When Margaret stepped into the kitchen early the next morning, the sight of John standing at the coffeemaker in nothing but his jeans and his hat made her heart stutter. She should've known he would be up with the sun. He always was.
She paused in the doorway, watching him, each movement so familiar it almost hurt. He stirred a meager scoop of sugar into his cup, clanging the spoon against the sides, and then stuck the spoon in his mouth.
She chuckled, "Morning."
He glanced over, the spoon still in his mouth, and looked so much like Jack, Margaret covered her smile with her hand. Then his eyes dropped, traveling over her, and she blushed. She hadn't expected anyone else to be awake and was still in her nightgown.
When they were first married, the physical impulse to be near him frightened her, and she'd buried it away. But now something else—maybe her conversation with Fanny or the way John was looking at her in her nightgown—told her to be brave, just for today.
Maybe he would say no, but her curiosity and a familiar ache in her chest propelled her forward. Margaret straightened her shoulders and joined John at the counter, letting her arm brush his as she stood on tiptoe, reaching for a mug. Their arms were just barely touching, and Margaret shivered.
"Would you mind?" She nodded at the cups which were just out of reach.
John kept his eyes on her as he pulled down a mug and set it in front of her.
"Pour me a cup?"
John obliged without comment.
"Sugar too."
He pulled the spoon out of his mouth and used it to add sugar to her coffee, giving it a quick stir.
"Thank you," she leaned back against the counter and sighed, smiling.
"Since when do you drink coffee?"
"Since Jack." Margaret said. "Late nights, early mornings, and all that."
John grunted and they stood in silence drinking their coffee. Margaret peered over her cup, studying the faded scar on his left shoulder.
"What?"
"Does it ever hurt?" She nodded at his shoulder.
John glanced at it, "When it storms."
"Good morning, my dears."
Margaret almost spilled her coffee down her nightgown as Mr. Bell sauntered into the kitchen in a silk bathrobe, large circular spectacles perched on his nose, working a crossword puzzle. He paused and examined them with a wicked smile.
"My, my, that's a lovely nightie, Margaret." Mr. Bell said, eyeing her over his glasses. "Doesn't leave much to the imagination, does it?"
Margaret felt her face flame as she ducked her head, trying to cover herself with her arms. But it was terribly awkward with a cup of hot coffee in one hand, and Mr. Bell raking his eyes all over her.
Why hadn't she packed her flannels or at least thrown on a jumper before trotting down to the kitchen? Margaret sucked in a breath when John stepped in front of her, blocking her entirely from Adam Bell's teasing gaze.
"Oh, don't mind me, John. I'm quite enjoying the view and I promise not to touch."
John set aside his coffee, folded his arms, and just stood there. Margaret could almost imagine the stormy look on his face. For once she was grateful for that glowering look.
"Oh, by the way, the last haying of the summer is near complete and I was hoping you might lend a hand John, since you're here," Mr. Bell continued as if he hadn't been ogling Margaret a moment ago. "Jack too of course. Baling hay is quite good for the character and all that, wouldn't you agree?"
As Mr. Bell talked, Margaret stared at the faded scar on John's back. He'd asked her to stay home that day, and she'd ignored him.
He was shaking all over, his skin gray with pain. There was blood everywhere.
"Oh God," Margaret yanked at her scarf and gently eased his hat off. Blood poured from a nasty gash on his head as she pillowed the green material underneath it.
"Help is coming," the officer said, keeping pressure on John's shoulder. "Talk to him."
"Look at me, John, look at me," Margaret grabbed his face. It was cold and slick with sweat, "Don't you dare die."
"Trying—not to—" He let out a strangled cry as the officer pressed harder.
"Stop it!" Margaret pushed at the man's hands, tears blurring her vision. "Stop hurting him!"
"Maggie," John choked out, his eyes started to close. "Don't—cry—"
"John," she stroked the side of his face, "I went to the doctor," She dug the strip of ultrasound photos from her purse. "Look."
His eyes locked on the blurry black and white images.
"Do you see there? That's your baby, John."
She took his right hand and held it to her face, "You can't die," Margaret choked on the words. "You can't leave."
Margaret shivered, blinking away the sting of tears. He hadn't left her—she left him. But she was here now, and so was he. Margaret laid her hand on his scar and felt John immediately stiffen underneath her touch, his shoulder twitching, fumbling over what he saying to Mr. Bell.
"Are you alright, John?" Mr. Bell asked.
"I—What—" John cleared his throat, "What time?"
"The balers ought to be ready around seven-thirty."
A sharp ache sparked to life in Margaret's chest and she pulled her hand away, slipping out from behind John. It would be safer to finish her coffee in the privacy of her room.
She needed to think.
John snapped his head around, following Margaret's retreating form with his eyes. His injury hadn't really bothered him for over ten years, but her hand on his skin had hurt. The longing to have her come back and touch him again twisted his gut.
He needed to think.
Maybe baling hay was a good idea.
John rolled his shoulder and interrupted whatever Mr. Bell was saying, "We'll find you."
"Excellent. In that case, I'd best get ready, myself." Mr. Bell sprang to his feet, abandoning his crossword puzzle. "Someone has to look after Margaret while her men are busy," Mr. Bell winked.
John stalked after the older man, an angry retort on his lips, only to run into Fanny at the landing.
"What's happened now?" She yawned, "You look ready to kill something."
"Jack and I got roped into baling hale," John ground his teeth.
Fanny rolled her eyes, "He's always shoving work off on you."
"Which is Jack's?"
"Your old room."
John grunted, "Don't leave her alone with Bell."
"Who?" Fanny peered at him. "Margaret? Mr. Bell's a harmless flirt."
"Harmless, my ass."
"John, what's gotten into you?" Fanny's question was sincere, but a smile was starting to spread across her face.
"Don't say a word, Fan," he said, cutting her off. "Forget I said anything." John slid around her, as she started giggling. " Shut up."
He knocked when he found Jack's room and let himself in. Jack was draped half on, half off the bed, and he cursed when John pulled back the curtain.
"Get up, boy," John gathered his clothes and dumped them on top of him. "You've got five minutes."
"Where's the bloody fire, Dad?" Jack groaned, pulling a pillow over his head.
"We're baling hay. If you want to eat, you best get dressed."
"Why would I want to bale hay?" Jack sat up, throwing his pillow at John, who caught it.
"Because I'm an idiot."
Jack raised an eyebrow.
"Don't ask. The kitchen in five minutes."
"Will I hate you tomorrow?"
"Probably. You'll be sore as shit."
Jack groaned and started pulling on his jeans, "I already hate you."
"Get in line," John said, heading back downstairs to his own room.
He yanked on an undershirt and the oldest button-down he'd packed. It would probably get ruined. John hadn't planned on baling hay. But nothing about this trip was going as planned. He jammed his feet into his boots, the long laces tangling in his hurry.
"Let me do that," Margaret pushed his hand away from the knotted laces.
John bit back his frustration, and sat back. His shoulder hurt like hell, and he was exhausted from a week in the hospital running on almost no sleep, bad food, and heavy painkillers. He didn't think he could face her.
Not like this.
Yet here she was, her hair falling over her face as she patiently unpicked the snarled knot of his boot laces.
John was too tired to stop himself as he slid his fingers through her hair, combing it over and over, until she finished and sat back. She looked at him, and leaned into his hand. He wished she would always look at him like that—like she wanted no one but him. His shoulder throbbed, the thick hot pain crawling down his arm, but John ignored it.
For her—for that look—he'd do it again.
John swore and shook his head, the skin on his back rippling with the memory of her touch. He finished tying his laces and stood. At first, every day he spent without her seemed worse than the one before, but he'd adjusted. Like his damn shoulder, he learned to live with the damage.
Could he risk it a second time?
John growled. Baling hay seemed like a very good idea.
Higgins stared as the fancy car pulled down the drive.
"Who the fuck is coming here at six in the morning?" He growled.
"Excuse me," A man in a suit, stepped form the car, pulled off his sunglasses, and eyed Higgins with a look of mild disgust.
"If you're looking for Master, he's not here."
"My name is Henry Lennox, I'm Miss Hale's lawyer." The man waited.
Higgins shoved his hands in his pockets, "Good for you."
"Miss Margaret Hale," He added, folding his sunglasses, and placing them in his inside jacket pocket.
"Hey, Williams?" Higgins hollered. "You know a Margaret Hale?"
Williams peered at the suited man and grunted, "No Margaret Hale 'round here."
"Smoky? Wolf?"
The other warehouse workers shook their heads. Higgins folded his arms and looked the man over. "Seems we can't help you."
"I'm here on her behalf," the man explained, shifting his briefcase from one hand to the other. "To speak to her husband about a pressing legal matter."
"There's no Mr. Hale working here," Higgins frowned. "Like I said, we can't help you."
"Thornton," the man tossed the word out. "Mr. John Thornton."
"Already said Master's not here," Higgins said.
"When will he return?"
Higgins shrugged, "Williams, when's Master coming back?" He called.
"Could be tomorrow," Williams took off his hat and scratched his head, "Could be Monday."
The suit-and-tie rolled his eyes, "It's urgent I speak with him."
"You'll just have to come back tomorrow, then." Higgins chuckled. "Or Monday."
"You know where they've gone," He said, peering at Higgins.
"That I do," Higgins straightened and gave the man a hard look. "But I'll be fucked before I tell you."
The man narrowed his eyes, turned on his heel, and marched back to his fancy car.
"Need a break, kid?" John asked, tossing Jack a water bottle.
Jack sucked down his water and wiped his mouth.
The sun was burning long past noon, the southern humidity swimming around them. The rasping rattle of insects added a familiar edge to the backbreaking work. It beat his thoughts back into order. John had been pleased to discover that once Jack decided to work, he worked with a fervor that rivaled John. An unspoken competition sprang up between father and son, and they were currently at an impasse.
"I wouldn't mind a sandwhich," Jack shoved his hat back on his head, and swiped at his face with the hem of his T-shirt.
John chuckled, remembering what it was like to feel the constant grinding hollow of hunger when he was a teen, "Call it, and I'll get you that sandwich, kid."
"Not a chance, old man."
"Smart ass," John rolled his bad shoulder, grabbed another bale, and tossed it onto the trailer.
"You're fault, not mine," Jack shot back, his bale following close behind John's.
The sound of his truck engine made John glance up. The vehicle pulled into the field a moment later, Margaret behind the wheel, Fanny and Mr. Bell jammed next to her in the cab. John gripped his bale of hay tighter as Mr. Bell helped Margaret out of the tuck with a little bow, his hand lingering on her lower back.
"Margaret insisted it was far too hot for anyone to keep tossing around heavy bundles of hay, so here we are," Mr. Bell looked about the field. "Very well done, I must say. I should have the Thornton boys come for haying every year."
"There's a cold lunch waiting at the house," Fanny said, tossing John a damp rag.
John scrubbed his face, watching as Jack showed his mother the two trailers piled high with bales of hay. She yelped when he tossed a handful of hay into her face when she wasn't watching.
"You little git," she said, brushing at her blouse. "You got some down my shirt."
Jack only laughed, and started to unscrew the lid of his water bottle, "I'll help you with that, Mam."
"Oh no you don't," Margaret backed away from him.
Jack tossed a wicked smile at John, raising his eyebrows.
Margaret yelped and John started to laugh.
"You asshole," she shoved him. "God, you're soaked with sweat. It's not funny."
"Yes it is," He grinned, and pulled her closer, running a hand over the soft curve of her belly.
"Go shower,"
"Only if you come with me."
"I will not—" Margaret let out a yelp as he scooped her up.
John threw his rag down and stepped forward, scooping up a fresh water bottle. He held her stare as she backed away, and opened the bottle with a flick of his wrist.
"John Seamus Thornton, you wouldn't dare."
Jack moved closer, his grin widening, "Wouldn't we though?"
"Traitor," Margaret looked from Jack back to John. "Don't—"
Her last word turned into a squeal as they both pounced. John snaked an arm around her waist as they dumped their water over her head. Then he reached down and grabbed a handful of hay, and stuffed it down the front of her shirt, as she struggled, laughing and cursing. A sharp snap on his back made him jump but he didn't let go.
"That's enough, you three." Fanny was still twisting the wet rag she'd whipped him with.
Jack dropped the hay he'd gathered and held up his hands in mock surrender.
"Well, lunch is waiting," Mr. Bell said with a smile. "Fanny, do you think you can drive this contraption?" He motioned to the truck.
"I'll drive," Jack jumped forward.
Before Margaret could open her mouth to protest, John laid a hand on her arm, "Let him."
She hesitated only a moment before she nodded. She dug the keys from her pocket and handed them to John.
"You break it, you buy it, kid," He tossed him the keys and Jack whooped as Mr. Bell and Fanny climbed next to him in the cab.
"Has he ever driven?" John asked, as Margaret started to climb into the truck bed.
She gave him a flat look, "Not really."
John took her arm and guided her firmly back down, "We'll walk," he said, and banged on the truck side. The wheels squealed, throwing out grass and hay as Jack took off far too fast. The truck bumped forward, rocking as it hit the uneven ground.
"Poor Mr. Bell," she said, suppressing a smile. "He might never recover."
John snorted "Serves him right."
"Maybe so," Margaret smiled. "Whatever happened to your blue truck?"
John shrugged, "She was old as shit and you can only rebuild an engine so many times. I sold her for scrap twelve years ago."
"I always liked that truck." Margaret shifted, swiping at the hay sticking to her shirt.
"Did you?" John dusted off his front, as he started walking. He glanced down at Margaret when she didn't answer. "You're a mess."
"So are you," Margaret picked a clump of hay from under her shirt and shook it off. "But it's our own fault."
"I know," John stopped and shifted his hat, letting out a sharp breath. "What did I do?"
Margaret hesitated, "It's more like what you didn't do."
"You told me to leave you alone," John growled.
"It wasn't that," she said, picking at the hay.
"What then?" He folded his arms. "What was the problem?"
"Everything," Margaret shook her head. "At least, that's how it seemed to me at the time. I was nineteen, pregnant, and married to a man I barely knew. All I could see was how impossibly hard everything was and I—I was scared."
"Of me?"
"Yes—no," she scratched under her shirt, flicking out more hay. She let out a frustrated huff. "Give me your shirt, please."
"My shirt?" John raised an eyebrow.
"If you want to talk, then fine, let's talk, but you just dumped hay and water down mine." She held out her hand, her eyes full of the same spark of challenge he'd seen that morning. "Your shirt, John."
John frowned, and took a deep breath. "It smells," he warned, as he unbuttoned it, shook it, and held it out.
"At least it won't itch," She glanced at him. "Shut your eyes, please."
"John, stop it," Margaret clutched the towel tighter. "Close your eyes."
"That's not what you said on New Year's Eve."
He smiled. His wife was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, no matter what she wore.
Margaret flinched, backing away as he stepped closer, "That's not funny."
"I wasn't joking," He snapped. He hated feeling like a wolf about to pounce on a helpless animal. But he couldn't get near her anymore without her shrinking away.
"The hell with this."
"John?"
"No." He folded his arms.
Margaret shoved away the tiny fluttering of nerves in her chest. Before she could change her mind, she grabbed the hem of her shirt and stripped it off, tossing it on the ground. Then she took John's shirt from his hand, her fingers brushing his.
"Thank you," she said, shivering. The shirt fell almost to her knees. She tied the tails at her waist and then rolled up the sleeves.
When she looked up, she flinched at the scowl on his face.
"Are you alright?"
"No," John turned and marched back towards the house. "I'm not."
"John," she trotted to catch up, grabbing his arm. "Please, wait."
"What?" he snapped.
"Do you—" Margaret kept hold of his arm, her grasp tightening. "Do you hate me?"
He swallowed and looked away. The silence stretched out more and more until she thought it would strangle her.
"God, this is exactly what I meant," she dropped her hand. "You didn't talk to me. I never knew what was going on in your head and it pissed me off. And when we did talk, you barked at me or laughed at me or stared at me when I just needed you—"
"I talk," John snapped back. "You just never listen," He started walking again, Margaret on his heels. "How many times did you need me to tell you not to ride the damn bus?"
"What?" Margaret let out a frustrated gasp, "What the bloody hell does the bus have to do with this?"
"It's not safe. But you never listened to me."
"Your gun isn't safe either but you didn't cared what I thought about it."
"That's different."
"Bollocks," Margaret jumped in front of him, forcing him to stop. "Did you care at all? About any of it?"
The look on John's face made Margaret step back. She'd never seen him look more stunned, like she'd hit him.
"Well?"
"If you really believe that," he said quietly. "Then why the hell did you did you marry me?"
They were standing in the yard, and Margaret could hear the Watson boys arguing over lunch. But she couldn't stop.
Not now.
"You left," He pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his hair, "and never said shit. I need to know what I did."
"I'm a coward, John. I act brave and confident, but I'm not. I was afraid of you."
She flinched when he turned away, but she followed him.
"Something about you—your sarcasm, your stubborn teasing, and that stupid smile made me do things I never imagined I would do. You made me go shooting with you, you made me flirt with you, you made me kiss you, and—and marry you."
John turned around, his eyes tired and wary. Margaret stepped closer.
"I trusted you, John, and I've never trusted anyone, not even my father. There was always a piece of me that no one could touch," Margaret shivered, folding her arms around herself, closing her eyes, "except you. I didn't know how you did that to me and it terrified me. So I ran away. "
John folded his arms, and considered her for a moment. "Are you still afraid of me?"
"There you are," Mr. Bell stepped out onto the back porch and beamed at them. "We'd almost given up on you two."
"Mr. Bell, please go away," Margaret said through a forced smile.
"Normally I would be more than happy to oblige you, dear Margaret, but you have visitor."
Margaret felt her stomach drop into her feet when Henry Lennox appeared, a small satisfied smile on his face.
AN : This one's a bit long. Enjoy.