The Farmer Takes a Wife

A Silhouette Special Edition

Release date: September 2007

            Excerpt from this book

Chapter One

               Her windshield wipers on high, Maggie tried not to panic as she nudged her van closer to the shoulder of the road, struggling not to veer off the narrow mountain pass.  Using cuss words she didn't know existed, 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.  Not that she didn't always say that when things got complicated, but a hair raising drive through the rain swept mountains of New Hampshire was not her idea of a good time, even in July.  The tense lines between her eyes, the grim, downward turn of her mouth told the tale better than any words could.  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 right just then, 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, with no cell phone reception, her thermos on 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.

The nightmare drive worsening with every bolt of lightening and crack of thunder, she was coming on to 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 grey rain, but yes, it was a tatty sign propped against a low limbed tree, its post long since rotted.  Its white paint was peeling, and half its letters missing, but it was a road sign nonetheless, and with it, the promise of civilization:

           Pr mr  s

                                                                           3   il s

                 Primrose?  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. 

Three miles it was.  Ten more minutes, barely able to sketch the lone, battered gas pump just visible through the pouring rain, Maggie 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 pump was operable, if only another human being was around to offer her company.  Leaning across the passenger seat to peer out the 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 windows of the store looming past the pump were 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, she left the shelter of the van to dash through the summer storm. 

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 that no one answered, Maggie jiggled the door knob, relieved when it gave way.  Maybe the OPEN sign was for real.  Her chattering teeth propelled her forward but she was careful to remain just within the doorway, not wanting to make puddles.  The musty odor that greeted her was a message of stale disuse.  Even from a distance, she could tell that the meager supply of shelved merchandise was coated with a thin layer of dust.  A narrow Formica counter-once light blue, maybe-bordered the far side of the shop, littered with yellow newspapers, while a makeshift ash tray threatened to overflow.  A hundred years of soda cans crammed 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 any fear for her safety.  Boldly, she flipped a nearby light switch, grateful when it lit the drab shop 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 louder than her shouts.

“I assume you're planning to pay for that.”

Startled, Maggie turned to see an elderly, thickset woman materialize from behind a ragged green curtain that was once called velvet.  A heavy gray braid haloed her forehead, while her hollow eyes were brown pebbles in a pasty face that hadn't seen fresh air in months. 

“Hello.”  Maggie managed a polite smile.  “I was just passing through and stopped for gas.  Well, passing through might be a bit of an over statement.  I think I'm lost.”

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

Maggie's answer was a light, sing song laugh.  “Okay, yes, I'm pretty sure I'm lost.  I was heading home to Boston, and took a wrong turn, I guess, 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 Primrose but I'm not entirely sure.  I don't know New Hampshire all that well."

The old woman's response was a silent, owlish blink.  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 sat herself down in an old rocker.  Maggie's heart went out to her, although 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.  “These old legs stopped serving gas a long time ago.  I've only got high test, though.  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 nodded, 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 were any indication.

                  “Well, then, if you don't mind, I'll 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 hoody 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, although what she could possibly see through those filthy windows was beyond Maggie.  Maggie 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?” 

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 a 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, I am.  I'm surprised you could read the sign through the rain."

“My eyesight isn't gone yet, young lady."

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

“Mayhap. 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 around corners," she said acerbically.

Maggie almost laughed but caught herself in time.  The woman might be cranky but she seemed to have a sense of humor.  "So I guess 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!  Last April.”

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.  But l would be happy to investigate.  Did anyone here call to ask what happened?"

"Of course we did, but we got the usual run around.  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 Maggie was, she did when Maggie went off into a spasm of sneezes.  Retrieving a soggy wad of tissues from her pocket, she blew her nose loudly, not caring that 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 had just completed my circuit and was on my way home to Boston-making pretty good time, too-until it started to rain.  I guess I made a wrong turn somewhere, probably more than one,” she admitted grimly.  “At this point, though, 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 see 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 head.  She most certainly did not want to be stalled or to play games, which she suspected the old woman might be doing.  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 worse, she supposed she could sleep in her van, but a worried glance out the window said that would be a worse case scenario.  It might be July, but it was pretty wet 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,” Maggie corrected herself slowly, “I'm cold and wet, tired and hungry, and 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 some place around here I can stay.  If credentials help…”  She hated to put herself forward, she hardly ever did, but this seemed a good time to trade on her credentials.  Rifling through her belongings, she pulled out a stethoscope, better than any business card she ever knew, and dangled it in the air.  “Did I mention that I was a Doctor?  Does that make me a safe bet?”

Finally, a flicker of interest in those rheumy, old eyes!  Flashing her Boston Mercy Hospital i.d., Maggie rushed on.  “Look, Mrs. Haymaker, my name is Doctor Margaret Tremont and I'm not feeling too well and I just want to go home, but since I can't I want a hotel.  I suppose you think I should have driven more carefully and watched the signs better but what with the rain, and all…I didn't.”  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 wide of the rickety screen door that made them both jump.  Shoulders hunched against the wind, a small boy rushed in, bringing with him a violent gust of cold air before he managed to slam shut the door. 

“Louisa, where are you?  We're heeere!”  His cheerful greeting in the face of the thunderstorm was cheering, and his careless trail of rain water made her 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!  And 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 were making.  The way his baseball hat covered his face, it was hard to tell, but Maggie 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.”

Louisa made a face.  “Oh, never mind, child!  Look, we have a guest.”

Amos followed the direction of Louisa's nod.  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 and pale blue eyes.

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

Surprised by his sweet smile, Maggie wondered who was responsible for this angel in desperate need of a haircut.  “My name is Margaret Tremont,” she explained dully 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 told 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?”  Amos' astonishment was almost tangible.

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

“Wow!  Wait till I tell my dad.  I'm Amos 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 get yourself better?”

“Amos, if I knew how to cure duh common cold, I'd nod 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, laddy, 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.   

“WhatareyoudoinghereDoctortremontissomeonesickhowlongareyoustayingitsnotsafetodriveatnightintherainmydadsayso-”

“Whoa, young man!  Thad'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.  My warning light had just lit up.  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 came in.”

Amos turned to Louisa with a puzzled look.  “Louisa, didn't you tell her about the cabins out back?  Sorry, Doctor Tremont, 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 a flinty look to Louisa.

Louisa ignored Maggie's glare for one of her own, sent directly to the boy.  But Maggie had to hand it to the old woman, because, whatever she was thinking, she apparently decided not to give it voice. 

"Louisa here owns the motel out back.  It's called Jack's Haven, after Louisa's husband, Mr. Jack, except he's not her husband any more 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,” he 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 build her 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 Louisa's memory box, but there was nothing she could do to stop the chatty little boy without embarrassing them both.

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

Good lord, from what cloud had this child fallen?  Biting her lip to keep from smiling, Maggie was all grave politeness.  “Thank

 you, Amos.  I would be grateful if you did.” 

“Well…”  Louisa hesitated, but knew she had no choice but to allow Maggie to stay, unless she 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.  “Bloomville is not that far, only fifty miles or so, but with all the rain, I could barely see the signs." 

“It's far enough that I've only been there once or twice,” Amos said slowly. 

“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, or to get groceries, but he hardly ever 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.  Anyway, Rafe says that people who leave home sometimes loose their way back. Like my mom.  She left when I was a baby and never came back.  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 huge man strode through the door, bringing with him the scent of wet leaves and damp wool.  Tall as he was broad, he moved with surprising grace as he slammed the door shut against the blustery wind with his boot heel, his arms balancing three brown bags filled to overflowing with groceries.

“Amos, you sure did disappear in a hurry," the man scolded the boy.  "You were supposed to see if Louisa was awake and then come back and help 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, grey 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. 

And Maggie could not stop looking. 

Long, dark hair clung damply to his forehead, a silky black curtain brushing his thick, black brow.  His nose was strong and straight, while 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, certainly 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, still clutching the brown bags, Rafe turned in her direction, suddenly on the alert.  Finding her, his eyes grew wide with surprise.  He fixed her with a swift, searching look, his whole demeanor changing with his discovery.  His fierce frown didn't help to disguise his annoyance, either.  Not that he seemed to care.  Maggie tried to smile, but he wasn't buying into it.  Watching his mouth rework 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.