Daddy, He Wrote
Jill Limber
From Bestseller to…Best Father?Journal Entry No. 1: I bought Blacksmith Farm to find peace and quiet to write my next bestseller–not to spend it with a fetching widow caretaker and her baby! This blizzard has us stuck together like one big, happy family. I'll be lucky if I survive the first night.Journal Entry No. 8: I can't believe I, sophisticated city slicker Ian Miller, am enjoying this simple country life. Granted, Trish Ryan is easy on the eyes and her gentle spirit has inspired my best work. But for one electrifying moment she even had me considering a new chapter in my life–that of loving husband and father. If I don't finish this book soon, I could lose my mind–and heart–for good!
The baby grinned at him.
Ian heard Trish coming down the hall and jumped back from the crib.
“I didn’t hear her cry.” She frowned at the baby monitor, then looked back up at him worriedly. “I’m so sorry if she disturbed you from your writing.”
“Not at all. I came down for coffee and she was awake.” He couldn’t tell if he had offended Trish by checking on the baby. “Do you mind if I talk to her?”
A surprised expression flashed across Trish’s beautiful, flushed face. “Oh, not at all,” she said in a rush. “I just don’t want you to be bothered, Mr. Miller.”
Ian shrugged, secretly flattered that she, so protective of her child, trusted him. “Trish, she’s no bother. In fact, when you have to go outside, let me know. That way you don’t have to worry about her.”
He amazed himself as he heard the words coming out of his mouth. Ian Miller, confirmed bachelor, had just offered to baby-sit. If anyone had told him he’d be doing that a month ago, he’d have laughed out loud.
Next thing he knew, he’d be writing a baby into his story!
Dear Reader,
Let this month’s collection of Silhouette Romance books sweep you into the poetry of love!
Roses are red,
or white in the case of these Nighttime Sweethearts (SR #1754) by Cara Colter. Scarred both physically and emotionally, this cynical architect will only woo his long-lost love under the protection of night. Can a bright beauty tame this dark beast? Find out in the fourth title of Silhouette Romance’s exquisite IN A FAIRY TALE WORLD… miniseries.
Violets are blue,
like the eyes of the ladies’ man in Myrna Mackenzie’s latest, Instant Marriage, Just Add Groom (SR #1755). All business, even in his relationships, this hardened hero would never father a child without the protection of marriage—but he didn’t count on falling for the prim bookseller next door!
Cupid’s at play,
and he’s got the use of more than arrows for matchmaking! Even a blinding blizzard can bring two reluctant people together. Watch the steam rise when a gruff, reclusive writer is stranded with a single mom and her adorable baby in Daddy, He Wrote (SR #1756) by Jill Limber.
And magic, too!
With only six days left to break her curse, Cat knew she couldn’t count on finding true love. Until she happened upon a dark, reticent veterinarian with a penchant for rescuing animals—and damsels—in distress! You’re sure to be enchanted by Shirley Jump’s SOULMATES story, Kissed by Cat (SR #1757).
May love find you this Valentine’s Day!
Mavis C. Allen
Associate Senior Editor
Daddy, He Wrote
Jill Limber
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Teresa, the best kind of friend.
No matter what, I know I can count on you!
Books by Jill Limber
Silhouette Romance
The 15 lb. Matchmaker #1593
Captivating a Cowboy #1664
Daddy, He Wrote #1756
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Secrets of an Old Flame #1226
JILL LIMBER
lives in San Diego with her husband. Now that her children are grown, their two dogs keep her company while she sits at her computer writing stories. A native Californian, she enjoys the beach, loves to swim in the ocean and for relaxation she daydreams and reads romances. You can learn more about Jill by visiting her Web site at www.JillLimber.com (http://www.JillLimber.com).
Blacksmith Farm To Do List:
1) Make Mr. Miller breakfast
2) Wash Emma’s bibs and blankets
3) Stop thinking about sexy new boss!
4) Feed the horses, the cat and the dog
5) Wash kitchen floor
6) Stop thinking about sexy new boss!!
7) Buy groceries
8) Stop thinking about sexy new boss!!!
Contents
Chapter One (#u763668e2-0a4f-5091-a8f9-b1945c4054e8)
Chapter Two (#uedf6b20e-7ef1-591f-9451-f0e3a07bed81)
Chapter Three (#ue9715363-4945-5376-9c3f-0eb60897e9af)
Chapter Four (#uf57a1a7d-eadd-5d7c-9fd5-b255b390b830)
Chapter Five (#u621a65da-192a-5740-b6a2-4b378a9cffe0)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Trish dropped the box of books she’d just begun to unpack and grabbed the telephone before the ringing could wake three-month-old Emma. If the baby hadn’t been in the room, she’d let the machine pick up. She’d been dodging phone calls for three months.
Heart pounding, she said, “Hello, Blacksmith Farm.”
“Is this the housekeeper?” an arrogant-sounding female voice asked.
Trish answered, knowing this could be the call that ended her job. If that happened, she and Emma would be homeless. “Yes. This is Trish—”
The impatient caller cut her off. “This is Joyce Sommers. I’m Mr. Miller’s business manager.”
Mr. Miller was the new owner of Blacksmith Farm. Trish waited through the woman’s dramatic pause, wanting to make a sarcastic comment but knowing that would not be the wisest step, considering her circumstances.
“I have a list of things that need to be done before Mr. Miller arrives.”
Trish sat down at the desk, fearing her shaky legs might not support her. If she was getting instructions she still had the job. On a giddy wave of relief she started scribbling furiously to get down everything Ms. Sommers wanted accomplished in the next two days.
She assured Ms. Sommers that everything would be done before Mr. Miller visited, then the woman hung up without even a goodbye.
With a shaking hand, Trish replaced the receiver and stared at the telephone. Relief spread through her, and she felt the knot of tension between her shoulder blades ease a bit.
Despite her worry, Trish supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. The caretaker came with the property, just like the furnishings and the animals. The old owners had sold everything, lock, stock and barrel, literally.
If she was lucky, the new owner would spend as little time here as the old owner had.
She glanced over at Emma, sound asleep on her back in a wash basket lined with a quilt, her tiny hands curled into fists and her mouth making little sucking motions.
Trish’s heart swelled with love every time she looked at her daughter.
In their short marriage, Billy had been a miserable husband and an indifferent father, but he’d given her Emma. Part of Trish would thank him forever for that.
Through the window of the study, just past the barn, she could see the cracked shingles of the old stone farmhouse that went with the caretaker’s job. It had no heat except the fireplace; the electrical wiring was ancient and undependable; and the water pump didn’t work when the power was out. She loved every square leaky, drafty inch of it. It was hers, the first place she had ever been able to call home.
Trish emptied the box she’d been working to unpack before Ms. Sommers’s call, and realized all the books were multiple copies of the ones written by the new owner.
She looked at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases on the west wall, trying to decide where to put one of each of Mr. Miller’s books. He’d be proud of his work and want them at eye level, she decided, where people would see them when they came in the room.
She carried an armload to the shelves. This was her favorite room in the house. She loved to read.
She shelved a copy of each volume and ran her fingers down the spines to make sure they were aligned. The rest she stored in a cupboard.
What would it be like to be rich and live in a house like this and have enough time to read every day? In her dreams she pictured Emma and herself in a big, safe, cozy house like this. She’d have a housekeeper and a gardener. She’d have time to play with Emma whenever she wanted, and after she tucked Emma into bed at night, she’d curl up in the big flowered chair in the front room and read until bedtime.
Trish sighed at her own foolishness as she dusted the shelves. He must be very smart to write these books. She’d read all of them. Ian Miller was one of the most popular authors today. He hit the New York Times best-seller list with each new book.
She pulled out a volume of his latest release and studied the black-and-white picture of him on the dust jacket. Incredibly handsome, he looked more like a movie star than a writer. He was dressed in a tux and had a glass of champagne in his hand.
Trish smiled. He wouldn’t spend much time here. She loved the farm and this wonderful old restored house, but it was way out in the middle of the Pennsylvania countryside, miles from his home in Philadelphia and the glittering New York life someone like Ian Miller would be used to.
He’d be like the previous owner. He and his wife said they wanted a retreat from the stressful life in Manhattan, but they rarely used the farm.
They’d stocked the place with horses and a cow, then they’d split their time between a flat in London and a penthouse apartment in New York.
Trish would never understand how rich people’s minds worked.
She traced her finger over the picture of the elegant-looking man and smiled.
No, he wouldn’t spend time here.
She and Emma would have their little stone house.
Ian Miller considered heaving the telephone against the wall in frustration. “Joyce, I thought I made it clear I wasn’t doing any more publicity appearances or book signings for a while.”
Her cool, steady voice, a sound that he was starting to hate, made a falsely sympathetic murmur. “I know, Ian, but you agreed to this tour before the holidays. Before you made that ultimatum.”
Her tone told him just what she thought of his warning.
Ian hadn’t remembered agreeing to any such thing, but when he was on deadline he knew he sometimes said what Joyce wanted to hear just to get her off the telephone. “When do I leave?”
“A car will pick you up tomorrow morning at seven.”
He groaned. He’d planned to work all day tomorrow, even though he knew what he’d been writing lately was worthless and would never end up in a book. He’d been promoted as a “boy wonder” with his first book, had phenomenal success with all his subsequent releases and now was in danger of burning out before he turned thirty.
He’d never hit such a slump in his writing career. It was driving him crazy. He felt a compulsion to write a different kind of book, but the effort was going nowhere and frustrating the hell out of him.
He turned his attention back to Joyce, who was droning away about some party she’d attended. Some party where he should have been, to meet people.
He cut her off. “How long will I be gone?” He really needed to fire her, then he wouldn’t have to do tours and book signings.
He probably would have let her go by now if they hadn’t had a history. The affair was over, but he felt guilty about firing her. He didn’t want her to think that because he was no longer having sex with her he had no further need of her.
“Ian?”
Obviously, he hadn’t been paying attention. “What?”
“I did schedule in a stop at the farm.” He could hear the disdain in her voice. Joyce thought the farm was a bad idea and had been very vocal about it.
That almost made the trip sound good. He rubbed at the tension headache building up between his eyes.
“Okay. I’ll be ready at seven.”
He hung up and stared out his penthouse window at the streets. The trees had all lost their leaves, and he could see people, hundreds of them, bundled against the cold, walking their dogs, their children and each other.
Ian had no use for other people. He’d discovered early on that a fair number of his fellow city dwellers bordered on crazy.
A month ago he’d been followed home from a lunch with his editor by two middle-aged women who had barged into his building behind him, sidestepped the doorman and insisted they wanted to see his apartment.
Just last week he’d found a young woman sitting on the hood of his car in the secured underground parking garage in his building, holding a copy of his latest book. Wearing a very short skirt and top that showed her navel, complete with a diamond stud, she’d made it very clear she was interested in more than an autograph.
Ian cursed the day Joyce had talked him into letting his publisher put his picture on the dust jacket of his book. They’d just started their affair and she’d been very persuasive. Now he supposed removing the picture from future covers would be like closing the barn door after the horse had escaped, but he craved anonymity.
He wanted so badly to be out of the city where he’d grown up. Aside from insane fans, he was tired of the social whirl and the constant interruptions. He wanted to be alone, at the farm he’d just bought. He was sure that in the solitude of the Pennsylvania country-side he would rediscover his creativity.
He’d spent a total of an hour there, inspecting the property. It had felt so right to him, he’d bought it on the spot. He loved everything about it. The quiet, the isolation, the fact that aside from an old stone farmhouse where the caretakers lived, you couldn’t even see another house.
The main house, a restored plank house, was plenty big, with its warm, inviting and comfortable interior.
The whole place was obviously well cared for. He hadn’t met the people who worked there, but if they stayed out of Ian’s way and did their jobs, Ian didn’t care if he ever met them.
He’d always needed complete quiet and solitude to write. Philadelphia was becoming impossible. Not only did fans hound him, but his parents demanded he be a part of their busy society circle, as if he were some kind of trophy they’d acquired.
He’d considered moving to New York to be closer to his publisher and editor, but that was as bad as Philadelphia. He was tired of being pressured to show up at the important parties, invited because of his fame. No one wanted to know him, they just wanted to be seen with him.
The more he declined what Joyce described as the “significant invitations,” the more popular he became.
The business end of his life was no better. He’d hired an army of people to take care of things. Joyce, his agent, a property manager, an accountant, and they just seemed to complicate his life instead of freeing him up.
He wanted to be able to write in peace and quiet, live an uncomplicated life with no interruptions. He wanted what Thoreau had sought, his own Walden Pond.
No entanglements.
Maybe then he could get his old spark back and write a decent book to give to his publisher. He had a deadline looming, and nothing he was willing to show anyone, especially his editor.
He closed the program on his laptop and went to pack, his spirits lifting at the thought he would at least get to stop at the farm.
When he returned home he’d have the rest of the things he wanted to take with him packed and shipped. If the place turned out to be as conducive to work as he hoped, he’d think about putting his apartment up for sale.
Chapter Two
Trish was working in the barn when she heard the car coming up the driveway that led only to the farm.
It couldn’t be him, not yet, she thought frantically, looking down at her filthy clothes.
He wasn’t scheduled to arrive for three hours. Thank goodness she’d finished getting the house ready this morning.
She dumped her shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow and yanked off her gloves. Wiping her hands on the rag stuffed in her pocket, she walked over to glance into the basket on the workbench where Emma had just fallen asleep. She tucked the warm blanket securely around her daughter and kissed her forehead with a brush of her lips.
“Finish your nap, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Mama will be just outside.”
Emma always slept for at least an hour this time of the day, but Trish hated to leave her alone, even though she’d be only a short distance away.
She grabbed Tollie’s collar and shut him in the goat pen. The old blind mutt didn’t have the sense to stay out from under the wheels of the car.
Running her fingers through her short hair, she wished she’d had time to shower and change before she met the famous Ian Miller.
When she stepped out into the thin winter sunshine, the limousine was making a turn in the area between the barn and the main house. The car’s windows were tinted with such dark glass she couldn’t see the occupants of the car.
The car pulled to a stop about twenty feet from her, and a middle-aged driver in a rumpled suit jumped out and opened the rear door.
Ian Miller stepped out, his attention on the house. Her breath caught in her throat. The man was devastatingly handsome, much more than his photograph had shown.
He paid no attention to her. Either he hadn’t seen her or he was as rude as his business manager.
She pushed aside a feeling of disappointment. It didn’t matter, she told herself. The less he noticed her the better if she was going to be able to pull off her plan to keep both jobs.
His inattention gave her a chance to collect herself and study him. He was tall, over six feet, with thick, well-cut black hair.
His clothes were beautiful. He wore a gray-and-navy tweed jacket over broad shoulders, a navy turtleneck sweater and gray wool slacks, perfectly tailored to fit to his slim hips. His leather shoes looked costly and new.
Even from where she stood she could see he had strong square hands with clean, well-tended fingernails and an expensive-looking gold wristwatch.
The man was elegant. She’d never met a man who looked as classy as Ian Miller.
Self-consciously Trish smoothed the front of the flannel shirt that hung to her knees, wishing her boots weren’t caked with manure. She wore Billy’s clothes when she was working, to save wear and tear on what little wardrobe she had.
The limousine driver spotted her and tipped his hat. He cleared his throat, and Mr. Miller turned to him, one eyebrow quirked in question.
Then he looked past the driver and saw her. He went very still, his face etched with a brief flash of surprise, then his expression went blank as he looked her up and down. She noticed he had gorgeous blue eyes. The shade of blue the sky turned at twilight, deep and rich.
Trish sucked in a breath. This was it. She needed to appear competent to keep her job. She was good at bluffing. When you grew up the way she had, it was a necessary survival skill.
She plastered a smile on her face and took a step toward him. She didn’t miss the flash of suspicion that crossed his handsome face.
“Mr. Miller?”
He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, as if he’d been caught by someone he didn’t care to see. She didn’t have time to wonder at his curious reaction to her.
Nervously she smiled again, wondering if he could see how strained the expression felt on her face. She stopped about ten feet from the car and him. “I’m Trish Ryan.”
“You’re the housekeeper?” His expression relaxed a little but remained guarded as he nodded. “Ms. Ryan, I’m pleased to meet you.” His voice was deep, mellow and had a faint upper-class sound to it.
Trish didn’t think he looked pleased at all, but she had the sense not to mention it. “Welcome to Blacksmith Farm.”
“Thank you,” he replied politely.
His apparent lack of interest in her helped to put her at ease. “Can I show you the house?” she asked, hoping the answer would be no.
She wouldn’t leave Emma alone in the barn, and if he said yes she’d have to go and get her daughter. She’d rather he didn’t know about Emma. Her gut told her Emma was a complication she should avoid explaining on their first meeting.
He looked down at her boots and shook his head. Trish felt a spurt of relief. If she were him she wouldn’t want her boots in the house, either.
Then he looked beyond her with a scowl. She turned and saw he was looking at the paddock beside the barn where two of the three horses were placidly grazing. Max stood with his head hanging over the fence, watching her. He was more like a dog than a horse, following her with his curious three-legged gait whenever she worked around the barn or paddock.
“Didn’t Ms. Sommers tell you to get rid of the animals?” he asked curtly.
Trish nodded. “Yes. The cow has already been sold to the neighbors. The dealer who’s taking the horses is coming tomorrow morning.”
She never could figure out why the former owner had wanted a cow. They never even drank milk the few times they stayed at the farm. Rich people baffled her with their lack of sense.
Mr. Miller nodded and turned his attention back to the house. He had a marvelous profile, very strong and masculine.
Trish stood there, impatiently waiting for him to say something. 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, but to him that didn’t cut down on the appeal. Authenticity was great in theory but hell to live with.
Ian 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 have to sleep in front of the fire again tonight. She flipped the switch of the lamp in the front room.
Nothing happened.
Trish groaned. The power was out already and the storm had just started. That meant no lights and no water, because the well pump was electric.
Still holding Emma, she turned around and headed back to the main house to get the generator going.
Trish unlocked the door and settled Emma, who was starting to fuss, on the couch with pillows around her to keep her from rolling off. Then she tackled the generator.
Within minutes she had the lights on and could hear the hum of the refrigerator. She could also hear the wind starting to howl around the house.
Trish turned on the television and listened to the news as she tried to nurse Emma again. The baby felt too warm and Trish tried to gauge her temperature. She was still running a little fever, which would account for her crankiness. Normally she was a very happy baby.
The local newscaster was predicting temperatures in the teens, high winds and two feet of snow.
There was no way Trish could keep Emma warm at the stone house. There was no heat besides the fireplace, and when the wind blew, the flue did not draw well and the air inside became smoky. With her stuffed-up nose Emma was having enough trouble breathing as it was.
She tucked the baby into the crook of her arm. “I guess we’ll stay here tonight.”
Emma smiled a toothless little lopsided grin, the first one Trish had seen all day.
“There’s my girl. You like that idea?”
The baby gurgled and smiled again.
“We’ll just camp out right here. I’ll build a fire and we can be nice and warm all night. We can even watch television.”
Trish fixed herself a can of soup and made a mental note to replace it with her own money the next time she went to the grocery store. Just as she was finishing up she heard Tollie barking at the door to the screened porch on the side of the house.
She went out to let him in, and the chill took her breath away. The dog was caked with snow, and she had to shove against the screen door to close it, because of the wind. Just before she got it shut, Crew squeezed through the small opening and ran through the main door and into the house.
She brushed the old dog off before letting him in, then put a frayed towel in the corner near a heater vent and led him to the spot.
“If you’re staying in, you’ll stay there.”
Tollie turned around three times and then plopped down on the towel, apparently pleased with the arrangement. She could just see Crew’s tail under the china cabinet.
Trish lit the fire in the huge stone fireplace, then got out blankets from the linen closet and settled Emma and herself for the night, sinking into the soft cushions of the couch and savoring the luxury of sleeping in a warm room.
Exhausted, she didn’t even turn on the television and drifted off to sleep almost immediately, the sound of the storm howling around the house strangely soothing.
Tollie’s furious barking woke her up. Groggily she raised her head and looked around the dark room, wondering what had set the mutt off. Then she realized she wasn’t at home, she was at the main house.
She had no idea how long she’d been asleep, and the red glowing numbers of the digital clock on the microwave flashed 12:00. She hadn’t reset it after turning the generator on.
Just as she was about to get up and investigate what might be upsetting her normally placid dog, the overhead lights went on, blinding her.
She peered over the back of the couch, squinting into the bright light. To her horror, Ian Miller stood in the doorway to the great room. The shoulders of his coat were thick with snow, and there was a thunderous expression on his face.
He took his gaze off her for just a moment to glance over at Tollie, who stood stiff-legged and growling, all the hair raised on his back.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted out without thinking. He wasn’t due for two more days.
He set his bag down with a thud. “I might ask you the same question,” he fairly growled at her.
Trish felt her heart sink. He’d fire her. Probably tonight, considering the furious expression on his face.
She told Tollie to hush and wondered where she could go. What was she going to do? She had no money, no marketable skills and no family. She still owed the hospital and the funeral home. She’d been homeless before, and she wasn’t going to let her baby live that kind of life. Ever. She looked down at her sleeping daughter, overwhelmed with dismay.
Ian stared at the tousled, delightful-looking woman curled up on his couch, her big blue eyes blinking against the light. He felt like Papa Bear come home to find Goldilocks in his bed.
Except he didn’t think Goldilocks had had a demented-looking mutt. At her command the dog had downgraded his barking to growls, and his spooky white eyes were staring past Ian. Ian watched Trish, but didn’t take his full attention off the dog.
She appeared to be confused and scared and still managed to look utterly enchanting.
Just what he needed, he thought, rubbing the tense muscles in the back of his neck. His dream of utter solitude dissolved in annoyance.
He was exhausted from fighting the storm all the way from Philadelphia. He’d decided this afternoon when he’d heard the weather predictions that if he waited to leave he’d be forced to delay the trip, possibly for days, and he couldn’t stand the thought of being stranded in the city when he could be at Blacksmith Farm. So he’d decided to come early.
He should have called to warn her, but it hadn’t occurred to him she’d be in his house.
“Well?” He was still waiting for her explanation.
She swallowed hard and made a helpless little gesture with her hand. “The power went out. No lights or water.”
He glanced up at the ceiling fixture. Did she think he was an idiot? “Looks like it came back.”
She shook her head full of tousled, blond curls. “This house is on a generator.”
“No generator at the stone house?”
She shook her head again and continued to stare at him as if he were Attila the Hun.
Just then a cat that looked as though it had gotten its head and tail caught in a piece of farm equipment sauntered into the room and jumped up onto the arm of the couch. Absently she scratched it under the chin, and Ian could hear the rumbling of its purr all the way across the room.
He looked around, wondering how many other animals might be lurking in the corners. At least the dog had settled down. The sound of her voice caught his attention.
“Mr. Miller?” She put the cat aside, struggled out of her nest of blankets and stood up. She was wearing pink flannel pajamas printed with yellow rubber ducks.
She looked as though she might cry. “I’m sorry to be here,” she said, her voice hitching, “but the baby has a cold and I needed to keep her warm.”
Baby? What baby? Ian looked around the room again, wondering how he had managed to stumble into this weird nightmare. “Baby?”
She pointed to a wash basket beside the couch. Ian took a step forward and saw a miniature version of Trish asleep in the basket.
He was hit with a punch of emotions that left him speechless and angry. He didn’t want the confused feelings that welled up and took him completely by surprise. She had a baby. This woman who looked like a child herself was a mother.
She started folding up the blankets with jerky movements. “I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Miller. I’ll get dressed and go home.”
She obviously hadn’t looked outside recently. They were in the beginning of a whiteout.
“No,” he said sharply, appalled at the idea. She couldn’t take a baby, sick or otherwise, out in this weather, not to mention live without power.
She probably wouldn’t even be able to find the stone house, even though it was only a short distance away.
She stopped folding the blankets and stared at him, her chin trembling. “No?”
Feeling uncharacteristically protective, he said, “Absolutely not.” He wasn’t going to let her take a step outside. She was such a little thing the drifts would come up to her waist.
She began blinking rapidly, as if she had something in her eye. “But where am I supposed to go?”
He wondered how sharp a brain she had under all those blond curls. Usually he didn’t have so much trouble communicating, but for some reason she didn’t seem to understand. Annoyed, he said, “Nowhere. You’ll stay here.”
He told himself he didn’t care if she was unhappy, but the misery on her face made him want to take her in his arms. Oh, yes, he definitely needed to get her back to the stone house as soon as possible. He’d order a second generator in the morning.
“Oh.” She sat back down on the couch, hugging the half-folded blanket to her chest. “Thank you.”
Ian glanced out the window. “Where is the baby’s father?” His voice sounded gruffer than he had intended. It was none of his business, but he needed to know, and that irritated him.
She swallowed hard and got a very strange look on her face. After a long pause she said, “Not here.”
Odd answer, he thought. The father should be the one worrying about her and their child, not him. He didn’t want the entanglement. “I have my cell phone. Can you call him?”
She blinked several more times. “Uh, no, probably not.”
What kind of answer was that? Either she could or she couldn’t. What did she mean, probably not?
She was acting very strangely. He studied her for a long moment, trying to read her odd behavior. “Trish, where is the baby’s father?”
She swallowed hard several times and stared at the floor. Then she raised her chin and looked right at him with those big, blue eyes. “He’s dead.”
Completely taken aback, Ian could only stare at her. Finally he said, “Dead?”
She nodded, her eyes welling with tears.
He didn’t know what to say. No wonder she looked so upset.
Now he really felt like he was in the middle of a bizarre nightmare. He wanted to know when and how the man had died, but because she looked so scared and hurt, he couldn’t bring himself to ask.
She must have loved him very much. Ian didn’t have the faintest idea why that should bother him.
Chapter Four
Trish couldn’t look at Mr. Miller. She stared into the fire, sure that when he got over the shock of hearing about Billy’s death he’d come to his senses and fire her.
She was so lost in her misery that when he spoke she jumped. She hadn’t heard him walk up beside her.
“Do you need any help with the arrangements?”
Her mind went blank. Arrangements? What was he talking about?
He waited patiently for a moment. “The funeral. Do you need me to call anyone for you?”
Of course. He thought Billy had just died. He didn’t know she’d been widowed for two and a half months—because she’d been afraid of losing her job so she’d covered it up.
His kindness nearly undid her. She shook her head. “No. It’s all over.”
She hadn’t been able to afford a funeral. There really hadn’t been anyone to attend, anyway. She’d asked Billy’s best friend to get his ashes from the funeral home because she didn’t have a car to go and pick them up.
A few days later he’d called to tell her Billy’s drinking buddies had had a memorial service for him down at the Stumble Inn, their favorite establishment. Apparently, it didn’t occur to them to ask her to come. She’d never asked him what he’d done with the ashes.
“When did he die?”
She would have to tell him, then he’d know she’d been lying to him all along. “Two and a half months ago.” She looked up into his startled face.
“I see.” He picked up his bag and, without another word, turned and left the room.
She watched him go, then choked back tears as she looked down at her sleeping daughter and whispered, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She could actually feel her security slip away.
She had been foolish to think she’d be able to deceive everyone and keep both their jobs so she’d have the old stone house. Swallowing a sob, she stared miserably into the fire. What was she going to do?
Trish hated feeling sorry for herself. She’d learned a long time ago it was a waste of time and got you nothing.
Knock it off, she told herself fiercely. He hadn’t actually said he was going to fire her, and she had been taking care of things since Billy died.
Heck, she’d taken care of things since she’d discovered she was pregnant and moved in with Billy.
He’d usually been hung over in the mornings and stayed in bed, then he would take off in the afternoon to drink beer with his buddies or fish or go hunting.
Trish decided to go and talk to Mr. Miller and present her case before he had too much time to think about what he had just learned. She had to convince him to keep her on. She’d proven she could do the job, hadn’t she?
She tucked the blanket around Emma and then raced into the utility room behind the kitchen. She couldn’t go talk to him in pajamas with ducks all over them. She pulled her laundry out of the dryer, yanked off her pajamas and scrambled into a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt.
She checked on Emma again, banked the fire and then headed up the stairs to the bedrooms. She paused at the first door with the light on. There was a black case on the big worktable under the window, and his wet overcoat was draped over the chair, dripping water all over the floor, but no Mr. Miller.
She continued on down the hall to the next room and stopped dead in the doorway. He was standing at the closet with his back to her.
His bare back.
Her eyes lingered on the smooth expanse of skin covering his broad shoulders and tapering down to a trim waist.
Trish felt her mouth go dry. The man was built like a Greek god. Who knew that much male perfection lay under his beautiful clothes?
She must have made a noise because he glanced over his shoulder at her before she could back away.
“Do you need something, Ms. Ryan?” he asked, sounding thoroughly annoyed, his words muffled as he pulled a sweater over his head.
She could feel the color burn in her cheeks. He turned and watched her as she tried to remember why she had charged up the stairs.
She’d been too impulsive and hadn’t given herself time to think about what she was going to say. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to bring up her future employment. She needed to be really sure he was in a good mood before she broached the subject.
Desperately she searched for a reason to be standing in the door to his bedroom. “I was, ah, wondering if you needed, that is, if you wanted anything to eat?”
Absently he rubbed his hand over his flat stomach, now covered by a soft sweater that brought out the incredible blue of his eyes. “Can you make me a sandwich?”
Trish brightened. She knew her way around the kitchen. A full stomach would put him in a good mood. “Of course. Ham? Turkey?”
She had shopped yesterday when a neighbor had offered her a ride to the market. Gratefully she had accepted. It was so much easier than dragging Emma and the groceries on the bus, so she had stocked up.
He seemed to carefully consider his choice. “Ham. With everything on it. And coffee if you have it.”
She nodded and turned to leave. “Ms. Ryan?”
“Yes?” She had to brace herself not to flinch as he studied her. She couldn’t read his face. Was he going to give her notice before she could even make him supper?
“I’ll eat up here. I’m going to use that first room as an office after I move some of the stuff out of it. Would you bring the sandwich up here?”
“Sure.” Trish exhaled a long breath as she turned to leave his bedroom.
“And, Ms. Ryan?”
She swung back to face him. “Yes?”
“When I’m working, do not disturb me, for any reason. Understood?”
She nodded. How could anyone not understand that tone of voice? “I understand.”
She left quickly and stopped by the first bedroom and grabbed his coat to take it downstairs so she could hang it to dry, and reminded herself to bring a rag up to mop the water on the floor when she brought up his sandwich.
When she returned with his sandwich and an insulated pot of coffee, he was already at work on a laptop computer, his long, strong-looking fingers flying over the keys. She set the tray down at his elbow, and he mumbled something without looking up.
She mopped up the floor and left the room quickly, not wanting to disturb his work. If anything would get her fired, she guessed it was that.
She decided not to change into her pajamas in case he needed anything else. She lay down on the couch and tried to doze, but found herself wide awake, trying to come up with what she was going to say to Ian Miller to convince him to keep her on as the caretaker for Blacksmith Farm.
Emma began to stir and Trish scooped her up before she could cry.
She nuzzled the sleepy baby’s sweet-smelling neck and cooed, “Hungry, pretty girl?” Emma gurgled a reply and, one-handed, Trish deftly undid the buttons on her flannel shirt, then settled into the corner of the couch and nursed her baby.
Trish whispered down at her daughter, “Don’t worry. We’ll convince him we can do this job.” She picked up the mystery she’d been reading and read aloud to Emma as she nursed.
Trish hoped she was right about being able to win over her new boss, because she had no idea what she would do if Mr. Miller decided to get a new caretaker.
Trish finished feeding Emma, changed her diaper and settled her back in the basket. She lay down on the couch, physically exhausted, but with her mind churning, unable to sleep.
Finally she got up and prowled through the downstairs looking for something to do. She’d already cleaned the house from top to bottom. She plumped the cushions on the couch in the front room and straightened the rag rugs, then headed back to the kitchen.
She could get a head start on dinner for tomorrow night. Cooking always gave her time to think. Maybe she could come up with a plan while she put together the ingredients for a stew.
She gathered up what she needed from the refrigerator and began peeling and chopping and browning. The rhythm of the work made her relax.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She jumped at the sound of his voice behind her.
He was standing there with the coffeepot in his hand, a thunderous expression on his face.
She just couldn’t seem to do anything right tonight. “I’m making dinner.”
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “It’s 2:00 a.m.”
“For tomorrow night.” She glanced at the clock. “Well, I guess since it’s after midnight it would be for tonight.” Great, now she was babbling.
His scowl got fiercer. “You look exhausted. Why are you cooking in the middle of the night?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She wanted to ask him why he was up, but bit back the question. He didn’t look tired. He looked wonderful. His hair was a little mussed, as if he’d run his fingers through it, but it just made him look even more appealing.
He thrust the coffeepot at her. “Well, stop.”
She took it from him, then turned and surveyed the kitchen.
Pots and pans filled the big sink. She was halfway through the preparation of two more dinners. She looked at the mess on the counter and the casserole dishes lined up. She had intended just to put together the stew, but then things had gotten away from her.
There was at least an hour of work left. She didn’t want to stop now.
“I’ll make you more coffee,” she said cautiously, hoping he’d go back upstairs so she could finish. Maybe he only wrote at night. She’d read that some writers did that.
“I can make my own coffee,” he said gruffly and reached to take the pot back, his hands covering hers.
Trish stood still for a moment as the warmth of his palms caressed the backs of her hands. She pulled away, trying to ignore the pleasurable sensation the slide of his smooth, warm palms caused over her chapped, reddened skin.
Taking a deep breath to calm her fluttering pulse, she turned and put the jug down on the counter. “I’ll do it,” she said, still facing away from him.
She turned and looked over her shoulder at him. “I just have to put this stuff back in the refrigerator before I go to bed. I’ll bring the coffee up to you.”
“I will not tolerate any interruption of my work,” he said, repeating his earlier admonition. He stared at her for a moment, then turned abruptly and left the room.
From the way she saw things, he had interrupted her. Annoyed, she filled the coffeemaker with fresh ground coffee and water, then raced to tidy up the counter as the fragrant brew dripped into the pot.
The last thing she needed to do was make him angry, although she couldn’t figure out why her cooking in the middle of the night would be a problem for him. He wasn’t paying her by the hour.
She poured the coffee into the insulated pot, wrapped a handful of store-bought cookies in a napkin and took everything up to him.
He sat hunched over the laptop computer, his broad shoulders blocking the screen. He didn’t look up when she set the coffee and cookies on a corner of the huge worktable he was using as a desk.
Trish tiptoed downstairs and finished up what she was doing and got ready for bed. She nursed Emma and settled her back in her basket, then she lay on the couch for a long time, trying to get to sleep without visions of Ian Miller crowding into her thoughts.
Ian stood at the window of his office, moodily looking over the roof of the barn to the old stone farmhouse. He’d spent the morning moving some of the room’s furniture out, including an old iron crib he’d disassembled. For now everything was stored in the small bedroom at the end of the hall.
He glanced around. The room suited him very well as an office. He hoped he’d be able to keep getting work done, but he wasn’t optimistic. All the pages he’d churned out last night were probably just a lucky break.
He was stuck with the housekeeper sharing the house until the blizzard stopped. Her presence was always in the back of his mind, and he kept wondering what she was doing, even when he couldn’t hear her or see her.
She was such a jumpy little thing, acting as if he was some kind of ogre, and it annoyed him.
The creative streak he’d had last night had been a fluke. It must have been. He’d never been able to write when someone else was around. He turned his attention back to the scene outside.
His car was completely covered. According to the morning news, the blizzard had dumped three feet of snow, but in some places the drifts were up to the eaves.
If he didn’t remember where he’d parked, he would never know his car was there. In fact, the scene looked the way it must have two hundred years ago when the stone farmhouse had been built. There was nothing he could see that could be identified as twenty-first century. The pristine quality of the countryside had a magical look to it.
The meteorologist on the local weather channel had announced there was another storm coming in behind this one. They could expect more snow tonight.
He wished the inside of his house was as quiet and peaceful as the landscape. He’d bought the farm as a retreat, to be alone so he could write. He had anticipated having the house all to himself. Now he was sharing it with a woman, a baby, a cat and a dog.
What had surprised him more than anything was he had been able to write last night. In spite of the chaos inside the house he’d written two chapters that pleased him. He was never pleased with a first draft.
The book he was working on was important to him, more important than any of his best-sellers. It was the book he had always wanted to write. The book his agent and publisher had steered him away from. They kept telling him it wasn’t what his fans wanted, what they expected. Ian thought his fans would understand. And if they didn’t, he thought sourly, they could skip buying it.
He suspected that was the reason everyone was having a problem with this project. His agent and editor were afraid it wouldn’t sell well and make the big money his other books had.
He didn’t care what they thought. The time was right for him to write this story, and he was going to finish the book. He would like to blame his writer’s block on them, but he couldn’t. He wanted so much to do a good job on this book he was pretty sure he was the one standing in his own way.
He forced his thoughts away from the book and back to the practical. He needed to make sure they had enough gasoline for the generator so they could stay warm. From the looks of the refrigerator, they didn’t need to worry about food for a month. His housekeeper cooked like a madwoman.
And what was he going to do about her? She couldn’t continue to do all the work around this place. It was too much for one person, especially a slender little thing like her. He wondered how old she was. She looked about seventeen.
How long had she been married? How had her husband died? There were so many questions he wanted to ask. The need for answers surprised him. He never wanted to get involved in other people’s private lives.
He’d have Joyce tell the property manager to find someone to help around the farm with the grounds. Trish could still do the housekeeping and live in the stone farmhouse. The caretaker would have to be a day job.
He bent down to jot a note to himself to ask Joyce to look into it the next time he talked to her. Then he wrote a note to himself. “Ignore the housekeeper. She’s none of your business.”
He straightened up and scowled at his own handwriting.
He crumpled the piece of paper and tossed it in the trash. Since when did he need to remind himself of something like that?
Chapter Five
A scraping noise drew Ian out of his manuscript. Annoyed at the interruption, he glanced at the computer and was amazed to find he was well into the middle third of the draft.
He hadn’t had a creative streak like this for months. He’d been sure he wouldn’t be able to write until his housekeeper moved back to her house, but he’d been wrong.
He stood and stretched, then looked at the time display in the upper corner of the screen to discover it was well past lunchtime.
No wonder his stomach was growling for food. He’d been working since early this morning on nothing but coffee.
He opened his office door and found out where the scraping noise was coming from. Trish was on the landing on her hands and knees, totally absorbed in hand sanding the floor. Her blond curls bounced as she ran the block wrapped with sandpaper over the boards.
He could see how red and chapped her hands were from where he stood. “What the hell are you doing?”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. Her head jerked up, and a look of panic crossed her face, then was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
She scrambled to her feet. “Is it bothering you? I don’t have to do this now,” she said in a rush of words.
She was wearing another of those ratty flannel shirts. He wondered how many she had, then chided himself. His housekeeper’s wardrobe was none of his business.
“I’m hungry.” He rubbed his hand over his growling stomach.
She looked relieved at his statement. “I made soup. And sandwiches. Is that okay?”
“Fine.” Now that she mentioned it, he could smell the soup. He started down the steps, then stopped. “Is it okay to walk on these?”
She nodded and her curls bounced. “Oh, yes. I’m going to do a half at a time, so you can still use the stairs.” She spoke quickly and gestured nervously to the steps.
He looked down at the steps. “What exactly are you doing?”
With a shrug she said, “They were getting scratched, so I’m refinishing them.”
Refinishing? They looked fine to him, but she seemed so nervous he wasn’t going to mention it.
He followed her down the steps. She stopped at the bottom to pick up a wastebasket covered by a thin towel.
He watched her balance the basket carefully in her two hands. “Is the baby in there?”
Her expression softened. “Yes. She’s sleeping. I put the towel over her to keep the dust off while I sanded.”
“Do you ever let her out?” He was amused by the way she carted the baby around like a load of laundry.
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