Startled, Trixie stared back into the green eyes, only to see them drift closed. The young man moaned and shifted, the sheet covering him slipping to reveal more of his chest.

Red hair, she noted absently. His chest had a smattering of red hair. It was darker than the hair on his head, leaning almost toward auburn, but—

A second groan, this one louder than the first. He was either waking up, finally, or he was in pain.

Probably both.

He began to move restlessly, the covers twisting and bunching. Biting her lip, she put her hand on top of his, attempting to loosen his tight grip on the blanket. One touch to his skin, however, told her that he was burning up, his fever back in full force. Letting go of his hand, she thanked Mrs. Vanderpoel's foresight and dipped a cloth in the bowl of water she'd left behind. After wringing out the excess water, she patted his forehead with the cloth, watching as a few drops of water trickled to the sides, wetting his hair.

She'd hoped that the cool cloth would soothe him, but, if anything, it seemed to agitate him further. His head tossed from side to side on the pillow, and his breaths were panting, like Reddy on a hot August day.

"None of that," she chided, "or Moms and Mrs. Vanderpoel will come up here and find a way to wrestle you into a cool bath. Don't think they won't," she warned. "You're best off letting this cloth do its work, and getting enough rest so that your body can fight the fever. And tomorrow the roads should be clear enough that Mart or Tad can make it into town and pick up some medicine at Lytell's General Store." She paused. "Well, some don't call it medicine, but we do. Ever since it saved Bobby's life when he was bitten by that copperhead." She wet the cloth and wrung it out a second time before laying it across his forehead.

"Mr. Lytell married a Native American girl. Her parents died when there was so much sickness about ten years ago. Anyway, she knows about all sorts of plants that grow in the woods here. She gathers them and gives them to people as they're needed. She won't sell them, either. Says medicine is for everyone." She shook her head. "Sometimes I think if Brian had been just a little older, she would have waited and married him instead of Mr. Lytell. How she puts up with that cantankerous man, I'll never know. He's positively rude to most of his customers! He knows he can get away with it, too, because he's the only store around for miles."

She paused and lowered her voice. "I asked her once, you know." She glanced around the room, as if someone could be listening to their conversation. "And she blushed and said that Mr. Lytell was very kind to her; that he was a different person when they were alone." She shook her head. "I just can't picture it. But I suppose as long as she's happy…"

"Taken care of, you mean."

Trixie's eyes widened. "You're awake!" she exclaimed, and then blushed at the obviousness of her statement.

His eyes closed again, but he nodded. "How long have I—where am I?" Becoming agitated, he attempted to sit up. Without thinking, Trixie used two hands on his shoulders to force him back to the bed.

"We discovered you this morning," she said, hands still trapping him. "And you're at Crabapple Farm."

He relaxed a little. "Crabapple Farm," he repeated. "I've heard of that, I think…" But his eyes had lost the clear inquisitiveness that had animated them only seconds earlier, and he no longer struggled to sit up. "Crabapple Farm," he whispered with a frown, and slipped back into unconsciousness.

Trixie blinked at the suddenness of it. He'd been coherent! And now—now he looked almost as unwell as he'd appeared when he first arrived. The wet cloth she'd placed on his forehead had plastered his hair to his scalp, and she could clearly see the bruise that Mrs. Vanderpoel had noticed. It was an ugly purplish red lump, and she couldn't prevent herself from shuddering. What sort of accident had he had, and how hard must he have been hit to raise a bump capable of rendering him unconscious again?

He floated in and out of consciousness for the rest of the afternoon, waking only long enough to open his eyes and stare at his surroundings, his gaze unfocused and feverish. By the time Mrs. Vanderpoel called her for supper, she was a bundle of nerves from attempting to soothe the troubled man. When the housekeeper offered to take over the sick bed duties for the supper hour, Trixie sighed in relief. Contrary to what she'd assumed in the past, sitting at someone's bedside was hard work.

Her normally bubbly personality was restored almost immediately upon entering the dining room. Mrs. Vanderpoel had prepared her much-acclaimed chicken and dumplings, and each member of the household had a smile on his face as a result.

"Oh," Bobby said, his face falling when he saw his sister. "You're joining us for dinner."

Trixie took her seat beside her younger brother and sniffed disdainfully. "You were just hoping to snitch more than your fair share of the dumplings," she accused. "Well, it wouldn't have worked. I'm certain Mrs. Vanderpoel would have set a portion aside for me if I'd stayed in the sick room."

Bobby shrugged, unmoved by her assertion. "Yes, but I know her hiding places. Those dumplings would have been gone before she even knew I was in the kitchen!"

Trixie scowled and put a protective arm around her bowl.

"Bobby, stop teasing your sister," Mrs. Belden chided. "With the amount of food you regularly put away, I don't see any call to resort to stealing Trixie's food."

"But it's dumplings!" he protested. "Moms, you just don't understand!"

"Perhaps not," she agreed. "What I do understand, however, is that if you don't leave your sister and her food alone, you'll be taking her turn cleaning the chicken coop."

Bobby groaned at the threat of the unpleasant chore. "Why do I have to leave her alone? It's not as if she spent the day outside shovelling and cleaning up from the snow," he pointed out.

"Nor did she spend an hour in a snowball fight with the Lynch boys," she countered, causing Bobby to flush at being caught out.

Trixie resisted the urge to shout "ha!" and chose to hide her smile instead. Gloating seldom garnered positive results in the Belden household.

"And sitting with an ill person can be just as exhausting, not to mention more emotionally draining, than physical labour," she finished.

Bobby nodded respectfully. When the Belden grandparents had fallen ill with the terrible flu that had swept through their area almost ten years ago, he'd been just old enough to appreciate how dangerously pale and exhausted his mother had become while caring for them.

"But I'm certain Mr. Frayne will be up and about in no time," Mrs. Belden said briskly. "And then I imagine you'll be free to tease your sister to your heart's content."

Trixie dropped her spoon, causing it to land in her bowl with a splatter and send drops of chicken stew flying. "Mr. Frayne?" she questioned. "That's his name?"

Mrs. Belden nodded. "You remember I told you that the Spencers had rented out the Manor?"

Trixie nodded. She had been intrigued by the story of young Miss Wheeler being removed to the country to avoid an Unfortunate Attachment, and she'd hoped to form an acquaintance with the young lady. The story her mother had told her earlier, though, had only made mention of Mr., Mrs., and Miss Wheeler. Who, then—

"He's her suitor!" she cried, eyes snapping with excitement. "He's followed her here, hoping to change her mind and talk her into running away with him! Only he was so eager to reach her that he travelled through the storm and lost his way!"

Mart, who had so far remained silent in order to avoid being included in Bobby's inevitable punishment, snorted. "Oh, please," he said. "Mr. James Frayne, recent heir to the Frayne fortune, is hardly the sort of man to go chasing after a woman."

"And if he did, I can't imagine that any father would object," Mrs. Belden concluded wryly. "If the reports are accurate he's one of the wealthiest men in the state."

Trixie blinked. "Then what is he doing here?" she wondered.

"Rumour has it he's close to the Wheelers. Mr. Frayne only came into his fortune a few years ago, though his parents passed away when he was a child. According to Mr. Lytell, the Wheelers took him in until he was old enough to claim his inheritance."

"And he's here to spend the holidays with the closest people to family he has," Trixie surmised. "How sad that he's beginning his holiday at Crabapple Farm instead of at the Manor."

"Oh, I don’t know," Mart said, deftly snitching a dumpling from her untouched bowl. "Personally, I can't think of a better to place to spend Christmas."

    

When she woke the next morning, it was to the sound of raised voices. She blinked sleepily, trying to clear the haze from both her eyes and her mind even as she focused on the voices. An early morning disagreement was not an uncommon occurrence at Crabapple Farm, especially since Brian, the self-appointed mediator, had moved away. Since his departure, Mart and Bobby's teasing and disagreements had escalated, usually to the result of a short-sheeted bed, or an equally inconvenient revenge. This time, though, the voices were different. One of them, a man's, was deeper and huskier than either of her brothers', and the other voice was unmistakably female. Strident, forceful, and female.

"And I say you're not going anywhere until you take this medicine and show me that you can keep your breakfast down."

Still huddling under her covers, Trixie snickered. Unless somebody had fallen ill during the night, it was obvious that Mrs. Vanderpoel and Mr. James Frayne were locked in a vicious battle of wills.

The poor man probably thought he actually had a chance, Trixie realized, snickering even more.

Well. He'd learn soon enough.

"I've already presumed upon your hospitality too long, Mrs…."

"Vanderpoel," she supplied briskly. "And it isn't my hospitality you've presumed upon. You're here at Crabapple Farm as a guest of Mr. and Mrs. Belden. It's their son as found you halfway to dead in the snow."

"Then I've presumed too long upon the Beldens' hospitality," he said through what Trixie suspected were gritted teeth.

"If you would be so kind as to show me where my clothes have been placed, I will be happy to pay my regards and cease to force my presence upon you."

"You'll cease your presence when and if I tell you to do so, and not a moment before. You've been out of your head for the past thirty-six hours, and whatever you may think, you are still running a fever. When you take the medicine and when your temperature is normal for a minimum of twelve hours, and when you can keep your food down, you will be allowed to move to the sitting room downstairs, at which point we can continue negotiations."

"Negotiations!" he exclaimed. "I've seen more concessions in hostile take-overs!"

"Oh, my dear," Mrs. Vanderpoel said, sounding more amused than exasperated now. "You'll know when we've reached the hostile stage of our negotiations."

Hastily donning her dress from the previous day, Trixie clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. She seriously doubted that either Mr. Frayne or Mrs. Vanderpoel would appreciate being the source of her amusement.

"Good morning!" she called brightly, exiting her own room and hurrying down the hall to the sickroom. "I'm so glad you're awake! I was beginning to think I'd have to threaten you with stories about Mr. Lytell in order to get you to wake up. I know I'd do almost anything to avoid thinking about him," she finished with a saucy grin.

Mr. Frayne stared back at her blankly, his earlier outrage forgotten in the face of the young woman's prattle. "I'm sorry," he said a trifle stiffly. "Have we met?"

"Oh! No. Not officially, I suppose. Or at least not when you were conscious. You did say a few words to me yesterday, but I'm not sure you were entirely awake."

If anything, this seemed to increase his confusion rather than alleviate it. Luckily, Mrs. Vanderpoel seized the opportunity to make a graceful departure.

"Mr. Frayne, this is Miss Belden. She's the young lady who sat with you for a good deal of the time when you were insensible with fever. As you seemed to rest more comfortably in her presence than mine, I'll leave you to it. I believe Mr. Belden has offered the contents of his library if you run short on topics of conversation. Late though it is," she continued, pinning Trixie with a sharp look in response to her sleeping in, "I'll bring some food up for you. Also for Mr. Frayne, as he neglected to keep down his first breakfast."

The husky young man flushed at the reminder of what he apparently perceived to be a weakness, but Mrs. Vanderpoel had already swept from the room in a swirl of voluminous skirts.

They stared at each other for an uncomfortable half minute until Trixie seated herself in the bedside chair.

"I'm sure Mrs. Vanderpoel will include a book when she comes back with breakfast," Trixie offered. "She doesn't approve of gossip and she's worried that I'll spill every secret of the Sleepyside townsfolk now that I've run out of embarrassing stories about my brothers. Of course," she said, her tone thoughtful, "you probably don't remember any of those stories, as you weren't exactly conscious when I was telling them. Still, it seems in poor taste to repeat myself."

She stopped. "She also might be worried that I'll talk your ear clean off," she finished sheepishly.

Instead of the irritated expression she'd expected to see (goodness knew her brothers had told her often enough that she talked entirely too much), Mr. Frayne was smiling indulgently.

"You seem very much like my sister," he informed her. "And if I can suffer through her endless stories about our acquaintances and the progress of her current sampler or fringe, I imagine I'll be able to manage here as well."

"Sampler? Fringe?" Trixie questioned, wrinkling her nose. "I'm afraid you'll find no conversation from me on those topics. Wait! Sister? I thought—" She stopped abruptly. Would he be offended knowing that the sketchy details of his life had been discussed?

"Miss Wheeler," he elaborated, ignoring her abrupt halt. "We were raised together, and though we do not share the same parentage, I consider her as a sister."

His face was the picture of open, honest affection, and Trixie reflected that Miss Wheeler was a very fortunate young lady, even if she did have an interest in the typical female occupations that Trixie eschewed.

"My sister," he continued, "spent the majority of her childhood confined to a bed or sofa. She has always been of a sickly and sensitive nature, and so was forced to amuse herself in the most restful of ways. Even reading caused her headaches to worsen, so I spent many hours keeping her company and talking. Or, rather, listening to her talk. You and she share the same roundabout manner of relating information."

Trixie huffed in amused indignation, but Mr. Frayne wasn't finished. "You also share, I think, an uncommon kindness for those around you. You would get on well together, in my opinion."

"Don't be so sure of my kindness," she warned him. "I have three brothers who would argue that point." She paused. "And be able to illustrate their arguments with many examples."

"Oh, I didn't say you were good," Mr. Frayne corrected her, his face the picture of amusement. "I said you were kind. There's a difference, I assure you."

"Oh!" She swatted at him in mock outrage, but didn't actually make contact with him. She'd tended his fever and cooled his brow, but to touch him for no clear purpose when he was conscious… Well, even she wasn't ready to tout convention quite that much. Especially seeing as how they were in a bedroom and unchaperoned.

As if in answer to her thoughts, the door Mrs. Vanderpoel had left ajar swung wide open, and Mrs. Belden appeared bearing a tray of toast, cinnamon buns, coffee, and tea.

"Oh!" Trixie exclaimed, selecting a cinnamon bun and placing it on a blue and white china plate. "You must have been up early!"

Cinnamon buns were another of Mrs. Belden's specialties, but they were generally reserved for special occasions such as birthdays.

"Christmas baking," Mrs. Belden explained. "I want to finish the ginger snaps and shortbread yet this morning as I suspect that Mrs. Lytell will pay us a call this afternoon. The cinnamon buns are a diversionary tactic contrived to pacify your brothers so that there will still be Christmas cookies left for Christmas Eve."

"Well, they're certainly pacifying me," Trixie reported, her mouth full of sticky goodness.

"Trixie!" Mrs. Belden chided, still managing to sound affectionate even as she scolded her. "Manners!"

"Whoops!" Trixie flushed, but her embarrassment didn't stop her from taking another bite before offering Mr. Frayne a slice of toast with strawberry jam. "And how do you take your tea?" she inquired.

He looked longingly at the coffee, but seemed to accept that due to his unsettled stomach, it wasn't one of his choices.

"Black," he said with a sigh, and accepted the steaming mug she handed him. "This is remarkable jam," he said after his first bite of toast.

"It ought to be. All of those strawberries were grown right here on Crabapple Farm," she said proudly.

He took another bite, and then set aside his plate. "I think that's all I'd better attempt," he admitted.

Mrs. Belden took the tray after placing a second cinnamon bun on Trixie's plate. "Lunch will be a good, strong broth," she informed Jim. "I think you'll be surprised how much you'll be able to eat."

"I hope so," he said. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Belden."

"You're no trouble at all," she told him as she stood in the doorway. "Crabapple Farm always has a room for whoever needs it."

"Stretchy walls," Trixie agreed, nodding.

Mr. Frayne nodded. "In any case, I'll be on my way as soon as possible." He paused. "I didn't think to ask sooner. Has word been sent to the Manor?"

"My son Robert went early this morning. He found the household in a bit of a state," she told him. "Your sister was quite concerned for your safety."

Mr. Frayne winced. "I'm sure she was. I hope she wasn't too upset…"

"She was perfectly fine as soon as Robert extended an invitation for her to visit at her earliest convenience."

Mr. Frayne groaned. "Hopefully Mr. Wheeler will talk sense into her. This weather is much too cold and damp for her to be out and about."

Trixie looked out the window. "It looks lovely out to me," she offered.

"Honey isn't well," he insisted. "It isn't a good idea for her to venture out in the cold in any circumstance, and I very much prefer that she not do so on my behalf. No. I'll go to the Manor myself as soon as possible."

"Mrs. Vanderpoel has pronounced you fit, then?" Mrs. Belden inquired.

Trixie bit her lip to hide her smile.

"Well, no. Not exactly," Mr. Frayne answered. "But I hardly think I need wait—"

"Would Miss Wheeler want you to place your own health in danger?" Mrs. Belden asked. "No? Then I suggest you wait until you are fully recovered before you expose her to your own sickness. If you would care to write a short letter, I'm certain that Trixie would be happy to deliver it for you. She is no doubt itching for some activity outside of the house, and Miss Wheeler will no doubt enjoy her company more than she did Robert's."

"But—"

"You'd be smart to give up now," Trixie informed him. "If both Moms and Mrs. Vanderpoel are against you leaving, you're not going anywhere. And I'd be more than happy to pay a call to your sister. If you think she wouldn't mind, that is?"

"Of course she wouldn't mind," he sighed. "She'll invite you in, offer you tea, and demand every detail of what has transpired since I arrived at Crabapple Farm. I hope you took notes," he finished wryly.

Trixie shrugged. "As long as she doesn’t expect me to do any needlepoint while we're talking, I'm sure we'll get along fine."

He smiled. "No. She'll be much too interested in talking to you to suggest doing anything that might draw your attention away from the conversation."

"Well. Then I should change my clothes to something more suitable for paying a call, and you should write that letter," she suggested. "I advise that you make it as long as possible, or I'll be forced to fill in the details," she added.

"What details?" he asked, frowning in confusion.

"Oh, I have no idea. But I'd be sure to make up something interesting." With a little wave, she left the room, intent on finding a dress that would both stand up to the walk to the Manor and not shame her in the presence of a family many times more wealthy than her own. After sorting through her closet twice she gave it up as a bad job and simply chose her favourite warm dress. Not for the first time, she wished that she could get away with wearing her brother's breeches. She was certain that Bobby's would fit her, even if he was taller than her. And walking through the snow would be so much easier.

But even she was leery of the thought of arriving at the Manor in such a costume.

The walk along the path leading from Crabapple Farm to the Manor was brisk and refreshing, and by the time Trixie knocked on the door of the Manor, she was pink-cheeked and slightly out of breath. Her bothers and Tad had cleared away the worst of the snow, but there had still been several drifts to contend with. The hem of her dress was soaked a good three inches into the skirt, but Trixie didn't care in the slightest. She hadn't minded assisting with Mr. Frayne's care, but she truly hadn't realized how confined she'd been feeling until she took her first breath of the cold air and felt the crunch of snow under her boots. No wonder Mr. Frayne had been so anxious to set off for the Manor, if he had felt half as cooped up as she!

The door opened to reveal a young lady in a maid's uniform, and Trixie immediately recognized the girl Tad has his heart set on, Ruthie Kettner.

"Ruthie!" Trixie exclaimed. "It's good to see you! I hope you've been well?" From Tad's stories, Trixie knew that Ruthie was the picture of health, even to the point of agreeing to walk out with Tad after church the previous Sunday.

But today Ruthie appeared positively harried with her bonnet askew and multiple strands of hair escaping her bun.

"What is it?" Trixie whispered, slightly alarmed at the state of her appearance. It was natural to assume that the maid had increased responsibilities with the Wheelers in attendance, but Ruthie was by nature a hard worker—Trixie simply couldn't imagine any extra tasks could make her look so out of sorts.

Ruthie tucked a strand of lank, dark hair behind her ear and smiled. "It's good to see you, too. I hope you're not bringing bad news from the Farm?" she inquired.

"Oh! No. No bad news at all," she assured her, not having realized that her visit following so closely on the heels of Bobby's visit could be cause for alarm.

"Good," Ruthie breathed, relaxing perceptibly. "Miss Wheeler has been quite distraught," she confided in a whisper. "I shudder to think what effect more bad news would have on her."

"You, there!" a strident voice called. "Maid! Who was at the door? Another tiresome peasant neighbour with tidings of woe?"

Ruthie's demeanor darkened instantly. "No, ma'am," she replied respectfully. "Miss Belden from Crabapple Farm has arrived to further ease Miss Wheeler's concerns about Mr. Frayne."

The resulting "hmph" from the drawing room was less than encouraging, as was the sound of clipped footsteps approaching them. "Another Belden ruffian with no manners and less breeding, I assume."

Trixie's eyes widened at the insult and she mouthed, "Mrs. Wheeler?" to the maid, but Ruthie had only enough time to shake her head.

"I am Mrs. Caroline Riker." The tallest, thinnest woman Trixie had ever seen swept into the room. "And you, I presume, are Miss Belden?" she inquired, staring down the length of her nose.

"Yes, ma'am," Trixie replied brightly, refusing to be cowed. "I've come with a letter from Mr. Frayne for Miss Wheeler and to answer any questions she might have about his condition. I know that my brother Robert called on you this morning, but in my experience, boys can be less than reassuring. Mr. Frayne asked me to come, hoping that my visit would put Miss Wheeler at ease."

"Hmph," she repeated. "I suppose you had better come in, then." Her sharp gaze took Trixie's measure, sweeping the length of her serviceable dress and lingering on the sturdy men's boots Trixie had worn for the snowy walk. Disgusted, she turned without another word to lead her, presumably, to Miss Wheeler.

"Good luck," Ruthie whispered under her breath and giving her a sympathetic smile. Trixie grinned back, realizing the source of Ruthie's harried appearance. Dealing with Mrs. Riker for any length of time was likely to wreak havoc with anyone's nerves, even someone as hard-working and even-tempered as Ruthie.

But, Trixie reminded herself, stubbornness could be more than a match for snobbery, and she was nothing if not stubborn.