Page 4 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
“Oh.”Megan put her hand on her heart, close to needing a tissue from the look of her watery eyes. She didn’t need to ask why. Her sister and Tyson had exchanged dozens of letters early on in their ten-year marriage, when he was posted overseas, and sometimes Angie would find Megan asleep with one of them nestled in her hand. They used to joke about her married name being Bennet, like one of the sisters inPride and Prejudice. “That’s very romantic,” Megan continued. “It would make an incredible movie.”
Angie couldn’t disagree, but she was stuck on the fact that she’d been attracted to amarriedman. How low could she go? No, she would focus on being relieved he was married. That made him strictly off-limits.
“I can’t wait to meet your wife,” Megan said, and Angie was stunned since her sister hadn’t shown any interest in socializing. “You two must have a wonderful relationship.”
For a long moment, her comment was met only with silence, and Angie finally chanced a look at Carrick, wrapping herself in the knowledge she was safe from him. His engaging smile was gone. As a painter, she knew the eyes held every answer, so she looked into them. She’d noted a certain reserve before, but her heart clutched at the barrenness she saw there now. His gaze was as empty as the stretches of rocky seashore they’d seen on the drive up.
“Ah, I wish you could have met my Sorcha. She was as beautiful as her name, but she’s gone from us. Bets said you’d lost your husband as well. You can’t know how sorry I am for you and your boy.” He glanced back to Ollie, his face shuttered.
Her nephew drew back from the window and curled into the seat. God, she wanted to bundle him right up and put that smile back on his face.
“Thank you for your condolences,” Megan said, the phrase rote. “We’ll let you get your sheep out of the road. Bets is waiting for us, and I’m sure you have a million things to do.”
His mouth changed, almost a polite smile. “Keeping busy helps. As does time. The poets got that right. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around the village. My land abuts Bets’ on the west, and I’m building a house there. I’ll be getting these troublemakers out of the way. The one withGoodon her clearly doesn’t seem convinced, does she? Well, that’s sheep for you. Minds of their own sometimes.”
Angie glanced at the sheep in question. Maybe it had been caught up in a good adventure. “She looks okay to me,” she finally said, her mind capturing this new visage of him.
His skin wasn’t vibrant with yellow ochre but pewter. She knew the colors of grief. While not all of them were gray, many were. He was wrapped in that color now, almost as if the Irish wind had brought mummy wrappings and encircled him with them.
Carrick Fitzgerald wasn’t over his wife.
That made him off-limits too. She was not going to be tempted by a man who was still grieving. She had enough on her hands with Megan and Ollie. Taking care of them for the last eight months, coping with the loss of her relationship and then her job…it had been exhausting, frankly, and she was looking forward to having some help from her Irish cousins.
Still, she found herself gazing at him with compassion. Megan was right. He and his wife must have had an incredible relationship.
What would that feel like?
Carrick put his hand on the top of their car and met her gaze. There was almost a challenge in it, as if he knew her thoughts. He widened his stance, silently communicating that he wasn’t a man to be pitied. No, he stood tall in his loss and was unapologetic about the mourning cloths wrapped around him.
“Good luck with your sheep,” she managed, putting the car into gear.
His mouth tipped up. “Good luck with Bets. That woman always has plans. Coming here, you’ll be more than part of them, I’d say.”
He strode off toward the sheep, pulling a crumpled white bag out from the inside of his jacket. She watched as he shook it in front of the sheep and then started walking away. They bleated loudly and trotted after him down the road, their bulky bodies awkward in motion.
“Are you okay?” her sister asked, touching her arm. “You usually talk a mile a minute.”
“Maybe I need to eat. You know how I get when I’m hungry.” Oh, the lie burned in her throat.
“Don’t I ever!”
“Here,” Ollie said. “Have my granola bar.”
When her nephew handed her one, she made herself eat it even though she had no appetite. She didn’t want Megan to start watching her for signs of the Wrong Man Syndrome.
But she still couldn’t take her gaze off Carrick. He knew what a broken heart was too. At the next gate, he shut himself inside with the rest of the sheep and strode across the verdant green hills while the three escaped ewes lowered their heads to the grass waving in the gentle wind.
She remembered that look in his eyes, blank of emotion. The man had shut himself away as much as he had the sheep, letting himself out of his impenetrable gates only when he must. Her heart sped up again, but this time there was worry with it. Would he be all right in the end? Megan clearly wasn’t. God, she needed to stop trying to heal everyone. Becoming certified in art therapy had changed her into a bleeding heart painter, which had only made the compulsion worse.
Her creativity would continue to suffer if she kept doing things the same ol’, same ol’.
She needed to focus on her art and not let anyone distract her. Goodbye, men, Carrick Fitzgerald included! And hopefully this spark she’d just seen in Megan would continue. Her sister had to figure things out sooner rather than later.
Not that Angie could wait for that, though. Coming here was maybe her last chance to shake things up and start over.
While she knew it wasn’t going to be easy, she wasn’t going to blow it.
Chapter Two
