Page 2 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
On second thought, she should probably spray the sheep with something like:No. Men. Ever, because her own misfortunes could be traced back to the beginning of her dysfunctional marriage.L’amourhadn’t been good to her. She sure as hell had never found Prince Charming. She’d promised herself she was off men until she could find herself and paint again.
“They’re cute, especially the smaller ones,” Ollie said, craning his tousled brown head to look over the dash, his hair still a mess from sleeping on the plane over. “I’d sprayFunnyon them.” When one of the sheep emitted a loud bleat, her nephew let out a boyish giggle.
Ollie was giggling.He was actually giggling!
Emotion rolled through her, and she looked to see if Megan had noticed. Yes, there were tears in her sister’s tired eyes, and for once they were happy tears.
That cinched it. Angie wasn’t just going to ask Cousin Bets why these sheep had words on them when they arrived at her estate. She was going to find a local sheep farmer and ask him if she could spray more words on his sheep. Maybe he’d agree to parade them down the road to their new cottage every day.
They all needed to dig their way out of depression.
Thank God for Cousin Bets. If not for her offer to teach painting classes in her quaint village of Caisleán in County Mayo, Angie wasn’t sure what she would have done. There’d been no job prospects at home after the closing of the arts center, not with her talent still deeply buried within her. Angie knew she had their mom to thank for this Hail Mary. She and Bets had been close friends since childhood, growing up in Baltimore together. When Angie was a young girl, Bets had been swept off to Ireland, a place she’d always loved, by her beloved Bruce, but the cousins had stayed close.
At first, Megan hadn’t wanted to come along. Their parents had offered to take her and Ollie in, but Megan had refused, adamant that she wanted to stay with Angie, just like she had since Tyson was killed in the line of duty. So Angie had talked with Cousin Bets, and their cousin had agreed to host all three of them for her six months of employment. Bless her, she’d even arranged for Ollie’s enrollment in a local school. Of course, he’d just gotten out of school in the States for summer holiday, and classes wouldn’t start until late August.
The sheep bleated again—a loud, gravelly sound—and then changed places. The words rearranged themselves.
Here.
Be.
Good.
“Do you see that?” Megan’s voice was whisper-soft. “I didn’t get it before, but it’s like a sign, Angie. I’m getting goose bumps.”
Her arms did the same, sensing something in the air. “Does that mean you’re starting to believe this place is going to be good for you?”
Because Angie sure did. From the vistas they’d seen on the drive up, she couldn’t imagine a more magical place. The verdant green hills rolled in waves of earth, mirroring the ones from the crashing blue and gray sea hugging the shoreline. Clouds drifted over those hills in puffs, streaks, and whispers in an array of whites and grays while the sky stretched out boldly across the horizon in blues ranging from cerulean to Prussian. Then there was the light…
She still hadn’t processed its magic, but by God, she wanted to. She’d never seen light like this. Had she known, she would have visited Cousin Bets before, back in the glory days of her early twenties, when she was painting in Provence and Florence.
If she couldn’t find inspiration here, she was screwed. And then there was the way Ollie had laughed—really laughed—after being here only for a matter of hours.
“Megan, what would you spray on the sheep?” she asked, revved with hope.
“I don’t know.” Her sister’s face tightened. “I…wouldn’t spray someone’s sheep.”
Angie deflated like a balloon.
“So here’s where you girls have gotten up to,” a deep voice called out, making her jump.
A large man appeared beside her window. His bearing was so powerful her brain captured his visage in an instant, and her fingers closed as if already holding her favorite paintbrush. Thick hair the color of vine black curled at the tips in an invitation to the wind or a woman’s touch. Deep-set eyes best illuminated with Payne’s grey to capture the mixture of humor and reserve there. His jawline was square and strong, requiring bold brushstrokes, and his rugged cheekbones would be a brushing of yellow ochre to convey the wildness about him.
A man like this wouldn’t cower in the face of anything. No, he’d stick his chin out and stand up to whatever life handed him. He belonged to the land stretched out before them as surely as the sea belonged to this island. Although he’d barely said a word to them, those truths felt unassailable.
Her belly burned. By God, she wanted to paint him. Bad. He was the first subject to ignite her like this since those years after college when she’d started to make a name for herself and sell her art in well-known galleries.
Before she’d screwed her life up with codependency and men.
He smiled at her when he bent at the waist to peer into her window. Her heart started to pound as she caught sight of his pitch-black eyelashes, the thickest, sexiest eyelashes she’d ever seen on a man. For a moment she wondered why her blood pressure was going up. Her doctor had told her an elevated heart rate while sitting was a worrisome sign.
Then the man smiled at her.
Shit. I’m attracted to him.
“Are you the owner of these sheep?” her nephew asked.
Angie realized he’d lowered the back window and was leaning out of it.
