Page 31 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
Soft laughter touched his ears, but he didn’t see Sorcha. Part of him was relieved, and sadness touched his heart like the cold rain of last evening. He thought about detouring, but he had a mission. The Yank finally looked up as he reached the fence line. Her whole face looked pinched from the effort of trying to fill that blank page. She set aside a brush covered in red paint, a streak of which was visible on her jeans.
He wouldn’t have imagined an embroidered coat or jeans with flower patches would appeal to him, but hers did. They hinted at a romantic, whimsical side while the streaks of paint portended a streak of rebellion. As did her hair, all bundled up with curls twisted about her ears and neck from the wind. The look was sexy as hell.
“Shall I start bringing you a cup of tea if we’re to run into each other every morning?” she asked.
The challenge in her words had him smiling as he exited the gate and reached her.
“I had my tea before the sun awoke, but I wouldn’t mind a second cup tomorrow if it’s no bother.”
She straightened on her short stool. “Of course! I’m happy to become a roadside tea stand for the whole village.”
Damn, but he didn’t want to like her. “Might make some money that way too.”
“Good, because making money painting again—or attracting support for Bets’ art center—is looking like a pipe dream.” She rubbed the space between her brows, leaving a red streak there as well. “Why did I think I could do this? Don’t answer that. It was rhetorical.”
And yet he couldn’t stand seeing her defeated. He fought against the urge to gently clean up her face and raise her chin. “You’re made of stronger stuff than self-pity, Yank. You’ll do whatever you have to in order to paint again. Claw it out of your very soul if you must.”
The pinched look left her face, replaced by a stark vulnerability. “How the hell would you know?”
He thought about offering a pat answer, but his belly trembled in the face of her misery, a downright uncomfortable feeling. “Sorcha had what they call writer’s block a few times, and I got good at helping her move past it. I’ve seen its legacy.”
“I don’t want to ask.” She gripped her knees. “Okay, I do. How?”
He couldn’t very well tell her he’d shagged his wife until she’d sworn she could hear the angels singing. He and Angie weren’t talking or thinking about sex together. Ever.
Oh, he was lying to himself. He’d thought about them coming together as he was putting in the floor and working at his chores.
“We had our ways,” he evaded. “You have yours. You’re an artist. You have everything you need inside you.”
“Thank you, Tony Robbins,” she said, throwing her hair back after the wind blew it over her shoulder. “Do you listen to him like Liam does?”
His breath caught as a shaft of morning sunlight illuminated the long line of her neck. He forgot to ask her who this Tony fellow was. “Before I go, could you inquire in a stealthy way which rose bushes need replacing due to my sheep? I went to the co-op and realized I had no idea what to buy. Liam likes his philosophy, not gardening, and I’m trying to stay on Bets’ good side.”
He didn’t think Bets would change her mind about selling him the land for the house his dead wife didn’t want, but he wasn’t a stupid man. That woman was mad about her roses. He understood the fire for competition, because he felt that way about Baron, his prize sheep. That young ram was going to win him big money at the fair this year—more than enough to buy Bets’ land. That was something he needed, and yet he was still struggling to work on the house after what Sorcha had told him. He had to push through this current block as much as Angie needed to push through her own.
“What am I? A rose spy? Okay, fine. But I’ll have to do it out of Megan’s hearing. She’d know something was up for sure.”
A rose spy. She was funny, this Yank. “Not into gardening either, eh?” he asked, leaning against the fence. “I might have thought otherwise by the red rose on your jeans. You’re all Robert Burns.”
She flashed him a wry smile. “My love is more like a volcano than a rose, according to my exes. I love to paint them, but no, I don’t care for the weeding and watering. That’s Megan.”
He didn’t want to ask, but he did all the same. Seeing that little boy grieving had gotten to him. “How are your sister and the boy settling in?”
She put her elbows on her knees and cupped her face. The pose as much as the new look made her appear years younger. “Better, I think, but it’s early. Liam gave Ollie a bicycle, and he’s tearing up the driveway and the side roads. Megan has been making breakfast with me painting in the mornings, and we’ve started to take a walk after dinner. Although I missed it last night because I was fussing over my lesson plan. Yourmotheris excited to see it—she told me so yesterday when she came by to visit with Bets. That made me nervous since she was a teacher for decades.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. She’s curious but supportive. Part of her probably misses teaching, though she keeps busy enough. Seems she can’t spend a whole day without one or more of the Lucky Charms around. My dad and I aren’t sure the village will survive it. Turn them down if they ask you to paint a Bon Jovi mural on the side of Gavin’s pub.”
Her faint chuckle told him she wasn’t used to laughing much. Like him. “Is a rock star mural on their minds?”
“They love that band.”
“I know. They welcomed us with a dance party.”
He made a face. “One night at Gavin’s, Siobhan might have mentioned wanting a mural to celebrate their favorite band, and the others gave up a cheer. The rest of us live in terror of them spray painting their best attempt at depicting Jon with his guitar. Now they have you, Yank. We might be done for.”
“I have work to do,” she said with another chuckle, “although it might be fun. I could be Banksy to Caisleán.”
“Fun is a pint at the pub with your friends. Try that, Gavin might call the Garda—the law—on you.”
