Barbara Gale - The Farmer Takes A Wife

“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.”

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!”