “My mother taught me how to bake bread. I’ve been doing it longer than I care to remember.”

“Well, she did a good job,” Maggie approved. “This is heavenly. I take it you were born here in Primrose?”

“Most folk hereabouts were.”

“Rafe and Amos, too?”

Louisa nodded.

“And Amos’ mother?”

“That one,” Louisa huffed. “Long gone, is Mrs. Rose Burnside. She left soon after Amos was born, seven years ago. Stayed around long enough to wean her baby, then, whoosh, disappeared into the night.”

Maggie was shocked. “She left her baby? Where did she go?”

Louisa shrugged her massive shoulders. “Don’t ask me. No one knows.”

“Not even Rafe?”

“If he does, he isn’t saying. So many questions…” Louisa tsked.

“Oh, come on, Louisa,” Maggie protested. “I stumble into a town that hasn’t had a visitor in months—your words—somehow, I feel compelled to ask questions.”

“I suppose, but Rafe would hate knowing we were talking about him. Not that there’s all that much to tell. He came in from the fields one day looking for his dinner and found a note instead, Rose gone, and all his savings, too. A year later, he got a big, brown envelope from some fancy law office. Divorce papers. He never heard from Rose again.”

“But that’s so sad.”

“Abandoning your baby is sad, too.”

“I suppose,” Maggie agreed slowly. “But—”

“No buts about it, dearie. To tell the truth, though, there were signs, Rafe just didn’t want to see them. You ever hear the phrase a fool for love? Well, that was Rafe Burnside. See, Rose wasn’t like everyone else. She was beautiful, movie-star beautiful, and didn’t she know it. Long blond hair and big, blue eyes will do it every time. Always hounding the postman to deliver her those movie star magazines from Bloomville. Then she’d spend all her time reading them, cover to cover, copying the hairstyles, doing her nails—and not much else! Not that having clean nails is a bad thing.” Louisa laughed as she sliced them more bread. “But it was suspicious-like, you know? Only, Rafe couldn’t see it. And another thing. Of course, it’s only my opinion,” she said low, even though there was no one else to hear, “but I think she married Rafe for his money! Think what you will, child, but money is mighty important to those that don’t have. Poor as church mice, her family was. And Rafe had just finished building himself a sweet log cabin up in the hills. Real handsome too, he was, in his younger days. A big, strapping lad…Like my Jack,” she sighed, but quickly shook away the past. “Anyway, ten months after they got hitched she had that baby, but she was gone soon after Amos was born. I guess that log cabin wasn’t to her liking.”

Poor Rafe. Poor Rose. Poor kids, both of them. Married so young…Then, suddenly, a baby on the way…

Rafe…Rose…Amos…Three shattered lives. Part of the fabric of a town that wasn’t even on a map.

“So, Louisa, what do you think?” The words popped out of Maggie’s mouth before she could stop them, as she stood at the kitchen sink a few days later, soaping up the breakfast dishes. She did not want to give the old woman extra work if she could help it.

Having called her office, Maggie now awaited their decision whether she should remain in Primrose and provide the medical care the town had missed. But beyond that, no matter what her office decided, she decided to spend another few days in Primrose. To recuperate, she told Louise. To catch up on her sleep, finish the murder mystery buried somewhere in her van. It might have had to do, too, with the long walks she’d been taking around the beautiful countryside. Perhaps, too, the simple pleasure she found having breakfast in the early morning sun. But suddenly, and she could not explain it even to herself, she was in no hurry to return to Boston. So, she watched as Louisa toddled around her kitchen, wondering if she could read the answer in the old woman’s stooped shoulders. Maggie had a vague feeling that the opportunity to act the mother hen might appeal to the elderly woman, that and the fact that the old woman was starved for company. She waited quietly as the old woman mulled things over, watched as Louisa wiped down the kitchen table and put away the salt shaker.

“I suppose it would be okay,” Louisa began slowly.

Having learned a little about Louisa, Maggie knew to wait quietly as the old woman chose her words. Maggie detected a note of shyness in her voice. “I mean, why own a motel, if you don’t want guests?”

A good question. Maggie had wondered the very same thing herself.

“A paying guest at that,” Louisa observed. “I’ve had some that scooted away in the middle of the night,” she explained. “But I can tell you’re not the type.”

Maggie shook her head. “Not the type, no,” she promised as they settled the matter.

Two more days’ rest and Maggie was her old self again. Her nose still betrayed the occasional sniffle, and her cough would probably linger for another week or so, but her energy was back, full throttle. And she had good news to impart. Her office had agreed she should remain in Primrose a few weeks and offer the town the medical care they had missed the previous spring.

“The head office was mortified when I spoke to them, and more than willing to rectify the error.”

“And so they should,” Louisa sniffed. “I’m glad they had the decency to fess up. And I’m glad it’s you who’ll be doing the doctoring.”

“I’m glad you’re glad.” Maggie grinned over a cup of chamomile tea she had brewed in Louisa’s tiny kitchen. Having now shared a number of meals there, Maggie had grown comfortable moving about, and Louisa had given her free rein.

“Look, Maggie, I’m an old woman. I’ve lived in this town all my life. I don’t know anything else, except that I’d like to know that Primrose will survive me. Is that so wrong?”

“Of course not,” Maggie protested. “But you needn’t talk like that. It was just a fluke that they missed the last medical rotation here.”

“It’s more than that. In a nutshell, we’re too isolated,” Louisa said promptly. “We always have been. It’s okay to be a one-horse town, it preserves your heritage, and all—I know that—but isolation has its price, and the price for Primrose has been its decline. Plain and simple, we’re sinking into poverty. Maybe once it was okay to farm only, but not any longer. The town is dying, and that’s a fact.”

According to the old woman, and she admitted that her memory might be faulty, quite a few babies had been born last spring. Well, they ought to be vaccinated, but they hadn’t yet been. Although many townspeople came to town when the medical van came by, many did not. There were four, possibly five babies somewhere up in the mountains that needed their shots. Finding them would be difficult, too. But it wasn’t only a matter of babies and vaccines; they were all in need of better health care. Her swollen legs were a prime example.

And there were countless other things, Louisa sighed.

Their lone school teacher was looking very peaky of late. Or maybe she was just getting old. After all, Ella was turning seventy-one next month.

The main road was in dire need of paving. So, even if Maggie wanted to stay and help, the roads were difficult to travel.

“We have to do something, pull things together somehow, plan for the next generation. I was thinking that maybe, while you were doing the clinic you could take some sort of survey, get some idea of what everyone’s thinking.”

“Louisa, why would the townsfolk talk to me? They don’t know me, much less trust me, and after what happened with the van in April, I doubt if anyone here is inclined to confide in me.”

Louisa looked at her blandly. “True,” she said slowly, then brightened with a new thought. “But they’d talk to Rafe Burnside! They’d talk to him!”

“But you would have to get Rafe to help me, and from things he said, I would be surprised if he had any spare time.”

“Never mind that. He’d do it, if I asked him, and it’s only for a few days. If we gave him some sort of schedule I’m sure he could work around it. People have enormous respect for Rafe. They would definitely talk to him. Besides, some people won’t know the van is here, so you’re going to have to do some traveling to the outlying farms, and he could help you do that. Yes, getting Rafe to help you would be an excellent start.”

Stifling a sigh, Rafe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Louisa’s just feeling her age.”

Intent on persuading Rafe, Maggie had cornered him the very next day, when he stopped for gas, winning him over with a glass of Louisa’s homemade lemonade.

“Here, have another glass. She left me a whole pitcher, insisted it was a curative. She said in her day a real doctor would have prescribed a mustard plaster for a cold. A real doctor, indeed!” Maggie laughed, shading her eyes against the July sun that beat down as they sat outside Maggie’s cabin. “Louisa’s lemonade is so tart it could probably kill every germ in your body, including your white blood cells! As a real doctor, I know this for a fact!”

Watching Rafe’s long fingers hug the frosty glass, Maggie marveled at her ability to make small talk. It had been a few days since she’d last seen him, and she hadn’t known him much longer than that, but he did something to her insides that she couldn’t explain. Watching him drink the tart lemonade in two long draughts, his firm jaw working, his Adam’s apple bobbing…Babbling was the least of her problems. Lit by the sun, his carved, granite face seemed to take on a softer contour. His body in repose made a compelling argument for outdoor work. She wondered what time he started his day, and was sorry to bring him grief, since it was evident he did not want to hear what she was going to say.

“Rafe, yesterday, over breakfast, Louisa confided in me some of the things that are going on in Primrose.”

Rafe handed Maggie the empty tumbler with a quizzical look.

“Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger,” she explained. “She’s very concerned and insists that the town has some big issues to deal with.”

Rafe drew his hat over his eyes. Another dogooder lands her angel wings in town. His disgust knew no bounds, even if he felt the faint tug of attraction for Maggie. Sure she was cute, cuter than most, but she was still only after one thing, to stir up the pot, make herself feel good, leave as soon as the hot water ran out. These government people had no staying power. Not many people did, he reminded himself grimly. Why then, should he put himself out? Pretty red toenails didn’t mean squat, where he came from. Of course, if she wanted some action…Rafe laughed to himself, about himself. Damned ugly old farmer, go look in a mirror. What would she want with you? So he sighed for what could have been, and ignored Maggie’s pretty toes.

“Like I said, Louisa’s just feeling her age. She and I already had this conversation, when she called my house, last night. I told her straight out that I didn’t have time. Anyway, she worries too much.”

But Maggie would not be so easily dismissed. “Listen, cowboy, it’s not fair to brush Louisa off that way. She has legitimate concerns about Primrose. Oh, and just so you know, I got a call, too, early this morning. My office is letting me stay awhile and make amends to the town.”

“A generous offer, considering you are a doctor.”

“For your information, I do not run the program!” she snapped. “Someone else determines the schedule, and we have a very small staff that covers six states. Like I said, I’m going to stay a week or two, to help out, but I refuse to play the blame game. Louisa, on the other hand, was talking about the town’s survival. She has a shopping list, too, a big one. New roads, a new schoolhouse, and a new teacher to put it to use. But mostly she talked about how the town was on the brink of ruin. She’s very concerned about that, and wants to find ways to raise revenue. She has some good ideas, too.”

“And you’ve been here how long?” Rafe drawled, lifting his hat to send her a searching look. “Three days?”

“I know.” Maggie blushed. “I sound like a know-it-all, but I was only her sounding board. Still, she’s right to be concerned. Nothing lasts forever. Things change…people…Towns do, too.”

“Yeah, and people come and go, too.”

Maggie winced at the bitterness she heard in Rafe’s voice, sighed too, for the discouraging message he sent. She didn’t blame him for not trusting her, a perfect stranger charging into his life, but on the other hand, Louisa had chosen her, not the other way around. She was determined not to be cowed. “Look, Rafe, could we please keep this simple? Louisa thinks there were about half a dozen babies born last winter and they haven’t had their shots. She knows who they are, but she says I need someone to take me around, that they are not going to necessarily know I’m here, and that finding their homes could take me forever.”

“You like children?” It was a statement more than a question.

“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Very much,” she admitted.

“But you have none of your own? No Prince Charming ever swept you off your feet?”

“Prince Charming? Are you serious? Does he actually exist?”

“No more than Cinderella, I guess.”

Maggie laughed. “Well, the answer is, no, I never married. I don’t go to many balls in my line of work.”

“Don’t know the last one I was at either, now that I think about it.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Maggie said. “I can’t have children. A massive infection saw to that a long time ago.”

“Oh.” Rafe frowned. “Well, that’s too bad.”

“It happens.” Maggie shrugged, a distant look in her eyes. “It was a long time ago. I’ve come to terms with it. Although I would have liked to have gone to a ball. Things work out how they will.” She shrugged.

“That they do,” Rafe agreed quietly.

They sat for a minute or so until Rafe rose to leave.

“So, what about Louisa’s idea that you could help introduce me around?”

“You do know I have a farm to run, don’t you?”

“If we did it, now, before the harvest…”

Rafe smiled. “And what would you know about the harvest?”

“I know it’s not in July.” Maggie grinned, refusing to be goaded.

“Oh, really? Ever hear about putting up the hay, little girl?”

Little girl? Maggie blushed. So what if Rafe was six feet plus? At five feet eight, no one had ever called her little! And it was totally sexist, although she had a hunch Rafe wouldn’t have cared, if she told him. So then, what was there about it she liked? Because she was feeling mighty pleased with the world, at just that moment.

“Okay, Mr. Burnside, so what I don’t know about farming could fill a book, but I’m not quite as ignorant as you would like to think. I was born and raised in a mill town set in the middle of dairy country. Isn’t that near enough to farmland?”

“And that makes you know something about something?”

“Something, anyway.” Maggie grinned. “Look, Rafe, how about we cut a deal? You help me get the neighborhood inoculated and I’ll help you on the farm. I know it’s too early to pick apples but maybe I could mow the lawn, weed or hay? Whatever.”

Rafe looked down at her hands. “Those pretty pink nails are going to take quite a beating.”

Maggie spread her hands wide. “You think?”

“I know!”

“Gloves?”

“They’ll help some.”

Maggie shrugged. She’d take her chances.

Chapter Four

After a short discussion with Louisa as to which families Maggie should visit, Maggie and Rafe made arrangements to meet the next morning. Rafe figured the whole job wouldn’t take more than a couple of days. Moreover, he insisted they use his truck, arguing that Maggie’s van would never survive the back roads.

“It always has before,” Maggie argued, but Rafe would not be moved.

“I have no intention of changing a tire on a narrow, rock-strewn road just because you want to be stubborn.”

“Excuse me?”

Maggie almost stomped her foot, but Rafe had already walked away. So they spent the first half of the next morning sorting through her equipment, transferring her most essential supplies to his pickup.

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