“Oh, Adie, you’re priceless.”

“Why not? I have the time. And I love the children.”

Nora didn’t see Tom Cavanaugh much that first week and when she did, they didn’t speak or make eye contact, not even when she arrived early enough to be sure his coffee was made. This suited her fine. She wasn’t prepared to have him judge her weakness by her wounded hands or her slow movements and winces due to muscle pain. She saw him talking to other harvesters from time to time, saw him using the forklift to move full bins, saw him in the cider press area. But they didn’t work together nor chitchat. Why would they?

He never complained about the coffee again. And he had remembered the cream and sugar every morning.

By the end of the week she was so tired she believed she could fall down and sleep for a month. Mr. Cavanaugh told the harvesters it was their choice whether to work or take time off on the weekend; they weren’t in a critical harvesting situation like over-ripening or an impending freeze. He paid overtime, so even though Nora could hardly bend her fingers from the tightness or lift her right arm, her picking arm, she signed on and hoped she could get a little help from Adie and Martha with the kids, or maybe Ellie Kincaid or one of the local teenage babysitters. Overtime, that was juicy.

On her walk home, alone on that long uphill trek on a Friday night, she allowed herself to fall apart a little bit. She hurt all over and faced another long seven days of work. It was hard for her to hold her little girls; she ached when she lifted them and there were a couple of spots on her hands that bled if she didn’t wrap them in bandages. If Adie and Martha hadn’t managed the bathing before she got home, Nora didn’t know how she would. For her own daily shower, soap and water stung so badly tears rolled down her cheeks. And she was going to have to beg the use of someone’s washer and dryer during an evening soon—the laundry was piling up and they didn’t have much wardrobe.

Because no one could see her, she did something she hadn’t done in so long—she let herself cry for the first time in months. She told herself this was good work and she was lucky to have it, her hands would heal and callus, her arms and legs would build muscle and get stronger—all she needed was courage and time. She hadn’t taken the job because it was easy.

She heard the engine of a vehicle and had no idea who it might be. She was always the last of her crew to leave so no one would notice she walked home. It was a matter of pride; she knew she was destitute and the charity she had to take for the sake of her girls was hard enough. Nora quickly wiped the tears off her cheeks and stuffed her sore hands into the center pocket of her hoodie. Looking at the ground, she stayed to the side of the road and made tracks. And the truck passed.

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.”

“They’re just blisters,” she said, not mentioning that the joints in her fingers were so stiff she hated to bend them.

“Left untended, they won’t heal for a long time. I can help with that.” He held out the towel. She lifted it and he very gently patted it dry. It wasn’t too bad—a couple of blisters and two cuts from the rough wooden edge of an apple crate. Then he asked for the left and she put that one in the towel. The basin went away when he placed it on the table.

“Let your hands dry a little more, palms up on the towel,” he instructed. Then he went about the business of mixing up some goop from the tin can and the tube. “This is bag balm and an ointment that vets use sometimes…” She visibly withdrew and he chuckled. “Maxie swears by it, especially for arthritis, and I’ve seen it work wonders.”

When his concoction was mixed, he gently smoothed some of the salve over the sore places on her palms. He dipped his fingertips into the mixture and his touch was so gentle, it sent shivers through her. She had expected it to hurt, but it was sweet and light; she let her eyes fall closed and just enjoyed his ministrations. He didn’t talk, thank God. She stayed quiet also. She hadn’t been touched in this way in so long, she couldn’t remember the last time. And how bizarre, it should come from someone she hated.

Well, maybe she didn’t hate him, but she didn’t like him much. He’d been either hostile or completely ignored her.

He wrapped gauze around her hands, then slid them into the latex gloves. Right about that moment, Maxie walked into the kitchen, the yellow dog at her side. She smiled as she obviously recognized the procedure. “Want me to take over, Tom?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he said. He shook a couple of pills into his palm and handed them to Nora. “You need to take this for muscle pain,” he said. “It’s just over-the-counter anti-inflammatory and pain relief, but I’m giving you a bottle to take home. I’m afraid you’re going to have to skip the overtime this weekend, you have to heal or you’ll make things worse. I’ll give you balm, salve, gauze, ice pack, extra latex gloves, analgesic, everything you need. Sleep in the gloves. Wear them when you come back to work. Keep salve on your hands—change the gauze wrap and apply new salve mornings and evenings. Take the pills every four hours—your muscles will recover.”

Then he put a little cream from the tube on his fingertips and slid them under the back collar of her shirt. Without the least hint of embarrassment, he slid her thin bra strap down over her shoulder and began to massage the cream into her shoulder and scapula.

“Oh, that’s going to help you so much,” Maxie said. “When my hands get bad, I use that liniment—it’s miraculous.”

His big, callused hands on her shoulder and upper back were so firm, so gentle, so wonderful. Slow, circular strokes with the tips of his fingers—pure luxury. It only took him a few minutes to rub it in. After he pulled out his hand, he went to the freezer to withdraw a cold pack, placing it gently over her shoulder.

“And now ice. You’ll be good as new,” he said. “And when you come back to work on Monday, wear work gloves. I’ll give you a pair.” A glass of water appeared for her to take her pills. “How are your feet? Blisters?”

“My feet are fine.” They were sore and there were blisters, but she wasn’t going to have him touching her feet. Although the thought had merit—his roughened hands gently smoothing salve on her sore feet could be heaven.

When he had a small brown bag stocked with everything from salve to gloves, he handed it to her. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”