“Och,” said a flinty voice behind her, “just as I thought. A baby is on its way.”
Sam pushed her hair off her face and rose to her feet “Yes,” she said, not feeling terribly friendly. “Congratulations. You were right. You must be overjoyed.”
The little crone reached out and placed a hand against Sam’s flat belly. “Three months?”
“Almost,” Sam said. She wanted to brush the woman’s hand away but suppressed the urge.
“The sickness is a good thing.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me.” She had hoped the worst of morning sickness would pass her by but apparently her luck had run out.
“Sickness means a healthy baby,” Old Mag said, fixing Sam with one of those fierce-eyed stares.
“Isn’t that an old wives’ tale?”
“And what would you know about old wives,” Mag countered, “being a new wife yourself?”
There was something comical about so much ferocity in such a tiny package, and to her dismay, Sam barely stifled a laugh.
“The other one wouldn’t laugh if she swallowed a goose feather.”
“The other one?”
“Aye, the first missus.”
Sam had totally forgotten that this wasn’t her husband’s first marriage. Talk about denial.
“He told you about her, didn’t he?” Old Mag asked.
“He told me he’d been married before.” Which was true enough. A mistake, he’d said, and one they’d quickly rectified. She hadn’t thought to pursue it. It didn’t seem like any of her business.
“A coldhearted one, she was,” Mag said. “Nearly broke his heart with her ways.”
“I don’t think you should be talking about this with me,” Sam said. His past wasn’t any business of hers. The old woman made it sound as if he’d been deeply in love with his first wife, and Sam found she didn’t want to hear any of it.
“One look in those eyes and you knew she would not make him happy.”
“You could tell just by looking at her?” Let it drop, Sam. Don’t encourage her. This is none of your business.
“’Twas almost easy as knowing about your baby.”
Sam couldn’t deny that the woman had been right on that score.
Mag leaned a little closer. “When she found out that she—”
“Stop, old woman!” Robby burst into the room. His cheeks reddened as he nodded hello to Sam. “I’ll have no sweetie wife of mine spreading stories.”
Sam’s eyes went wide with curiosity as the elderly man turned toward her and smiled.
“Morning, missus.”
“Good morning, Robby.” She glanced from Robby to Mag. “You two are married?”
Old Mag gave him a look of fond disgust. “As if anyone else would have him.”
“You talk too much,” Robby said to his wife in a tone of husbandly displeasure. “You don’t have work to do?”
Mag said something quickly, in a burr so thick that Sam could understand none of it. Robby had no trouble, however, and he fired back a salvo of his own that set his wife to wagging her finger beneath his bony nose.
Sam listened, fascinated, as they exchanged words, wondering how on earth two such different personalities had managed to stay married. Robby, apparently content that he had prevented a disaster in the making, gave Sam a big smile then went off to do something in the garage. Sam followed Old Mag into the kitchen.
She stood near the door, waiting for some clue as to who was supposed to do what, but Old Mag buzzed about the room, paying her no mind at all. Finally Sam went over to the enormous stove and poured herself a cup of tea.
“Honey if you want it,” the woman said, pushing a honey pot toward Sam.
“Thank you,” Sam said, “but I don’t use honey.”
“Sugar, as well.”
“I don’t use that, either.”
“You be needing to eat for the baby, lassie. You’re too bony.”
“I don’t think upping my sugar intake is the way to do it.”
Mag looked at her curiously. “Your tongue is sharp.”
“So is yours,” Sam returned.
“Aye,” said Mag, nodding her head. “But few would tell me so.”
“Not too many tell me so, either.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, lassie.”
The two women looked at each other for what seemed an eternity before Sam spoke. “You know that bread you served with supper last night?”
“Aye,” said Old Mag, “I would hope I did. I baked it myself.”
“Do we have any more?” Sam asked. “I’d love to make some toast”
“Toast?” Mag made a face. “You need more than toast to fill your stomach.” She gestured toward the enormous table in the middle of the room. “Sit down and let me fix you a proper breakfast.”
The thought of a proper breakfast was enough to make Sam’s stomach turn inside out for the second time that morning, but there was no way she could refuse Old Mag’s offer. Not if they were going to live together under the same roof.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a seat at the table. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Not kind at all.” Mag sniffed. “You don’t know your way about my kitchen. ‘Tis faster this way.”
Which put Sam firmly in her place. Actually she found she didn’t mind a bit. She’d rather know exactly how Mag felt about her than waste a lot of time worrying and guessing—then managing to do the wrong thing anyway.
The old woman worked quickly, and in record time Sam was presented with two perfectly toasted pieces of dark-grained bread, a crock of butter and some orange marmalade. Before she had the chance to finish the first slice, Mag placed a bowl of steaming oatmeal in front of her.
“Thank you,” Sam said, “but I couldn’t possibly.”
“You could and you will,” Mag said, pouring fresh milk into the bowl. “Think of the baby, lassie.”
Sam shuddered. “What if I—”
“It will not happen again today,” Mag said with great confidence.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Eight babies of my own,
