Jill Limber - Daddy, He Wrote

“Finish your nap, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Mama will be just outside.”

Emma always slept for at least an hour this time of the day, but Trish hated to leave her alone, even though she’d be only a short distance away.

She grabbed Tollie’s collar and shut him in the goat pen. The old blind mutt didn’t have the sense to stay out from under the wheels of the car.

Running her fingers through her short hair, she wished she’d had time to shower and change before she met the famous Ian Miller.

When she stepped out into the thin winter sunshine, the limousine was making a turn in the area between the barn and the main house. The car’s windows were tinted with such dark glass she couldn’t see the occupants of the car.

The car pulled to a stop about twenty feet from her, and a middle-aged driver in a rumpled suit jumped out and opened the rear door.

Ian Miller stepped out, his attention on the house. Her breath caught in her throat. The man was devastatingly handsome, much more than his photograph had shown.

He paid no attention to her. Either he hadn’t seen her or he was as rude as his business manager.

She pushed aside a feeling of disappointment. It didn’t matter, she told herself. The less he noticed her the better if she was going to be able to pull off her plan to keep both jobs.

His inattention gave her a chance to collect herself and study him. He was tall, over six feet, with thick, well-cut black hair.

His clothes were beautiful. He wore a gray-and-navy tweed jacket over broad shoulders, a navy turtleneck sweater and gray wool slacks, perfectly tailored to fit to his slim hips. His leather shoes looked costly and new.

Even from where she stood she could see he had strong square hands with clean, well-tended fingernails and an expensive-looking gold wristwatch.

The man was elegant. She’d never met a man who looked as classy as Ian Miller.

Self-consciously Trish smoothed the front of the flannel shirt that hung to her knees, wishing her boots weren’t caked with manure. She wore Billy’s clothes when she was working, to save wear and tear on what little wardrobe she had.

The limousine driver spotted her and tipped his hat. He cleared his throat, and Mr. Miller turned to him, one eyebrow quirked in question.

Then he looked past the driver and saw her. He went very still, his face etched with a brief flash of surprise, then his expression went blank as he looked her up and down. She noticed he had gorgeous blue eyes. The shade of blue the sky turned at twilight, deep and rich.

Trish sucked in a breath. This was it. She needed to appear competent to keep her job. She was good at bluffing. When you grew up the way she had, it was a necessary survival skill.

She plastered a smile on her face and took a step toward him. She didn’t miss the flash of suspicion that crossed his handsome face.

“Mr. Miller?”

He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, as if he’d been caught by someone he didn’t care to see. She didn’t have time to wonder at his curious reaction to her.

Nervously she smiled again, wondering if he could see how strained the expression felt on her face. She stopped about ten feet from the car and him. “I’m Trish Ryan.”

“You’re the housekeeper?” His expression relaxed a little but remained guarded as he nodded. “Ms. Ryan, I’m pleased to meet you.” His voice was deep, mellow and had a faint upper-class sound to it.

Trish didn’t think he looked pleased at all, but she had the sense not to mention it. “Welcome to Blacksmith Farm.”

“Thank you,” he replied politely.

His apparent lack of interest in her helped to put her at ease. “Can I show you the house?” she asked, hoping the answer would be no.

She wouldn’t leave Emma alone in the barn, and if he said yes she’d have to go and get her daughter. She’d rather he didn’t know about Emma. Her gut told her Emma was a complication she should avoid explaining on their first meeting.

He looked down at her boots and shook his head. Trish felt a spurt of relief. If she were him she wouldn’t want her boots in the house, either.

Then he looked beyond her with a scowl. She turned and saw he was looking at the paddock beside the barn where two of the three horses were placidly grazing. Max stood with his head hanging over the fence, watching her. He was more like a dog than a horse, following her with his curious three-legged gait whenever she worked around the barn or paddock.

“Didn’t Ms. Sommers tell you to get rid of the animals?” he asked curtly.

Trish nodded. “Yes. The cow has already been sold to the neighbors. The dealer who’s taking the horses is coming tomorrow morning.”

She never could figure out why the former owner had wanted a cow. They never even drank milk the few times they stayed at the farm. Rich people baffled her with their lack of sense.

Mr. Miller nodded and turned his attention back to the house. He had a marvelous profile, very strong and masculine.

Trish stood there, impatiently waiting for him to say something. She needed to get back to Emma. And to work.

A horse whinnied loudly from the paddock. She recognized Max’s voice. He was a big baby, but she really would miss him.

Trish pushed the sentimental thought away. What did she need with a three-legged horse?

She was exhausted caring for her daughter, the house, the animals and the property. It would make her life easier if she didn’t have to maintain the animals, especially now that cold winter weather had set in.

She wouldn’t miss milking the cow twice a day, but she already regretted not having fresh milk. She’d learned to make butter and had been going to try to make cheese. Having the cow had saved on groceries and reduced the hassle of taking the bus to the supermarket as often.

A cold breeze raised goose bumps on her arms, and she glanced at the barn. Even though Emma was all bundled up and snug in her basket, it was still chilly.

She couldn’t figure out how to speed up his visit without being too obvious, so she decided to get a business detail out of the way.

She cleared her throat, and he turned away from his perusal of the house. “I assume you want the money from the sale of the animals deposited in the household account?”

Mr. Miller shrugged. “I suppose. Do you keep the accounts?”

Trish nodded. She kept painfully detailed records of all the money she deposited and spent out of the Blacksmith Farm account.

She had to buy more fuel oil soon and pay the men who were working in the orchard this week.

“Fine. If you need more operating money, I’ll give you the name of my accountant. He’ll check your records and see you get what you need.”

The horses should bring a great deal of money at auction, so she wouldn’t have to ask for quite a while.

She was glad to hear him say he was turning the financial dealings over to an accountant. That was what someone who didn’t plan to spend much time here would do.

He turned back to the house, staring at the exterior. She suppressed a shiver and wondered what he was doing, just standing out here in the cold, looking. “Are you sure I can’t show you around?”

He seemed to come out of his trance. “No. I’ll go in by myself. Is the house locked?” Absently he fished around in his pocket as if he could come up with a key. She wondered if he had one.

“No. Both the front and back are open.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized her mistake. She braced herself for a rebuke for leaving his property unlocked.

Way out here in the country it seemed perfectly reasonable to her to leave the doors open during the day.

He smiled, as if it amused him. “Unlocked,” he muttered. “Good.”