Читать книгу The Mighty Quinns: Dermot - Kate Hoffmann - Страница 8

DERMOT QUINN was in the middle of a very vivid dream when incessant knocking interrupted him. He slowly opened his eyes, groaning at the morning light that streamed through the bedroom windows of his houseboat. It was a sunny day in Seattle and though he was usually loath to waste good weather, Dermot turned onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head.

The subtle scent of a woman’s perfume teased at his nose and he pushed up, frowning. Kelly had spent the night last night. They’d met up, as they did on occasion, had a few drinks and come back to his place for a night of NSA sex. Dermot glanced over at the bedside clock. As was her custom, she usually left at dawn for her regular early-morning workout, neatly avoiding any uncomfortable conversation about the night before.

But then, maybe she’d decided to come back for another few hours of fun. Dermot grinned and threw off the covers. He pulled on a pair of jeans that were tossed over the end of the bed, then walked to the front door. Though he and Kelly followed a very well-honed set of rules, he wasn’t averse to breaking them occasionally.

“You could have left the door unlocked,” he called as he pulled it open.

But Kelly wasn’t waiting on the other side. Instead, he was treated to the sight of his twin brother, Kieran, glaring at him impatiently. “Jaysus, man, do you never answer your cell phone? I’ve been calling you for the past hour.”

“I turned it off,” Dermot said. “What are you doing here? It’s Saturday morning. Don’t you ever sleep in?”

“Get dressed,” Kieran ordered. “I got a call from Grandda. He wants to see us all in fifteen minutes. In his office.”

“On a Saturday?”

Kieran nodded. “Yeah, I know. Something’s up and I’m worried.”

“What do you think it is?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Grandda’s been shut up in his office all week. I’m thinking that he might have gotten an offer on the business.”

Dermot and his three brothers had worked for Quinn Yachtworks since they were kids. They all started out sweeping the floors and running materials between the warehouse and the shop. Their grandfather, an Irish immigrant, had founded the firm in the early seventies. A widower with a two-year-old son to care for, he’d arrived in the U.S. a week after Kennedy had been inaugurated, ready to make a life for himself and his motherless son.

After the disappearance of their parents, it was assumed that the business would be left to Cam, Kieran, Dermot and Ronan once their grandfather retired. But Martin had been reluctant to name one of the boys CEO, causing the brothers to wonder what the plan might be.

“You don’t think he’s sick, do you?” Dermot asked.

Kieran frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know. He’s seventy-seven years old. People get sick when they’re older.”

“Don’t say that.” Kieran shook his head. “Don’t even think that. He’s fine. We’d know if there was something wrong. We’d see it.” He strode through the house to Dermot’s bedroom, then picked up a shirt from the floor and tossed it at his brother. “Get dressed. We’re going to pick up Cameron on the way and talk about this before we go to the meeting.”

“What about Ronan?”

“He’s already over there.”

“What do we have to talk about? We don’t know what he’s going to say.”

“We can guess,” Kieran said. “If he plans to sell, we have to work up a counteroffer.”

“Do we really want to do that?”

“Yes!” Kieran said. “You want to keep your job, don’t you?”

In truth, Dermot hadn’t really thought much about it. He liked working for the company. It paid well, it gave him the freedom to come and go as he pleased. As the director of sales, he had a chance to travel and meet interesting—and very wealthy—people. It wasn’t what he’d dreamed of as a kid, but childhood dreams didn’t pay the mortgage. What wasn’t there to like?

Kieran ran the financial end of the business. He’d always been the organized one, the one who could maintain a laserlike focus on the bottom line. Cameron, their older brother, headed the design department, handling the details of what a Quinn-built yacht looked like. And Ronan supervised the manufacturing end of things.

Between the four of them, they were able to do almost any job in the company, and under their management, the business had thrived. “Maybe he’s trying to decide who will be in charge,” Dermot suggested as he pulled on his T-shirt. “We can’t all have the final say on all decisions.”

“Maybe,” Kieran said. “So, who do you think should be the one?”

“Me,” Dermot said, knowing full well the answer would irritate his brother. Of course, Kieran was the one who had the best sense of how the company operated as a whole. But then, without Cameron, the true creative genius behind the designs, the company probably wouldn’t be such a success.

“Without sales, the company wouldn’t survive,” Dermot said. “If you can’t sell boats, what do you have?”

“You don’t have a clue how the Yachtworks runs,” Kieran said. “You’d have us bankrupt in a year.”

“Cameron thinks he should be in charge,” Dermot said. “Maybe he should. Without his design talent, we’d be in trouble. I’m not sure Ronan even cares, one way or another.”

“Are you saying I’m replaceable?” Kieran asked.

“Not as replaceable as I am.”

“It’s Cameron, then. We both agree. If it comes down to that today, it’s Cameron.”

Dermot slipped into his boat shoes then nodded. “Let’s go find out.”

The drive from Dermot’s Lake Union houseboat to his brother’s home in the Queen Anne neighborhood took ten minutes. Cameron was waiting for them, seated on the front steps of the bungalow. He hopped in the back of Kieran’s BMW and had barely closed the door before jumping into the conversation. “What do you think this is about?”

“It could be nothing,” Dermot said. “Why are we even speculating? Maybe he just wants us to sign some papers. Or maybe he’s finally decided to take a vacation.”

“That might be it,” Kieran said. He paused, then shook his head. “He’s spent his life building the company. He loves work. Why would he start traveling now?”

“He’s always talked about sailing around the world,” Cameron suggested.

They passed the rest of the ride in silence, each one of the brothers caught up in his own thoughts as they headed toward the Yachtworks. Dermot wasn’t sure which theory he subscribed to.

His grandfather had rarely summoned them all to his office at the same time. The last time it had happened he’d announced that the company would be building a new addition to the finishing department. But with the economy in a downturn, Dermot doubted there would be news of that sort to convey.

The chain-link gates were open when they arrived, and Kieran steered the car through them and parked in front of the main offices next to Ronan’s SUV. Quinn Yachtworks was located along the Salmon Bay waterway, a perfect location for launching the luxurious sailboats that they built. They’d become one of the most successful custom builders on the West Coast, with business moguls, sports stars and Hollywood celebrities as clients.

Their grandfather’s faithful executive assistant, Miriam, was sitting at her desk when they arrived. As always, she greeted them stoically, giving no clue what awaited them inside the wood-paneled doors.

“Sit,” Martin said as they walked in, shuffling the papers on his desk as he spoke. Ronan looked up from his spot on the leather sofa, his gaze filled with concern. “I expect you’re wondering why I’ve called this meeting, so I’ll get right to it.” He leaned back in his well-worn leather chair. “Our corporate attorney has advised me that it is time for me to start thinking about my successor.”

Dermot watched a strange expression settle on his grandfather’s wrinkled face. Martin Quinn was not the kind of man who liked to be reminded of his mortality and this was no exception. Dermot cursed silently. “You’re not going to retire, are you?”

“Not tomorrow. But he’s right,” Martin continued. “It’s time to put my affairs in order.”

“Is everything all right?” Cameron asked. “I mean, are you well?”

“Fit as a fiddle,” Martin said. “But there are practical reasons for this decision. When your parents died, I brought you boys to work with me. You spent your afternoons and weekends learning the business, instead of doing things you wanted to do. You see, I thought it was the best way to deal with your grief. Now I see it was the best way to deal with my grief.”

“We liked working here, Grandda,” Kieran said.

“But you all had your own dreams. Dermot, I remember you wanted to be a veterinarian. And, Cam, you wanted to be an archaeologist.”

“Paleontologist,” Cameron corrected.

Martin nodded. “Right. And Kieran, you wanted to be a… Well, I don’t recall, but—”

“A cowboy,” Kieran said. “Or a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman.”

Their grandfather nodded. “And, Ronan, I think all you ever wanted was to have your parents back again. The point is, I never gave you the chance to follow those dreams. And now that I have to decide whether to leave this business to you or sell and make all of us extremely wealthy, I realize that you might not be prepared to make a decision about your future. I don’t want any of you to tie yourself to a business that isn’t part of your own dreams.”

Kieran shook his head. “Grandda, we would never—”

“Let me finish.” He folded his hands on his desk and looked at them individually. “I came to this country with one hundred dollars in my pocket and the intention of making something of my life so that I could support my son. I made my own life, something you boys haven’t had the chance to do.”

“We love working for you,” Cameron said. “It’s a family business and family sticks together.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment,” Martin replied. “But it doesn’t make my decision any easier. So, I have a plan. I’m going to give each of you boys one hundred dollars cash, a company credit card and a bus ticket. I want you to go out there and spend some time in the real world. Find a job. Meet new people. See what life is like all alone in the world. Believe me, without all the comforts of home, you’ll have time to figure out what you really want out of life.”

Dermot opened his mouth to protest, but his grandfather held up his hand. “Give yourself six weeks. If you’re still interested in running the Yachtworks after that, I’ll be satisfied.”

Cameron gasped. “You’re kidding, right? You just expect us to take six weeks away from work? I have projects going.”

“Although we’d all like to think we’re indispensable,” Martin said, “if one of us fell off the planet tomorrow, the company would go on.” He stood and handed each of them an envelope.

“You have tonight to pay your bills and put your affairs in order,” Martin said. “You leave tomorrow morning. Go out and imagine a different life for yourselves, boys. And when you come back, come back with a decision.”

“Vulture Creek, New Mexico?” Cameron asked.

Dermot opened his envelope and withdrew his bus ticket. “Mapleton, Wisconsin. What the hell is in Mapleton, Wisconsin?”

“Bitney, Kentucky,” Kieran muttered. “Great.”

“Sibleyville, Maine. Jaysus,” Ronan said. “I’ll be on the bus for a week.”

The brothers looked at each other, shaking their heads.

Martin smiled. “Good luck. And I’ll see you in six weeks.”

RACHEL HOWE grabbed the fifty-pound bag of feed, wrapping her arms around it and lugging it to the back of the pickup truck.

“You need some help with that, little lady?”

She glanced over at the two old men watching her from their spot on the front porch of the local feed store. “Nope,” she said, forcing a smile as the bag began to slip through her arms. “I’ve got it.”

Wincing, she took a deep breath and heaved the sack toward the tailgate of the truck. But at the last second, it fell out of her arms and dropped onto her foot. Rachel cursed, then kicked the sack. How would she ever make this work? She couldn’t even load a pallet of feed bags onto the truck, much less run a farm with absolutely no help beyond her eighty-year-old uncle.

She was virtually alone in this, with nothing but her determination to keep her company. Her father had maintained the dairy until the day he’d died and he hadn’t had help. If a seventy-five-year-old man had managed, certainly his twenty-five-year-old daughter could.

Though she’d put a help-wanted notice in the grocery store and in the feed store, hoping to find a high school boy to relieve her of the heavy lifting, there hadn’t been any takers. Her father’s bachelor brother, Eddie, was still able to help with the milking but the heavy work was beyond his capabilities.

Maybe all the potential workers knew what everyone else in Mapleton knew—that without help, Rachel’s time as a dairy-goat farmer was going to be short-lived at best. Maybe they were right. Maybe she ought to just sell and get on with her own life. A surge of temper caused her face to flush and she reached for the sack again, determined not to fail in front of two more doubters—Harley Verhulst and Sam Robson.

“Are you sure we can’t give you a hand?” Harley asked.

“No,” Rachel snapped. “It’s just going to take me a while to work up my strength.”

“A little girl like you shouldn’t be running that farm all by your lonesome,” Sam commented. “You need to find yourself a husband.”

“Preferably one with very big muscles,” Harley added.

A husband? Right now she’d be satisfied with one reasonably handsome, completely naked man to tend to her sexual needs once a week. She was quite willing to work out some kind of barter, maybe do his laundry or iron his shirts. It could be a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Rachel gritted her teeth and grabbed the feed sack again, this time using her sexual frustration for extra strength. When she got it up on the tailgate of the pickup, she smiled to herself. But when she looked over at the pallet, she cursed.

From now on, she’d get the feed mill to deliver her supplies, eliminating the need to pretend she knew what she was doing. Though it might be tough to work into the budget, she’d find a way. Rachel wasn’t ready to concede defeat. Not yet.

She glanced over at the two men and sent them a withering look. “Do you two plan to stand there pestering me or do you have work to do? Your wives will be happy to know you’ve taken such an interest in my dilemma. I’ll be sure to tell them how helpful you were the next time I see them at the grocery store.”

Chastened, the two farmers wandered back inside the co-op, leaving Rachel to tend to her business in solitude. She turned her attention back to the pallet of feed sacks, knowing that it might not be possible for her to load them all onto the truck by herself—at least by sundown. But she was going to die trying. “Just think about sex,” she muttered to herself. “And how little of it you’ve had in the past year.”

“Can I give you a hand?”

Rachel spun around, ready to decline the offer with a curt dismissal. But the man standing behind her smiled and her breath caught in her throat. She felt a bit light-headed, then realized it was time to draw another breath.

He was dressed in a comfortable shirt and jeans, clothes that hugged a slender, but muscular body. In his right hand, he carried an expensive leather duffel. She glanced at his shoes and noted that they were expensive, too. Not the kind of wardrobe usually found outside the feed store.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Gosh, he was handsome, she mused as she looked back into his pale blue eyes. Dark hair that was just long enough to make him look a bit dangerous. A perfectly straight nose and a smile that sent a flood of warmth racing through her bloodstream.

Sex, she thought to herself. As if she’d wished it and it had just appeared. Rachel had long ago come to the conclusion that there weren’t any interesting men in all of Walworth County. But obviously one had managed to sneak over the border from Illinois and was now standing directly in front of her.

“Oh, my.” Rachel swallowed hard, then reached down to pick up the next bag of feed. She’d be just fine once he stopped staring at her. “You’re obviously lost,” she said, shaking her head. “Or you’re just a figment of my imagination.”

“What?”

Rachel glanced over her shoulder. “Men that look like you don’t live in places like this.” She straightened. “If you just take this road right here out to Highway 39 then stay on 39, it will take you to the interstate. You’ll be back in Chicago in a few hours.”

“Why do you think I’m from Chicago?”

“You have big city written all over you,” she said. “Mostly it’s the shoes. And the duffel.” She bent again to grab a feed sack, but he stopped her.

“Allow me,” he said, dropping his duffel in the dusty parking lot. He picked up the sack, then easily tossed it onto the bed of the truck. “Another?”

“Yes,” she said, the word coming out on a rush of air. “Thank you.” She pointed in the direction of the pallet. “All of them have to go. Here, let me give you a hand.”

“No problem,” he said. “You must have some hungry cows.”

“Goats. I raise goats.”

“Interesting,” he said. “I’ve never met a goat farmer before. Then again, I don’t know any cow farmers either.”

A laugh burst from Rachel’s lips. “Sorry. I know you’re trying to be polite. It’s just that some days goat farming is far from interesting.” She stepped back as she watched him hoist another sack into the truck. “I run a small dairy. It belonged to my family—my grandparents first, and then my father. And—and now it belongs to me.”

“Are you Rachel, then?” he asked.

She blinked in surprise. Did she know him? Was he some forgotten classmate from high school? An older brother of one of her friends? A friend of one of her older siblings? “I am.”

“I saw your note posted over at the grocery store. One of the checkers told me she saw you pass by and thought you might be headed here. You’re looking for a ranch hand?”

“Farm,” she said. “It’s a farm, not a ranch.”

“I thought you said it was a dairy.”

“A dairy… farm.” She cleared her throat nervously. Was this man really answering her ad?

“So, do you need a hand? Because I need a job and somewhere to stay.”

“You want to work for me?” At first, Rachel couldn’t believe her good fortune. But then, as she began to consider his offer, she was forced to contemplate why a man as handsome as this one was willing to take a low-paying job without any chance for advancement and virtually no benefits besides all the free goat’s milk he could drink. “You don’t look like a guy who’s spent much time on a farm.”

“And you look nothing like a goat farmer,” he said, a teasing smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I’m going to be in Mapleton for six weeks. I need a job to occupy my time. And I need a place to stay, somewhere cheap. I’m willing to work hard if you’ll give me room and board and a decent wage.”

“How decent?” she asked.

“I don’t know. What were you looking to pay?”

“Full-time, I should offer you two hundred a week, plus meals and lodging,” she said. “I can afford a hundred a week. Cash. Plus room and board.”

“A hundred sounds good to me. As long as the meals are decent.” He moved to grab another sack and loaded it into the back of the truck. “All of these?”

She nodded as she studied him shrewdly. No, this couldn’t possibly be happening to her. Men like this didn’t just drop into her life. There must be something more to his story, maybe something… criminal? “What’s your name?”

“Dermot,” he said. “Dermot Quinn.”

“Where are you from?”

“Seattle.” He straightened, rubbing his hands on the front of his jeans. “Is this an interview now? As you can see, I’m strong. I’m pretty smart and handy around the house. I’ll do what I’m told, unless I don’t agree with it, and then I’ll tell you.”

“You’re good at home repairs?”

He nodded. “I can build you just about anything you’d like if you’ve got tools and materials. Hell, I could build you a boat.”

“I don’t need a boat,” she said. Rachel looked at him intently. “Is there anything that I should know about you before I offer you this job?”

His eyebrow slowly rose as he gave her a quizzical look. “I… prefer beer to wine. I don’t like cooked vegetables. I’m not very good at doing my laundry. And I sleep in the buff. Is that what you’re getting at?”

An image of him, naked, his limbs twisted in her bedsheets, flashed in Rachel’s mind. “Actually, I was going to ask if you have a criminal record,” she said. “But I guess the rest is good to know.” She couldn’t help but smile at the confusion on his face.

“No!” he said. “Of course not. I’ve never even had a speeding ticket.”

“If you don’t have a criminal record, why aren’t you looking for a real job? A guy with your… talents?”

“Is this an imaginary job you’re offering?”

“No. But I mean a job that pays more than slave wages and doesn’t involve cleaning gutters and shoveling goat poop. A job where your pretty face might get you more than three dollars an hour.”

“It’s a long story,” he said. “If you hire me, I promise, I’ll explain it all to you.”

Though Rachel wasn’t sure she ought to believe him, there was something about this man that intrigued her. Yet, for all she knew, he could be a consummate liar… or a con man… or maybe a serial killer. “Hang on,” she said.

Rachel ran up the steps of the feed store and poked her head inside. “Harley, Sam, come out here. I need you.”

“Finally giving up on those feed bags?” Harley asked.

“No. I need you to be a witness.” The two men followed her back outside. Rachel pointed to the man standing behind her truck. “Tell them your name,” she called.

“Dermot Quinn.”

Frowning, she turned back to Harley and Sam. “See this guy? He’s coming to work on my farm. If I turn up the victim of some horrible crime, this is the guy to look for.” She glanced back at Dermot. “Where are you from again?”

“Seattle,” he said.

“Do you have any identification with you?” Harley asked.

Dermot pulled his wallet from his back pocket and took out his driver’s license, then handed it to Rachel. “It’s all there. I can give you references if you like. People who’ll vouch for my character.” He withdrew a business card and held it out to her. “Here. You can call my office.”

Harley looked over Rachel’s shoulder at the identification. “Looks legit to me. But I’d make him sleep in the barn.”

“He looks trustworthy to me,” Sam said. “And he’s a nice lookin’ guy, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” He wagged his finger at Dermot. “Behave yourself, mister, and we won’t have a problem. Get out of hand and old Eddie is likely to shoot you in the ass.”

Dermot smiled. “I’ll be the model of propriety.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Harley muttered, “but anyone who can use big words like that is probably no one to worry about.”

The two farmers wandered back inside. “Who is Eddie?” Dermot asked.

“My uncle. He lives on the farm, too. He’s not as bad as everyone says he is. He’s just a bit… grumpy. It would be best to avoid him.” Rachel rubbed her palms together. “I guess you have a job,” she said.

“Then, I guess I’d better finish loading this feed,” Dermot replied.

THE RIDE TO THE FARM offered Dermot a chance to find out a little more about his beautiful new boss. Her widowed father had died the previous year and she’d come home three months before his death to help care for him. She had two older brothers and an older sister and had worked as an artist in Chicago.

When she pulled off the road and into a driveway, Dermot’s attention turned to his new home. Clover Meadow Farm was right out of the movies with its red barn, fieldstone silo and white clapboard house. The old Victorian sat back from the road, surrounded by a grove of tall maple trees. A smaller stone house stood behind it, a ramshackle porch running the length of the facade.

An old man sat on the porch of the stone house, his wrinkled brow furrowed, his dark eyes observant. A small black goat sat on his lap, also watching warily.

“This is it,” Rachel said as she hopped out of the truck.

Dermot grabbed his bag from the back of the pickup before following her across the yard. He felt something tug on his leg and glanced down to find the little goat nibbling at the bottom of his jeans.

He stepped away, but the goat was undeterred. “Hey, cut that out.”

“Benny, shoo,” Rachel said. She looked at the old man on the porch. “Do not let that goat in the house again, you hear me?”

The old man slowly stood. “I hear you. Who is this?”

“Uncle Eddie, this is Dermot Quinn. I just hired him to help out on the farm. He’s got six weeks with nothing to do. I figure we can get him to help us finish some of the repair work around here.”

The frown on the old man’s face grew deeper. “Dermot Quinn? What kind of name is that?”

“It’s Irish,” Dermot said.

“Lemme see your hands.”

Dermot dropped his bag and approached, holding his hands out, then flipping them palms up. “I’m a hard worker. I’m strong and I’m not afraid to get dirty.”

“Can you milk a goat?”

Dermot gasped. “No. But I’m sure I could learn if you showed me how.”

“Don’t worry,” Rachel said. “We don’t milk by hand. We have machines for that.” She smiled at her uncle. “Eddie, I’d like our new worker to take the bedroom upstairs in your house. Do you have any objections?”

Dermot shook his head. “Hey, I don’t want to put you out. I can sleep in the barn if—”

“No problem,” Eddie said. “I’ll be able to keep an eye on him. You step out of line, mister, and I’ll run you off with a load of buckshot in your behind. I’ve done it before, don’t think I haven’t.”

“Come on,” Rachel said, walking up the steps. “I’ll show you your room.”

She held open the screen door and Dermot followed her inside. They climbed a narrow staircase to the second floor and she pointed to a door on the left.

“Has he really shot someone?” Dermot asked.

“Yes. Shot at someone. He wasn’t aiming to hit him. Just chase him off.”

Dermot frowned. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. But as he followed Rachel up the stairs, his gaze fixed on her backside, enhanced by a pair of jeans that hugged her curves. No, he’d definitely made the right choice.

“This is the original farmhouse,” Rachel explained. “It was built in 1870 by my great-great-grandparents.”

She opened the bedroom door to reveal an old iron bed, covered by a colorful quilt. An overstuffed chair sat in the corner, its upholstery worn, and the wall above the bed was covered with old pictures from the turn of the century. Faded flowered wallpaper covered all four walls. An old chest of drawers and a vanity sat near each of two windows.

“My great-grandparents lived here, too, before they built the big house. My grandparents lived here after my parents took over the farm. My grandfather was born in this room.” She drew a deep breath. “It’s nothing fancy. No air-conditioning, but I’ll bring you a fan from the house.”

“I don’t need anything fancy,” he said. “This is really quite nice.” He’d always heard that farmers’ daughters were supposed to be beautiful, but he hadn’t expected this.

Though she wore faded jeans and a tattered shirt, Rachel Howe was a stunner. Her honey-blond hair was pulled up into a crooked ponytail and tied with a scarf and she wore absolutely no makeup. Yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And obviously farming was good exercise because she had a body that any trainer would be proud of.

“There’s a bathroom downstairs,” she said. “Just off the kitchen. No shower, just a tub. There are showers in the barn. Probably better to use those rather than upset Eddie’s routine.”

“He doesn’t seem to like me much,” Dermot said.

Rachel laughed. “He’s not so bad, once you get to know him. And a word of warning. Don’t let him talk you into helping him get rid of the skunk living under the corncrib. He’s got some kind of vendetta going on, and the last time he got sprayed, he stunk for a week.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dermot said.

“I’ll just open a window and get some fresh air in here.”

Rachel managed to get one sash up, but struggled with the other. Dermot crossed the room and reached around her to offer his help. But the moment their bodies brushed against each other, he realized how close they actually were. The window flew up and Rachel fell back against him.

Holding on to her shoulders, he turned her around. Their gazes locked for what seemed like an eternity. Though he knew it was probably a mistake, Dermot’s instincts took over and he bent close and brushed a kiss across her lips. When she gasped, he quickly stepped back, cursing his impetuous move.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m… I shouldn’t have done that.” He raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “Shit. I don’t usually—”

“I liked it,” Rachel interrupted.

“What?”

“Don’t be sorry. I wanted you to kiss me.” Her cheeks flushed and she smiled nervously. “A single woman living on a goat farm doesn’t often get the opportunity to kiss an attractive single man.” She paused. “You are single, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

She gave him a dubious stare. “Really?”

Dermot held his hand to his heart. “I swear.”

“Oh, my God, why?” she asked. “A guy as good-looking as you could have any woman he wanted.”

“I guess I just haven’t found the right woman yet.”

“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place,” she said with a laugh. “Mapleton, Wisconsin, is not exactly crawling with beautiful women.”

“I found one already,” Dermot replied. “And I’ve only been here a few hours.”

This brought a deeper blush to her cheeks. “You have the job. You don’t have to flatter the boss to keep it.”

“You’re beautiful, I’m charming. I think we’ll get along just fine.”

Rachel seemed to enjoy the back-and-forth banter between the two of them and Dermot realized that being stuck in Mapleton, Wisconsin, might not be the worst thing in the world. He had a roof over his head and a sexy woman to occupy his thoughts. If the food were decent, he’d be set.

“Well, I’ll let you settle in. We’ve got a few hours before we start milking. We milk the goats twice a day, 5:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m.”

“Right,” he said warily. “I suppose they don’t milk themselves.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” She turned for the door, then glanced over her shoulder. “When you’re ready, I’ll give you a tour of the barns. Just knock on the back door.”

Dermot listened to her footsteps on the stairs, then he heard the screen door slam. He chuckled softly as he shrugged out of his shirt. What was a woman like Rachel doing all alone on a goat farm? Maybe this was his problem. All the really interesting women in the world were living in some rural hideaway, waiting for some unsuspecting guy to discover them.

He unzipped his duffel, then grabbed a clean T-shirt. He stared at his reflection in the old mirror above the chest of drawers. Though he’d spent the past two days on a bus, he didn’t look any worse for wear. He was in serious need of a shave and a shower and a decent meal and a long nap. But he suspected all that would have to wait until after he milked a few goats.

Dermot smoothed his hand over the stubble on his cheek. He could at least manage a quick shave. He stripped out of his shirt and then, dressed only in his jeans, grabbed his shaving kit and headed downstairs to the bathroom.

He’d just lathered his face when Eddie appeared at the bathroom door. “I—I was just going to shave. If you prefer I do this in the barn, I can—”

Rachel’s uncle scowled, then nodded. “My goats prefer a well-groomed dairyman. But lay off the Old Spice. They won’t like you if you smell funny.”

As he lathered his face, Dermot watched the old man in the mirror. He had to hand it to his grandfather. This was going to be a real challenge, especially considering that he’d have both a beautiful woman and her surly uncle to contend with.

He wondered whether his brothers had arrived at their destinations and what strange fates had befallen them. Would they be as lucky as he was to find such lovely scenery?

Though he was tempted to call one of them, his grandfather had requested that they give up their cell phones for the duration. They were on their own, left to their own devices to live a different life for the next six weeks.

When he left Seattle, six weeks had seemed like an eternity. But now that he’d met Rachel Howe, it seemed like barely enough time at all.