Daddy, He Wrote - Jill Limber

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found the stairs and headed up to where he remembered the bedrooms were located. There was an airy upstairs corner room that would make a perfect office. The windows in the south wall overlooked an orchard, and from the windows in the east wall he could see the barn.

      As soon as the animals were gone, he’d look into turning the barn into a proper garage.

      He was pleased that he’d made the impulsive purchase. It was a perfect place to write. Quiet, private and secluded. He’d be able to settle down and finish his book.

      He’d made it clear to Joyce the location of the farm was not to be divulged to anyone, not even his publisher. All communication would go through her.

      The farm would be his haven from obsessive fans and shallow acquaintances who wanted his friendship for their own selfish reasons. He was unapologetic about being a recluse. His work required it, and his work came first.

      He’d move the bed out and use the big worktable in the corner under the windows as a desk. The curtains would come down. There was no need for privacy way out here in the country.

      He smiled as he considered the view again. From where he stood, the only house he could see was the old stone house beyond the barn.

      Where Trish lived. The woman just popped into his head, uninvited.

      He tried to concentrate on the house. He remembered the real estate agent telling him the tiny structure where the caretakers lived had been the original farmhouse on the property. It looked as if it couldn’t be more than two rooms.

      He wondered if she was comfortable in such a small space, then dismissed the thought. It was none of his business whether or not she was happy.

      The only thing he needed to care about in relation to her was that she did her job and stayed out of his way. From the look of the house, Ian had no complaints.

      He glanced down at his watch. He needed to leave to get to his book signing on time, but he found he didn’t want to go. He hated the ordeal, facing all those people who stood in line for hours just to have him scrawl his name inside the front cover.

      They all wanted a personal conversation from him, some snippet they could carry away. Why? Why couldn’t his book be enough?

      The book he was working on now was so different from what he’d done before. His agent and his editor and Joyce had all subtly let him know they thought he was making a big mistake and he’d lose readers over it.

      Maybe that was a good thing.

      With a sigh he headed back down the stairs. The place was even more perfect than he remembered.

      He couldn’t wait to move in.

      Chapter Three

      Trish had Emma in a baby front pack, strapped to her chest. She’d buttoned them both up inside an oversize, heavy jacket. Only the top of the baby’s head, covered with a pink knit cap, showed. Trish figured she probably looked like a bag lady, but Emma had a cold and she needed to be kept warm.

      The horse dealer had just pulled up to the barn with a huge trailer. He jumped out of the cab of his truck and waved to her. “Ms. Ryan?” He pulled on gloves and opened the door of the trailer with a clang of metal.

      “They’re ready to go.” She’d been in the barn with Max, saying goodbye.

      It had been harder than she expected. She’d brought him apples and sugar, and he’d nudged her shoulder with his big head when she’d started to cry, as if he’d known what she was saying to him.

      She chalked some of her emotion up to fatigue. Emma had a little fever and had been fussy and awake for a good part of the night. Trish had been up giving her baby sponge baths every hour.

      “Okay, then. I have the paperwork here. I want to hurry before the storm hits.” He pulled a sheaf of dog-eared papers from his back pocket.

      Trish took the papers and looked to the north. It was only the middle of the morning, but the sky was almost black. She wondered how much time she had until the snow started.

      There was still so much to do before Mr. Miller returned this weekend. She stood back as the horse dealer led the big gray into the trailer.

      Trish went into the barn and took hold of Max’s bridle, even though he’d probably follow her like a big old brown dog.

      She got him out to the truck and the dealer held up his hand.

      “I want him in last, ’cause he gets dropped off first.”

      Trish scratched Max under his chin. “I thought they were all going to the same auction.”

      “Not this guy. He’s going to the slaughterhouse. A lame old horse like him won’t sell.”

      Trish felt as if she’d been hit in the belly with a fist. “You mean he’s going to be put down?”

      The man shrugged, his heavy sheepskin-lined jacket swallowing his ears for a moment. “Yup.”

      Her mind whirling she asked, “So you won’t get any money for him?”

      “Nah. But I won’t charge your boss to drop him off.”

      Trish dropped Max’s lead and shuffled through the papers the dealer had given her. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled out the sheet that belonged to Max. “So it doesn’t matter if he stays?”

      He shot her a surprised look. “Up to you. But a three-legged horse eats as much as one with four legs. Can’t ride him, can you?”

      Trish shook her head. She didn’t ride any of them. That made no difference to her. Emma sneezed and Trish patted her through the heavy jacket.

      She led Max back into his stall and closed the gate while the driver loaded the other two horses.

      Why was she acting so crazy? Mr. Miller wanted all the animals gone. He’d been very clear on that point. She couldn’t very well hide a horse. Or afford to feed him, she reminded herself.

      She checked the feed bin. It was low, but with only Max eating, it would last for a while. She’d think of something.

      She went out to the teamster’s rig and signed the papers for the other animals in the trailer, then watched the driver pull away.

      Calling herself a fool, she headed for the stone house. Maybe the people who lived out on the main road near the bus stop would let her pasture him there. They had young children and she could exchange his keep for baby-sitting. She’d check when she went for groceries.

      She couldn’t let Max be put down. He was too good a friend, and Trish had had so few loyal friends in her life.

      She gathered up the laundry and the bag of Emma’s dirty diapers and hauled it all up to the main house. She’d do her laundry tomorrow while she was cleaning.

      She worked all day, stopping frequently to nurse Emma. Her little nose was so stuffed up she had a hard time eating.

      Exhausted, Trish finally decided it was time to quit. With Emma bundled up in her arms, she opened the front door and was shocked to see two inches of snow had already fallen.

      She locked the door and fought the wind, making a quick stop at the barn to feed and water Max, who stood dozing in his stall. Tollie, the mutt, had made a bed in a pile of hay outside Max’s stall, and his tail thumped when she greeted him, his blind eyes staring right past her. Crew Cut, the cat with the scarred head and damaged ears, was curled up with the dog.

      Tollie did pretty well, considering he couldn’t see a thing, but she noticed he was staying in the barn more and more. She left the door open a crack so Tollie and Crew could get out if they needed to.

      She let herself in the door of her house. It was almost as cold inside as it was out in the snow. She needed to get the fireplace going so the room would be warm enough for Emma.

      They’d

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