The Farmer Takes A Wife. Barbara Gale

      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