Because of You by Cathy Maxwell Read Free Book Online Page B

had to lie down. Just for one moment.
    She stretched out on the edge of bed beside Mr. Browne. It felt good to close her eyes. The bed beneath her was damp, but his body heat felt good.
    The candle on the bedside table sputtered and then died as the last of the wick was used. Save for the sound of the wind, the world was so silent she could hear his strong, steady heartbeat.
    She smiled. She had won. She drifted off to sleep.
     
    The pounding on the door woke her. Samantha awoke abruptly. Disoriented, she was surprised to find herself in bed and still in her clothes.
    Her black dress was wrinkled almost beyond repair.
    What had happened? Had her mother had a bad spell during the night—?
    Her thoughts broke off. Her mother was dead.
    Samantha turned her head, and caught looking at the back of another person’s head. A man…and she realized where she was!
    She half-stumbled, half-jumped out of bed. Mr. Browne slept soundly. The bedcovers were up to his neck…although she was all too aware that he was naked.
    How could she—?
    The pounding on the door came again. “Miss Northrup! Miss Northrup, are you all right?”
    Birdie Sadler! What was she doing here?
    Samantha hurried out to the kitchen. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. The fire had died out and the house was freezing.
    But Mr. Browne would live. Suddenly the day seemed perfect.
    She glanced at herself in the mirror. Combing her hair with her fingers, she rebraided it while calling out, “Yes, Mrs. Sadler, I’m fine. What can I do for you?”
    “We’ve come to call, but we want to know if it was safe.”
    We?
    Samantha peeked out the window and drew a sharp breath. There, by the edge of the cemetery, the imposing figure of the squire’s wife, Mrs. Biggers, sat in a horse-drawn sleigh. Beside her sat Mrs. Porter and the Doyle sisters. Mrs. Biggers raised a basket to show they came on a charitable mission. It was the custom in Sproule thatneighbors brought food whenever there was death or sickness.
    But Mr. Browne was not dead.
    After tying off her braid with a piece of ribbon, Samantha opened the door. “Yes, Mrs. Sadler, it is safe. I beat the fever. Mr. Browne is going to live.”
    Mrs. Sadler’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “I feared the worst.”
    “But it did not happen,” Samantha added. “Praise the Lord.”
    “Yes, praise the Lord,” Mrs. Sadler echoed. She turned to Mrs. Biggers. “It is all right to come in. The stranger lives.”
    “And he’s no longer sick,” Samantha called out, triumphant.
    “Oh, that’s good,” Mrs. Biggers said, carefully climbing down from the sleigh. She made her way gingerly through the snow.
    Samantha stepped back to invite Mrs. Sadler inside before hurrying over to the hearth and starting the fire.
    “Miss Northrup,” Mrs. Biggers exclaimed cheerily, the pheasant feathers of her velvet cap bobbing. She came into the kitchen and handed Mrs. Sadler her basket before taking off her riding cape and stamping the snow from her boots. “We have been so worried about you, my dear. Then, when you didn’t answer the door immediately—well, we didn’t know what to think.”
    Samantha doubted there had ever been a time in her life when Mrs. Biggers didn’t have anopinion of one sort or another. She squashed the uncharitable thought.
    The women were busy taking off their capes and bonnets. The kitchen smelled of wet clothes, snow, and Mrs. Biggers’s famous veal pie.
    “There’s also cheese and sausage in the basket,” Mrs. Biggers said briskly.
    Samantha smiled. “Thank you. Will you please sit down?” There weren’t enough chairs without the one in the bedroom. After the kindling caught fire, she hurried to fetch it. Mr. Browne slept soundly. She closed the door firmly behind her. The village women were making themselves comfortable.
    Samantha forced a pleasant smile. “Here, Miss Hattie. Here is a chair for you.”
    “Can I help you?” Alys Porter asked.
    “You can start the kettle,” Samantha