Marion Lennox: Summer Of Love

She was also cold. He could hear it in the quaver in her voice, and by the shudders and chattering teeth she was trying to disguise. Cold and scared? But she wasn’t letting on.

‘Hold on then,’ he said. ‘I’ll not be long. Don’t go anywhere.’

She clamped her lips tight and he just knew the effort it was taking her not to swear.

* * *

To say Jo Conaill was feeling stupid would be an understatement. Jo—Josephine on her birth certificate but nowhere else—was feeling as if the ground had been pulled from under her. Which maybe it had.

Of all the dumb things to do...

She’d landed in Dublin two nights ago, spent twenty-four hours fighting off jet lag after the flight from Sydney, then hired a bike and set off.

It was the first time she’d ever been out of Australia and she was in Ireland. Ireland! She didn’t feel the least bit Irish, but her surname was Irish and every time she looked in the mirror she felt Irish. Her name and her looks were her only connection to this place, but then, Jo had very few connections to anything. Or anyone.

She was kind of excited to be here.

She’d read about this place before she came—of course she had. Ireland’s bogs were legion. They were massive, mysterious graveyards of ancient forests, holding treasures from thousands of years ago. On the Internet they’d seemed rain-swept, misty and beautiful.

On her lunch break, working as a waitress in a busy café on Sydney Harbour, she’d watched a You Tube clip of a couple walking across a bog just like this. They’d been jumping up and down, making each other bounce on the spongy surface.

Jumping on the bogs of Galway. She’d thought maybe she could.

And here she was. The map had shown her this road, describing the country as a magnificent example of undisturbed bog. The weather had been perfect. The bog looked amazing, stretching almost to the horizon on either side of her bike. Spongy. Bouncy. And she wasn’t stupid. She had stopped to ask a local and she’d been reassured.

So she’d jumped, just a little at first and then venturing further from the road to get a better bounce. And then the surface had given way and she’d sunk to her knees. She’d struggled for half an hour until she was stuck to her thighs. Then she’d resigned herself to sit like a dummy and wait for rescue.

So here she was, totally dependent on a guy who had the temerity to laugh. Okay, he hadn’t laughed out loud but she’d seen his lips twitch. She knew a laugh when she saw one.

At least he seemed...solid. Built for rescuing women from bogs? He was large, six-two or -three, muscular, lean and tanned, with a strongly boned face. He was wearing moleskin trousers and a khaki shirt, open-necked, his sleeves rolled above the elbows to reveal brawny arms.

He was actually, decidedly gorgeous, she conceded. Definitely eye candy. In a different situation she might even have paused to enjoy. He had the weathered face and arms of a farmer. His hair was a deep brown with just a hint of copper—a nod to the same Irish heritage she had? It was wavy but cropped short and serviceable. His deep green eyes had crease lines at the edges—from exposure to weather?

Or from laughter.

Probably from laughter, she decided. His eyes were laughing now.

Eye candy or not, she was practically gritting her chattering teeth as she waited for him. She was totally dependent on a stranger. She, Jo Conaill, who was dependent on nobody.

He was heading back, carrying a couple of short planks, moving faster now he’d assessed the ground. His boots were heavy and serviceable. Stained from years of work on the land?

‘I have a bull who keeps getting himself bogged near the water troughs,’ he said idly, almost as if he was talking to himself and not her. ‘If these planks can get Horace out, they’ll work for you. That is if you don’t weigh more than a couple of hundred pounds.’

Laughter was making his green eyes glint. His smile, though, was kind.

She didn’t want kind. She wanted to be out of here.

‘Don’t try and move until they’re in place,’ he told her. ‘Horace always messes that up. First sign of the planks and he’s all for digging himself in deeper.’

‘You’re comparing me to a bull?’

He’d stooped to set the planks in place. Now he sat back on his heels and looked at her. Really looked. His gaze raked her, from the top of her dishevelled head to where her leather-clad legs disappeared into the mud.

The twinkle deepened.

‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, indeed. I’ll not compare you to a bull.’

And he chuckled.

If she could, she’d have closed her eyes and drummed her heels. Instead, she had to manage a weak smile. She had to wait. She was totally in this man’s hands and she didn’t like it one bit.

It was her own fault. She’d put herself in a position of dependence and she depended on nobody.

Except this man.

‘So what do they call you?’ He was manoeuvring the planks, checking the ground under them, setting them up so each had a small amount of rock underneath to make them secure. He was working as if he had all the time in the world. As if she did.

She didn’t. She was late.

She was late and covered in bog.

‘What would who call me?’ she snapped.

‘Your Mam and Daddy?’

As if. ‘Jo,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘Just Jo?’

‘Just Jo.’ She glared.

‘Then I’m Finn,’ he said, ignoring her glare. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Just Jo.’ He straightened, putting his weight on the planks, seeing how far they sank. He was acting as if he pulled people out of bogs all the time.

No. He pulled bulls out of bogs, she thought, and that was what she felt like. A stupid, bog-stuck bovine.

‘You’re Australian?’

‘Yes,’ she said through gritted teeth, and he nodded as if Australians stuck in bogs were something he might have expected.

‘Just admiring the view, were we?’ The laughter was still in his voice, an undercurrent to his rich Irish brogue, and it was a huge effort to stop her teeth from grinding in frustration. Except they were too busy chattering.

‘I’m admiring the frogs,’ she managed. ‘There are frogs in here. All sorts.’

He smiled, still testing the planks, but his smile said he approved of her attempt to join him in humour.

‘Fond of frogs?’

‘I’ve counted eight since I’ve been stuck.’

He grinned. ‘I’m thinking that’s better than counting sheep. If you’d nodded off I might not have seen you from the road.’ He stood back, surveyed her, surveyed his planks and then put a boot on each end of the first plank and started walking. The end of the planks were a foot from her. He went about two-thirds along, then stopped and crouched. And held out his hands.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Put your hands in mine. Hold fast. Then don’t struggle, just let yourself relax and let me pull.’

‘I can...’

‘You can’t do anything,’ he told her. ‘If you struggle you’ll make things harder. You can wiggle your toes if you like; that’ll help with the suction, but don’t try and pull out. If you were Horace I’d be putting a chain under you but Horace isn’t good at following orders. If you stay limp like a good girl, we’ll have you out of here in no time.’

Like a good girl. The patronising toerag...

He was saving her. What was she doing resenting it? Anger was totally inappropriate. But then, she had been stuck for almost an hour, growing more and more furious with herself. She’d also been more than a little bit frightened by the time he’d arrived. And cold. Reaction was setting in and she was fighting really hard to hold her temper in check.

‘Where’s a good wall to kick when you need it?’ Finn asked and she blinked.