Farmer Takes A Wife (Silhouette Special Edition #1852) [NOOK Book]

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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 rainswept 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 abox 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.Itwas 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.
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.
piration 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."