Summer At Willow Tree Farm - Heidi Rice MIRA

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hadn’t been at fifteen. Ellie could still remember all the girls who had hung around the farm that summer trying to get his attention – and the long list of ones who had succeeded.

      ‘You know Art?’ Maddy’s eyes lit with interest.

      ‘We met when we were teenagers. I spent a summer here in the nineties,’ Ellie replied.

      ‘How intriguing,’ Maddy said. ‘Was he as scary then as he is now?’

      Ellie coughed out a laugh, enjoying the girl’s directness – and her accurate opinion of Art. ‘Actually yes.’

      ‘Art’s not scary,’ Jacob said. ‘He’s a cool guy.’

      ‘Didn’t say he wasn’t cool,’ Maddy replied. ‘But he is intimidating. He does the whole strong silent moody thing better than Christian Bale’s Batman. Even without the aid of a black rubber onesie.’

      Ellie laughed again, pleased to discover she wasn’t the only one who found Art intimidating – while trying not to imagine him in black rubber.

      ‘Time to haul arse, Miss Nosey Pants.’ Jacob took Maddy’s hand. ‘We’re supposed to be helping Rob bring the heifers down from the hill pasture.’

      ‘Nice talking to you, Ellie,’ Maddy said as Jacob dragged her towards the door. ‘We’ll keep our PDAs on the down low from now on. I promise.’

      Ellie doubted that when she heard a loud slap followed by Maddy’s giggle of protest before the front door slammed.

      Locating a jar of granola in the pantry, Ellie ladled out a generous helping of the toasted nuts and seeds then topped it off with some yoghurt and a selection of the freshly picked berries she found in punnets in the fridge.

      Five minutes later, she was rinsing her bowl in the sink, when the crash of the door slamming open made her jump.

      Batman himself charged into the kitchen holding his hand aloft, blood dripping down his forearm and splattering Dee’s sand-blasted stone.

      ‘Move,’ he said as he nudged her aside at the sink.

      ‘What happened to your hand?’ Ellie asked, as he thrust his hand under the tap.

      ‘I was sharpening one of the rotary blades and I nicked myself.’

      Cold water gushed out, and ran red into the sink.

      ‘That’s more than a nick.’ Ellie leant over his shoulder – the deep ten-centimetre gash bisected his palm and sliced under his thumb. So much for Art’s useful skills, the guy couldn’t even sharpen a rotary blade without sawing off a hand.

      He shot Ellie a caustic look over his shoulder, then shifted to block her view. ‘Get me a tea towel. It’ll be fine once it’s wrapped up.’

      ‘You’re going to need more than a tea towel,’ she said, as she checked the drawers, finally finding a pile of clean towels and fishing out a fistful. She lifted one from the top of the pile – ominously decorated with pictures of Druid worship at Stonehenge – and handed it to him, the metallic smell of fresh blood making her head swim.

      Art wound the towel round his hand, tying the makeshift bandage off with his teeth. The blood started to seep through the fabric.

      ‘You are not serious?’ Ellie stepped into his path as he went to leave. ‘You need to get that stitched to stop the bleeding.’

      ‘It’s fine,’ he said through gritted teeth, the mutinous scowl reminding her of Josh when he’d been a fractious toddler. Josh, though, had never been this stubborn, or this stupid.

      ‘Plus it could get infected,’ she added. ‘And then you’ll lose it.’

      ‘Get a grip, Princess Drama.’ The old insult might have had more impact if she couldn’t see the greasy pallor beneath his scowl.

      ‘No I won’t, Captain Dickhead,’ she replied.

      What was the guy trying to prove? That he could saw off his hand and keep on going? This was beyond ridiculous.

      ‘I’m not kidding,’ she continued. ‘You need to go to A and E.’

      His face paled even more.

      Whipping another tea towel off the pile, she took his hand and bound it more tightly in a vain attempt to stem the blood flow. His breath gushed out against her forehead. She tied two more towels together to create a makeshift sling.

      ‘Keep it elevated,’ she said, as she knotted the towels at his nape. ‘Until we get to Gratesbury.’

      If she remembered correctly, there was a minor injuries unit there. Hopefully it was still there or they’d have to carry on to Salisbury, which was at least an hour away.

      ‘I’m not going to a hospital,’ he said.

      ‘Yes, you are, because I refuse to let you bleed out all over my mum’s kitchen.’ Taking his elbow, she led him towards the door. ‘Getting the stains out of these flagstones would be a total bitch.’

      He shrugged out of her hold. ‘If I’ve got to go, I’ll drive myself.’

      ‘With one hand? I don’t think so.’ She grabbed his elbow again and tugged him towards the door, her temper riding roughshod over the ego slap.

      So Art would rather lose a hand then spend twenty minutes in a confined space with her.

      ‘Wait there.’ She left him standing in the hallway, as she took the stairs two at a time to get her car keys. ‘And stop being a douche canoe.’

      ‘What the hell’s a douche canoe?’ he shouted after her.

      ‘A guy with way too much testosterone and not nearly enough common sense,’ she shouted back, taking a wild guess.

      ‘For Christ’s sake, slow down. I’m not going to bleed to death in the next ten seconds.’

      Ellie slanted a look at her passenger. He clung on to the handle above the car door, sweat glistening on his forehead, the blood having soaked through the towels she’d wrapped round his other hand in scarlet blotches.

      ‘I don’t care if you bleed to death,’ she replied, trying to remain calm – he was a big guy, hopefully he had a few pints to spare. ‘What I do care about is you bleeding all over my rental car.’ She eased her foot off the accelerator to take the next hairpin bend in the A30. ‘I’ve got to drop it off in Salisbury in a couple of days and I don’t want to pay a fine, or have to spend hours cleaning it.’

      ‘If you were worried about your stupid hire car why did you insist on driving me to A and E?’

      ‘Because I stupidly care if you lose your stupid hand.’

      ‘I’m not going to lose my hand.’

      ‘Not on my watch you won’t.’ She braked at the roundabout on the outskirts of Gratesbury and heard him curse. She wrestled the unfamiliar stick shift into first gear. ‘Did you seriously think you were going to carry on playing dodgeball with a rotary blade with half a hand?’

      She jammed her foot on the accelerator when she spotted a gap ahead of an articulated lorry.

      ‘Jesus!’ He slapped his uninjured hand down on the dash. ‘Who taught you to drive?’

      ‘Stop changing the subject.’ She took the second exit signposted Gratesbury.

      She had checked on her mobile before they set off that the minor injuries unit was still there and open at weekends in the market town. Art’s breath caught as she zipped past a tractor with at least an inch to spare on the road that took them past the town’s church and secondary school.

      ‘What subject would you rather

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