GEMMA'S WRIST THROBBED, BUT it was her own fault. She wasn't accustomed to sitting about and resting. Surely it wouldn't do her any harm to take an inventory of her stillroom, she had told herself. A bit of lightweight occupation was just the thing.

Of course, she should've realized that when one did an inventory, one discovered that things were lacking. Then one set about correcting that lack, and then one ended up awkwardly grinding herbs for tinctures with one's left hand while using the right — injudiciously removed from its sling — to brace the mortar from shifting.

Then of course, one might decide to rearrange the awkward position of her stored vials and corked bottles.

Then once she had pulled all of that off the shelves and turned her stillroom upside down, her wrist was too painful for her to put it all back.

Perhaps she should've selected Childbirth and the Practices of Midwifery and taken a seat by the stove as Mr. Bing had recommended.

Physician, heal thyself. Wasn't that always the way? Healers put themselves last, at least the good ones did.

Yet what choice did she have? If she wasn't a healer then she was nothing. Nothing but a weary widow alone on her hillside farm — except for the ridiculous population explosion of chickens, of course.

Perhaps she should title her memoir thus. In the Company of Chickens. Surrounded by Squawks. One Hundred Ways to Cook an Egg.

How would she sign it? Mrs. Oakes? Mrs. Gemma Oakes? The Widow Oakes?

Heavens no. That made her sound as if she were eighty-eight years old. And despite the ache in her wrist, she was not quite ready for a life of sitting by the fire.

The pain in her wrist depressed her and her inability to work depressed her and the thought of living alone on this farm until she was eighty-eight years old depressed her, which explained why she took the opportunity of any distraction.

"You'd best not track all that mud into the house, lad," she heard Mr. Bing say out in the yard. "You can wash the worst off here at the rain barrel."

At the sound of Mr. Bing's voice so close by Gemma spared a glance through the stillroom window. The rain barrel lay directly outside the stillroom window, offering her a marvelously unspoiled view of Mr. Worthington stripping off his shirt.

Oh goodness, goodness me.

He is stunning.

Mr. Worthington had been magnificent, in a mad foolish way, when fending off the ram. He'd been mysterious and achingly handsome unconscious in her late husband's bed. This morning at breakfast he'd been very attractive in his tongue-tied way.

Yet nothing could have prepared Gemma for seeing Mr. Worthington half-naked and entirely soaking wet. Her body pulsed in response.