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
