a matter of perspective, now isn’t it?” She shooed him off and he rounded the front of the small truck, walking to the other door. “Wrong side, right side, makes no difference, as they’re both my side.”
Jefferson leaned his forearms on the roof of the truck. “Believe it or not, Maura, I’m on your side, too.”
“Ah now,” she said, grinning, “that I don’t believe, Jefferson King, as I’m thinking that you’re always on your own side.”
She hopped in, fired up the engine and Jefferson moved fast to climb in himself, since he was sure she’d have no qualms about driving off and leaving him standing where he was. She was hardheaded. And beautiful. As stubborn as the hills here were green.
Watching the big American striding across a sheep-dung-littered rainy field on a blustery day was a fine thing, Maura mused. Even here, where he was so clearly out of his element, Jefferson King walked as if he owned the land. The edges of his gray overcoat flapped in the wind like a ghost’s shroud. His thick black hair ruffled as though spirits were raking their cold fingers through it and his delicious-looking mouth was twisted up into a sneer of distaste. And yet, she thought, he continued on. Carrying sacks of feed across muddy ground to tip and pour the grain into troughs for her sheep.
As the feed hit the bottom of the troughs, the black and white creatures came scampering ever closer, as though they’d been starved for weeks. Greedy beasts, she thought with a smile as they nudged and pushed at the great Jefferson King.
To give him his due, he wasn’t skittish around the animals as most city people were. They tended to look on mountain sheep as they would a hungry tiger, wondering if the beasties were going to turn on them with fangs and the taste for human flesh. For a rich American, he seemed oddly at home in the open country, though for some reason, the man refused to wear stout boots instead of his shiny, no doubt hideously expensive shoes.
He laughed suddenly as a head butt from the sheep nearly sent him sprawling face-first into the muck. Maura smiled at the sound of his laughter and told herself to ignore the swift, nearly debilitating rush of heat that swamped her. An impossible order to obey, she thought as she watched the wide smile on his face lighting up his features.
Her knees went wobbly and she knew her body was not listening to her mind.
Jefferson King was a man meant to be ogled by women, she thought, eyeing his fine physique. Broad shoulders, narrow hips and large hands with more calluses on them than she would have imagined a Hollywood type to have. He had long legs, muscular thighs and a fine ass if anyone were to ask her opinion.
And he was only a temporary visitor to the lovely island she called home. She had to remember that. He’d only come to Ireland looking for a place to make a movie. He wasn’t here on the Donohue Farm because he found her fascinating. He was here to rent her land, nothing more. Once she’d signed his bloody papers, he’d be off. Back to his own world that lay so very far from hers.
Well. She didn’t like the thought of that.
And so, she continued to draw out the negotiations.
“They act like they haven’t eaten in weeks,” Jefferson said as he walked toward her.
“Aye, well, it’s cold out. That’ll make for heartier appetites.”
“Speaking of,” he hinted broadly.
They’d fallen into a routine of sorts since his arrival. Maura had hardly noticed it happening, but there it was. Jefferson spent most of the day at her farm, following her about, touting the merits of the deal he was trying to make her and then they ended the afternoon over a bowl of soup and some hot tea in her kitchen. Strange how she’d come to look forward to that time with him.
Still, she said, “You could ask the sheep to share their meal with you if you’re that hungry.”
“Tempting,” he said, pushing one hand through his hair to sweep it back off his forehead. “But I’d prefer some of that brown bread you gave me yesterday.”
“Fond of soda bread, are you?”
He looked down at her from his great height and she could have sworn she saw actual sparks glittering in his pale blue eyes. “I’m fond of a lot of things around here.”
“Oh, you’ve a smooth tongue on you, Jefferson King.” And her knees wobbled even more as she thought of the many uses that smooth tongue of his could be put to.
“Do I?”
“And well you know it,” she told him, plucking two long strands of her hair out of her eyes. “But you’re wasting your time trying to wheedle me into signing that contract of yours. I will or I won’t and nothing you can say will sway me in either direction.”
“Ah, but it’s my time, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed,” she said and was silently glad he hadn’t given up just yet.
In truth, she’d been considering his offer seriously since the moment he’d made it. Her mind had raced with possibilities. With the money he was offering her, she had tried to imagine what she could do to the centuries-old farmhouse that had been in her family for forever. Not to mention the changes she could make to the farm itself.
She already had a paid worker coming a few days a week, but with Jefferson King’s money, she would be able to hire someone full-time, to help ease the workload. And even with all that, she’d still have money left over to make a fine cushion in her bank account.
But she wasn’t entirely ready to agree to his terms just yet. He’d already sweetened his offer once and she’d no doubt he would do so again. Yes, he could find another farm just as suitable for his needs, but he wouldn’t find a prettier one, Maura told herself. Besides, he’d already told her he thought the Donohue land was perfect.
Which meant he wouldn’t be withdrawing his offer. And Maura, coming from a long line of wily horse traders, was going to make sure she got the very best deal she could. It wasn’t greed motivating her, either. Just think what a movie crew would do to her well-ordered life, not to mention her home and land. She’d need some of the money he would pay her just to put to rights the sorry mess they would no doubt leave behind.
While she stared at him, his gaze moved past her, scanning the surrounding countryside. As she’d grown up on Donohue land, and knew every inch of it as well as Tarzan knew the jungle, she didn’t have to look to know what he was seeing. Green fields as far as the eye could see. Stone fences rising up from the ground like ancient sentinels. The shadow of the Partry Mountains looming behind them and the whole of Lough Mask stretching out in front of them, its silvery surface looking on this gray day like molten steel frothing in the wind. Across the way, a tumbled ruin of an ancient castle slept as if only waiting for the clang of a sword to wake it. Sheep wandered these hills freely as they had for centuries and would, no doubt, for centuries to come. The Irish wind kissed the land and the rain blessed it and those who lived here appreciated every single acre as no outsider ever could.
The village of Craic was only two kilometers down the long, twisting road and dotted along the way were B and Bs, a few more farmhouses and even one palatial mansion belonging to one Rogan Butler and his wife, Aly, who now spent most of their time in Dublin.
But here in the middle of her own fields, she and Jefferson might as well have been the only two people on the
