Sunrise Point (Virgin River #19)(8)

But then it slowed to a stop. And backed up. Tom. Because luck hadn’t exactly been her friend lately. Like in twenty-three years.

Of course it was a new, huge, expensive pickup. It probably cost more than the house she lived in. She’d seen it before, of course. It said Cavanaugh Apples on the side and had an extended cab with lots of apple crates in the bed. She kept her eyes cast down. She sniffed back her tears and hoped there were no tracks on her cheeks. She was far too self-conscious to be caught sniveling in self-pity, especially by him.

He lowered the window on the passenger side. “Nora?” he called.

She stopped walking and looked up. “Yes?”

“Um, sore?”

“A little,” she said with a shrug. Oh, the shrug hurt. “It’s my first time,” she added, as if an explanation were necessary. “I’ll develop muscle.”

He looked away just so briefly, then back quickly. “Let’s see your hands.”

“Why?”

“Let me see,” he commanded. “Come on.” She pulled her hands out of her pockets and splayed her fingers but kept them palms down. He rolled his eyes impatiently. “Flip ’em over, Nora,” he said.

“What for?”

“I bet you stuffed ’em in your pockets because you have cuts or blisters or something. Come on, flip ’em.”

She groaned in irritation and looked away as she turned her hands over.

Then the voice came a bit more softly. “Raise your right arm for me,” he said.

Driven purely by pride, she lifted it high.

“Come on,” he said. “Get in.”

Her eyes jerked back. “What?”

“Get in. I know what to do about that,” he said. “You think that’s the first time I’ve seen that? All you’ve been doing is changing diapers. Your hands and shoulders weren’t ready for the trees, the bins, the ladders and heavy sacks. Your rotator cuff is strained from picking and hauling. Get in, I’ll get you fixed up. You should’ve told me.”

She was reluctant, but just the suggestion that he could make this pain go away, that was enough for her. She opened the heavy truck door, which hurt like a demon, and hoisted herself up and in.

Tom Cavanaugh made a difficult U-turn on the narrow drive, heading back toward the house and office. He looked over at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She stared straight ahead. “You didn’t want to hire me. Your grandmother made you. And you weren’t all that friendly. I figured you’d just fire me.”

“For hurt hands and sore muscles? Jesus. Do I really seem like that kind of brute?”

“You said you didn’t think I was up to the job. I didn’t want to prove you right.”

“Listen to me—you got the job and I can see that you do your best.” She shot him a glare. “Okay, you do pretty well,” he added. “But it’s dangerous to walk around a farm or orchard with injuries that go untended. You have to pay attention to that. You’re a mother, right? You wouldn’t let your child walk around with a wound that could get infected if left untreated. Would you?”

“I know medical people in town,” she said. “If I thought there was an infection, I would have talked to someone.”

“At that point, you might’ve waited too long. That would be bad for both of us. Now let’s agree, you and I, that from now on you’ll let me know when you have a problem.”

That would be very hard to do, she acknowledged privately. But to him she said, “Okay.”

He pulled up to his back porch. “Come into the kitchen,” he said, not waiting for her to follow. He was up the porch steps and into the house before she was even out of the truck. By the time she joined him in the kitchen, he had opened a cupboard and was emptying supplies onto the counter. “Just sit at the table, right there.”

She took a seat and waited tensely.

Tom filled a silver mixing bowl with warm, soapy water. He spread a towel over her lap, put the basin on her knees and said, “I know it stings, but I want you to soak your hands for a minute, get them very clean. Just grit your teeth and do it, please.”

She’d be damned if she’d let an ounce of discomfort show on her face. She plunged her hands into the water and bit her lower lip against a wince. She couldn’t keep her eyes from filling with tears from the sting. He didn’t notice; his back was turned while he put out his first-aid supplies. Then he began transferring the stuff to the table. There was an old-fashioned-looking tin can, a tube of something or other, some gauze, another towel, a small bowl and spoon, latex gloves. He scrubbed and dried his hands as if he’d be performing surgery. And then he pulled a chair toward her, his long legs spread so that her knees were between his.

“We don’t know each other, so let me explain a couple of things. I don’t have much use for excuses, but hiding real issues from me isn’t good. If you’re going to work for me, you have to be honest about stuff like this. Got that?”

“I don’t make excuses, I’m always honest and I need the job,” she said, insulted and defensive. “I have just as much of a family to support as the men.”

“Fair enough. But the men have been working in lumber and agriculture for a long time. Their hands are rough and callused. Tough as leather. And their muscles are strong now.” He showed her his own calluses but thankfully didn’t flex anything. Then he picked up a towel and gestured to the bowl. “Let me see the right hand.”