LITMIR.BIZ

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She needed to get back to Emma. And to work.

      A horse whinnied loudly from the paddock. She recognized Max’s voice. He was a big baby, but she really would miss him.

      Trish pushed the sentimental thought away. What did she need with a three-legged horse?

      She was exhausted caring for her daughter, the house, the animals and the property. It would make her life easier if she didn’t have to maintain the animals, especially now that cold winter weather had set in.

      She wouldn’t miss milking the cow twice a day, but she already regretted not having fresh milk. She’d learned to make butter and had been going to try to make cheese. Having the cow had saved on groceries and reduced the hassle of taking the bus to the supermarket as often.

      A cold breeze raised goose bumps on her arms, and she glanced at the barn. Even though Emma was all bundled up and snug in her basket, it was still chilly.

      She couldn’t figure out how to speed up his visit without being too obvious, so she decided to get a business detail out of the way.

      She cleared her throat, and he turned away from his perusal of the house. “I assume you want the money from the sale of the animals deposited in the household account?”

      Mr. Miller shrugged. “I suppose. Do you keep the accounts?”

      Trish nodded. She kept painfully detailed records of all the money she deposited and spent out of the Blacksmith Farm account.

      She had to buy more fuel oil soon and pay the men who were working in the orchard this week.

      “Fine. If you need more operating money, I’ll give you the name of my accountant. He’ll check your records and see you get what you need.”

      The horses should bring a great deal of money at auction, so she wouldn’t have to ask for quite a while.

      She was glad to hear him say he was turning the financial dealings over to an accountant. That was what someone who didn’t plan to spend much time here would do.

      He turned back to the house, staring at the exterior. She suppressed a shiver and wondered what he was doing, just standing out here in the cold, looking. “Are you sure I can’t show you around?”

      He seemed to come out of his trance. “No. I’ll go in by myself. Is the house locked?” Absently he fished around in his pocket as if he could come up with a key. She wondered if he had one.

      “No. Both the front and back are open.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized her mistake. She braced herself for a rebuke for leaving his property unlocked.

      Way out here in the country it seemed perfectly reasonable to her to leave the doors open during the day.

      He smiled, as if it amused him. “Unlocked,” he muttered. “Good.”

      It was the first halfway pleasant expression she’d seen on his face.

      He turned and walked toward the house, his leather shoes crunching over the gravel drive. His long-legged stride ate up the ground.

      She watched him walk away then glanced over at the limousine driver, who smiled at her and shrugged. She waited until Mr. Miller disappeared inside the house to speak to the driver.

      She felt awkward asking the question, as if she were invading Mr. Miller’s privacy, but she needed to know. “How long is he going to be here?”

      The driver looked at his watch. “Not long if he wants to be at his next destination on time.”

      Trish heaved a sigh of relief and smiled at the man. She was prepared to fix Mr. Miller dinner if he stayed, but she still had a lot of work to do. He was the new owner and possibly the most handsome man Trish had ever encountered, but for her sake, the less time he spent here the better.

      “I need to finish up in the barn. Will you give me a tap on the horn if he wants to see me before you leave?”

      “Sure thing.” He gave her a little salute and climbed back in the car.

      Smart man. It was really getting cold. She turned and hurried back to the barn. When she was working she didn’t notice the cold, but just standing there she’d felt it cut right through her clothes.

      Trish peeked into Emma’s basket at her sleeping baby and felt the surge of love that always took her by surprise. She’d never been in love before, and the warm feelings brought tears to her eyes. She watched her perfect little face, composed in sleep. Emma was the only purely good thing that had ever happened to her.

      She kissed the smooth cheek, inhaling the wonderful scent of clean baby and whispered, “This is going to work, darling girl, I just know it is.”

      Ian looked out the window of the front room of his new home and watched Trish finish her conversation with his driver, then turn and run into the barn.

      When he’d first noticed her he’d thought she was a teenager. Then a breeze had kicked up and plastered her shirt against her body, letting him know there was a woman’s shape under all that ugly flannel.

      She couldn’t be much over five feet tall, and she looked as if she was wearing her father’s clothes. He hadn’t missed the fact that her breasts had looked almost too large for her slender frame.

      As lovely as her figure appeared to be, it had been her eyes that had caught his attention. Big and blue and too old looking for her young face. Trish had sad eyes. Sad and a little wary.

      He found himself wondering about the appealing little waif with tousled blond curls. Why would a woman who looked that young have such old eyes? Why had he even remembered her name?

      He was terrible with names. Usually he had to meet people several times before he remembered them. He’d had the same doorman for a year and still couldn’t recall the man’s name.

      What was he doing, spending time thinking about his housekeeper? She was definitely not the type of woman he was usually attracted to.

      A little disgusted with himself, Ian turned away from the window and looked around the front room, trying to shake off his odd fascination with a woman he barely knew.

      The interior of the house was as homey and well kept as he remembered. The woman might look young, but she was doing a good job.

      He vaguely remembered Joyce mentioning the caretakers came with the farm and lived in the old stone house on the property. So did that mean she was half of a couple?

      He told himself it was only curiosity, the way his writer’s brain worked. He asked himself questions and created scenarios to go with what he saw.

      Yeah, right, he thought. Had he asked himself any questions about the limo driver? No.

      He reminded himself he was moving here to get away from entanglements and disturbances in his life. Trish and her sadness and who she was or wasn’t living with weren’t his problem.

      His problem was a massive case of writer’s block that was driving him crazy.

      He moved through the house, liking it more and more. The immense kitchen had the feel of an old-fashioned great room, with a huge fireplace and a comfortable collection of mismatched overstuffed furniture that looked right in the room. It smelled like spices. Cinnamon, maybe?

      Beyond the kitchen area a screened porch ran the length of the back of the house.

      The room looked like the kind of place where a whole family might gather in the winter to eat and socialize. He recalled that the agent showing him the house had said parts of it dated to the eighteenth century. He imagined in those days it would have been practical to confine daily activities to one room, given the limitations of heating and lighting.

      He made a mental note to ask Joyce if the real estate agent had given her any history on the structure. If not, he’d do some research himself.

      Fortunately the house now had modern electrical wiring, plumbing, central heat and updated appliances,

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