matter what that grumpy man said, Louisa Haymaker was interested in clients, if that scraggly pot of flowers standing by the door was any indication. The poor woman had obviously tried to bring some color to the otherwise dreary establishment.
Swinging wide the cabin door, Maggie hurried into the cabin. It was a shabby room that had seen better days, but she hadn’t been expecting much. The bed was covered with a worn chenille spread, the curtains dusty, the furniture stained. Across the room, kneeling by the fireplace, Amos was trying valiantly to light the smokiest fire she had ever seen. Coughing loudly, she hoped the sound would herald an end to his struggle. Amos scrambled to his feet, embarrassed, but full of pluck.
“Don’t you worry, miss, I’ll have this fire lit in a jiffy,” he promised as he worked some kindling into a fresh bundle.
“Maybe you want to use some paper, too, Amos. Those sticks look a bit moldy. What do you think?”
“Rafe says that using paper to start a fire is cheating.”
“Your father has a lot of opinions,” Maggie said neutrally.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. He’s the smartest man in Primrose. Everyone says so.”
“Do tell,” Maggie murmured as she discovered the heating unit that stood beneath the window. Raising the metal lid that covered the controls, she flipped the switch that indicated heat and was rewarded with a short, loud bang, a few clickety clacks, and finally, a low hum. Holding her hand over the feeble jet of air, she actually felt something resembling warmth. Turning to Amos, she sent him a rascally smile. “That’s cheating, Amos, and you may tell your father I said so!”
“You may tell him so yourself,” she heard a deep voice grumble.
Maggie turned to find Rafe Burnside looming in the doorway, holding the valise she had abandoned. He probably didn’t even know he was looming, but there could be no other word, he was such a big man. A big, grim man.
“I found your bag sitting in a mud puddle.”
Maggie watched as he strode into the cabin, casting a long shadow that seemed to block out the cheap plastic furniture, the dingy yellow wallpaper, the frayed blue carpet. His lanky body stood out in stark relief, and when he brushed past, to set her muddy valise near the bed, he carried the scent of the woodlands. Unnerved by the impact he had on her, Maggie strove for a semblance of normality, digging for it in the bottom of her bag.
“Here, Amos, please let me give you something for all your help,” she said pulling out her wallet. “I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”
His eyes angry slits, Rafe froze her with a curt warning. “Amos doesn’t need your money, Doctor Tremont. Whatever the boy does, he does out of kindness.”
Embarrassed, Maggie quickly backed off. “I didn’t mean to insult anyone. I just thought—”
Whatever she was going to say didn’t matter because Rafe was gone, out the door before she could finish her sentence. Amos scrambled to his feet to follow his dad, but not before he left with one last sunny smile. “Good night, Doctor Tremont.”
“Thank you, Amos. Good night. It was so nice to meet you.”
Then Amos was gone, too, following hard on his father’s footsteps. Maggie watched from the cabin door as they climbed in their truck, listened as Rafe turned on the ignition and drove away, until the only thing visible was the distant flicker of red taillights, a blur in the pouring rain.
Leaning against the doorjamb, Maggie took a moment to catch her breath. What on earth had just happened? What made her heart beat so fast? Surely not the sight of a grown man in desperate need of a shave? Suddenly her whole world was askew, hostage to new emotions. Worrying that her nose wasn’t quite as chapped! Wondering whether her bedraggled state was that off-putting. Wondering when she was going to see that dreadful man again because, no matter what he thought of her, she found herself suddenly consumed with thoughts of a total stranger!
Primrose. The town that time forgot.
Standing in the middle of a drafty, moldy cabin, shaking her damp curls free of their confining clip, Maggie had a hunch that whoever named the town had been generous. To be named after a flower was unlooked for charity whose bounty had been repaid a long time ago. Certainly there was nothing charitable in the angry scowl of a bitter man.
When Maggie woke early next morning, the room heater had warmed and dried the air, but the rain outside was still an unpleasant patter that didn’t know it was July. It was the drippy faucet her nose had become, not to mention her raging headache, and aches and pains, that said there was no way she was leaving her bed. The doctor who cured everyone else had finally succumbed to her patients’ ailments. One too many coughing, wheezy patient had finally done her in. Ignoring her own health had been a big mistake, she could see that now. What else could you say when you were stuck in the middle of nowhere with a respiratory-tract infection and not a cup of tea in sight? Too drained to even use the bathroom, she burrowed back beneath the warm covers, clutching a handful of soggy tissue to her nose. At some point, a glass was pressed to her lips and she obeyed the gruff voice commanding her to drink. Tea, sweetened with honey, a balm to her burning throat. But no matter how much the gruff voice ordered, she could not manage more than a few sips. Her strength was negligible and she sank back into a deep sleep, unaware of the calloused hand that gently brushed her damp hair from her cheek. She figured she had dreamed it, had imagined, too, the scent of pine that floated on the air.
The only thing that roused her later that day was Louisa Haymaker poking hard at her shoulder.
“Come on, Doctor Tremont, time to wake up. It’s going on one o’clock, and I brought you a nice cup of chamomile tea and some aspirin.”
Stirring reluctantly, Maggie pried open her swollen, watery eyes to find Louisa Haymaker’s pendulous face hovering over hers. Spotting the tea cup sitting on the night table, she tried to rouse herself into a sitting position, but was unable to do so.
“Look, miss, you have to wash down these aspirin. When I didn’t see you this morning, I figured you were probably feeling a bit poorly.”
“I am feeling poorly!” Maggie croaked as she swallowed the aspirin Louisa had brought, sounding more like a frog every minute. “But weren’t you here? I thought…”
“My, my, you are a sick little thing, aren’t you?” Louisa declared grimly. “And you a doctor! Well, what am I to do?”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Maggie promised. “Just let me stay a few days and I’ll be fine. It’s only a cold.”
Humph. “DoctorTremont, I lived through three influenza epidemics. I think I know the flu when I see it.”
The next time Maggie woke, it was to the sound of chirping birds and bright sunlight streaming through the window, lighting the room and warming her face as it dappled across the bed. She had no strength to move, but she could turn her head, even if it felt like a rock quarry. When she did, she was surprised to see Rafe Burnside staring at her from a nearby chair, his long legs sprawled awkwardly before him.
“It’s about time you’re up,” he grumbled.
Groggy and headachy, Maggie didn’t say anything, but, oh, for goodnes’s sake, there went her heart thumping away again, at the very sight of him. What was it about this man that sent her into a tailspin? It was almost elemental, the way her body swung into high alert, even with a fever! Clearing her throat, she pretended not to be affected by his presence.
“What time is it?” she asked hoarsely.
“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