Page 17 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
His brother’s arrival at his cottage didn’t come as a surprise.
Even though Jamie was younger, he’d always acted like a mother hen. That trait made him an excellent teacher, but it was also annoying as hell.
Carrick kicked out his feet, playfully threatening to trip up his brother, who only stepped around them, dripping from the cold rain falling outside. “Came to cluck at me, did you?”
“You weren’t working at the house, so I swung by here.” His brother dropped into a chair in the front parlor, stretching out his long legs. “I came to ask if the orange scent in the air when your sheep overran Bets’ place was Sorcha? If you’d hung around after I helped—”
“Thanks again,” he said, tipping his glass of whiskey in his brother’s direction.
“I would have asked you earlier,” Jamie finished, rising and grabbing himself a glass. “If we aren’t going to the pub like I wanted to earlier—”
“We aren’t.” The village would be buzzing with news of Bets’ relation—the sexy Yank who’d wielded a golf club—as much as the rare breakout of his sheep. “I thought I’d have a touch of supper and then head off to work on the house. Want to come along?”
He should have gone earlier today, after the incident with the sheep, but he’d struggled to muster the energy after Sorcha said she didn’t want him to keep building it. Just like everyone else around him.
“Not especially, no,” Jamie said, pouring himself a drink. “The pub will be more entertaining than watching you struggle with that disaster. Donal O’Dwyer will be spouting off about having your head for Bets blaming him over this morning. I might have to buy him a pint for you by way of an apology.”
Carrick dug some bills out of his pocket and threw them on the table. “Tell him it’s on me. Although it’s an easy mistake given how poorly his sheep have been behaving. There’s something downright crazy about how many times they’ve been up at Bets’ these past months. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone else was afoot.”
“Speaking of… You didn’t answer me, brother. Was that Sorcha’s scent today?”
He tensed as his dead wife appeared in the doorway to the kitchen she’d so hated, a downright tempestuous smirk on her face, before disappearing again. That was not going to do.
“She did! I can see it from the look of you.” Jamie downed his whiskey and poured another. “Oh, Jesus. She’s here about the Yank who wielded Bets’ seven iron, isn’t she? I saw the way you looked at her despite how rude you were.” He made a face. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. I smell oranges again. I hate knowing someone’s there and not knowing where exactly. Not that I want to see them. I don’t envy you and Mum with the dead always popping up and appearing around you. Gives me the shivers.”
Sorcha’s laughter trailed into the room, and Carrick stared into his glass. “Shiver away then. I might as well tell you so you’ll stop pestering me. Yes, I’ve seen Sorcha today—”
“But it’s been nearly three years since the last time!” Jamie said, looking right and left. “Where is she?”
“I saw her in the kitchen doorway a moment ago,” he said, putting his glass down. There wasn’t enough whiskey in Ireland tonight, as far as he was concerned. On second thought, he couldn’t wait to pound some nails.
“I’m still not sure if seeing ghosts is a blessing or a curse. Leaning toward the latter.”
“Me too.” He shoved the bottle toward his brother, whose face had turned green. “Don’t lose your dinner.”
“I’ve a stronger stomach than that,” Jamie said, putting a hand to his unruly mop of brown hair. “So… Sorcha’s back to push you toward the Yank. I must say, she was quite the woman, fending off your sheep with Bets.”
He hadn’t been able to dismiss the image of her waving that seven iron at his sheep. Her cheeks had turned an inviting pink with the exertion, and her clothes hadn’t looked as baggy with her arms in the air. “She’s Bets’ relation.”
“Off-limits.” Jamie whistled. “Mum would kill you if you broke Bets’ cousin’s heart, you know. From all accounts, she and her sister have had a hard time.”
The strain and grief were evident. The poor boy had looked whipped when the subject of loss had come up. He knew how horrible losing Sorcha had been, but he’d been an adult. What must it be like for a young boy? “I know it and have sympathy. The little lad—”
“Ollie,” Jamie answered. “He’ll be in my class, remember?”
He nodded. “There is no one better to teach him or any other child than you. Who else has the patience of Job?”
“Certainly not you,” Jamie said, making a face. “Given your propensity for impatience—”
“It’s called drive.”
“Synonyms,” Jamie said with a flick of a hand. “What I was trying to say,nicely, is that you’re completely thickheaded about most things. Building that house for one.”
Something crashed in the kitchen as if to punctuate his brother’s point. Jamie flinched, glancing over at the kitchen with wide eyes. “I take it Sorcha agrees with me. The message on the three sheep who tumbled into the yard at the end saidLove. Is. Here.Hard to ignore that. I expect it was by her hand.”
“It was,” he admitted crossly.
“What do you plan to do?”
