The Farmer Takes A Wife. Barbara Gale

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.