Читать книгу Daddy, He Wrote - Jill Limber, Jill Limber - Страница 11

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.