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
