Daddy, He Wrote

It was the first halfway pleasant expression she’d seen on his face.

He turned and walked toward the house, his leather shoes crunching over the gravel drive. His long-legged stride ate up the ground.

She watched him walk away then glanced over at the limousine driver, who smiled at her and shrugged. She waited until Mr. Miller disappeared inside the house to speak to the driver.

She felt awkward asking the question, as if she were invading Mr. Miller’s privacy, but she needed to know. “How long is he going to be here?”

The driver looked at his watch. “Not long if he wants to be at his next destination on time.”

Trish heaved a sigh of relief and smiled at the man. She was prepared to fix Mr. Miller dinner if he stayed, but she still had a lot of work to do. He was the new owner and possibly the most handsome man Trish had ever encountered, but for her sake, the less time he spent here the better.

“I need to finish up in the barn. Will you give me a tap on the horn if he wants to see me before you leave?”

“Sure thing.” He gave her a little salute and climbed back in the car.

Smart man. It was really getting cold. She turned and hurried back to the barn. When she was working she didn’t notice the cold, but just standing there she’d felt it cut right through her clothes.

Trish peeked into Emma’s basket at her sleeping baby and felt the surge of love that always took her by surprise. She’d never been in love before, and the warm feelings brought tears to her eyes. She watched her perfect little face, composed in sleep. Emma was the only purely good thing that had ever happened to her.

She kissed the smooth cheek, inhaling the wonderful scent of clean baby and whispered, “This is going to work, darling girl, I just know it is.”

Ian looked out the window of the front room of his new home and watched Trish finish her conversation with his driver, then turn and run into the barn.

When he’d first noticed her he’d thought she was a teenager. Then a breeze had kicked up and plastered her shirt against her body, letting him know there was a woman’s shape under all that ugly flannel.

She couldn’t be much over five feet tall, and she looked as if she was wearing her father’s clothes. He hadn’t missed the fact that her breasts had looked almost too large for her slender frame.

As lovely as her figure appeared to be, it had been her eyes that had caught his attention. Big and blue and too old looking for her young face. Trish had sad eyes. Sad and a little wary.

He found himself wondering about the appealing little waif with tousled blond curls. Why would a woman who looked that young have such old eyes? Why had he even remembered her name?

He was terrible with names. Usually he had to meet people several times before he remembered them. He’d had the same doorman for a year and still couldn’t recall the man’s name.

What was he doing, spending time thinking about his housekeeper? She was definitely not the type of woman he was usually attracted to.

A little disgusted with himself, Ian turned away from the window and looked around the front room, trying to shake off his odd fascination with a woman he barely knew.

The interior of the house was as homey and well kept as he remembered. The woman might look young, but she was doing a good job.

He vaguely remembered Joyce mentioning the caretakers came with the farm and lived in the old stone house on the property. So did that mean she was half of a couple?

He told himself it was only curiosity, the way his writer’s brain worked. He asked himself questions and created scenarios to go with what he saw.

Yeah, right, he thought. Had he asked himself any questions about the limo driver? No.

He reminded himself he was moving here to get away from entanglements and disturbances in his life. Trish and her sadness and who she was or wasn’t living with weren’t his problem.

His problem was a massive case of writer’s block that was driving him crazy.

He moved through the house, liking it more and more. The immense kitchen had the feel of an old-fashioned great room, with a huge fireplace and a comfortable collection of mismatched overstuffed furniture that looked right in the room. It smelled like spices. Cinnamon, maybe?

Beyond the kitchen area a screened porch ran the length of the back of the house.

The room looked like the kind of place where a whole family might gather in the winter to eat and socialize. He recalled that the agent showing him the house had said parts of it dated to the eighteenth century. He imagined in those days it would have been practical to confine daily activities to one room, given the limitations of heating and lighting.

He made a mental note to ask Joyce if the real estate agent had given her any history on the structure. If not, he’d do some research himself.

Fortunately the house now had modern electrical wiring, plumbing, central heat and updated appliances, but to him that didn’t cut down on the appeal. Authenticity was great in theory but hell to live with.

Ian found the stairs and headed up to where he remembered the bedrooms were located. There was an airy upstairs corner room that would make a perfect office. The windows in the south wall overlooked an orchard, and from the windows in the east wall he could see the barn.

As soon as the animals were gone, he’d look into turning the barn into a proper garage.

He was pleased that he’d made the impulsive purchase. It was a perfect place to write. Quiet, private and secluded. He’d be able to settle down and finish his book.

He’d made it clear to Joyce the location of the farm was not to be divulged to anyone, not even his publisher. All communication would go through her.

The farm would be his haven from obsessive fans and shallow acquaintances who wanted his friendship for their own selfish reasons. He was unapologetic about being a recluse. His work required it, and his work came first.

He’d move the bed out and use the big worktable in the corner under the windows as a desk. The curtains would come down. There was no need for privacy way out here in the country.

He smiled as he considered the view again. From where he stood, the only house he could see was the old stone house beyond the barn.

Where Trish lived. The woman just popped into his head, uninvited.

He tried to concentrate on the house. He remembered the real estate agent telling him the tiny structure where the caretakers lived had been the original farmhouse on the property. It looked as if it couldn’t be more than two rooms.

He wondered if she was comfortable in such a small space, then dismissed the thought. It was none of his business whether or not she was happy.

The only thing he needed to care about in relation to her was that she did her job and stayed out of his way. From the look of the house, Ian had no complaints.

He glanced down at his watch. He needed to leave to get to his book signing on time, but he found he didn’t want to go. He hated the ordeal, facing all those people who stood in line for hours just to have him scrawl his name inside the front cover.

They all wanted a personal conversation from him, some snippet they could carry away. Why? Why couldn’t his book be enough?

The book he was working on now was so different from what he’d done before. His agent and his editor and Joyce had all subtly let him know they thought he was making a big mistake and he’d lose readers over it.

Maybe that was a good thing.

With a sigh he headed back down the stairs. The place was even more perfect than he remembered.

He couldn’t wait to move in.

Chapter Three

Trish had Emma in a baby front pack, strapped to her chest. She’d buttoned them both up inside an oversize, heavy jacket. Only the top of the baby’s head, covered with a pink knit cap, showed. Trish figured she probably looked like a bag lady, but Emma had a cold and she needed to be kept warm.

The horse dealer had just pulled up to the barn with a huge trailer. He jumped out of the cab of his truck and waved to her. “Ms. Ryan?” He pulled on gloves and opened the door of the trailer with a clang of metal.

“They’re ready to go.” She’d been in the barn with Max, saying goodbye.

It had been harder than she expected. She’d brought him apples and sugar, and he’d nudged her shoulder with his big head when she’d started to cry, as if he’d known what she was saying to him.

She chalked some of her emotion up to fatigue. Emma had a little fever and had been fussy and awake for a good part of the night. Trish had been up giving her baby sponge baths every hour.

“Okay, then. I have the paperwork here. I want to hurry before the storm hits.” He pulled a sheaf of dog-eared papers from his back pocket.

Trish took the papers and looked to the north. It was only the middle of the morning, but the sky was almost black. She wondered how much time she had until the snow started.

There was still so much to do before Mr. Miller returned this weekend. She stood back as the horse dealer led the big gray into the trailer.

Trish went into the barn and took hold of Max’s bridle, even though he’d probably follow her like a big old brown dog.

She got him out to the truck and the dealer held up his hand.

“I want him in last, ’cause he gets dropped off first.”

Trish scratched Max under his chin. “I thought they were all going to the same auction.”

“Not this guy. He’s going to the slaughterhouse. A lame old horse like him won’t sell.”

Trish felt as if she’d been hit in the belly with a fist. “You mean he’s going to be put down?”

The man shrugged, his heavy sheepskin-lined jacket swallowing his ears for a moment. “Yup.”

Her mind whirling she asked, “So you won’t get any money for him?”

“Nah. But I won’t charge your boss to drop him off.”

Trish dropped Max’s lead and shuffled through the papers the dealer had given her. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled out the sheet that belonged to Max. “So it doesn’t matter if he stays?”

He shot her a surprised look. “Up to you. But a three-legged horse eats as much as one with four legs. Can’t ride him, can you?”

Trish shook her head. She didn’t ride any of them. That made no difference to her. Emma sneezed and Trish patted her through the heavy jacket.

She led Max back into his stall and closed the gate while the driver loaded the other two horses.

Why was she acting so crazy? Mr. Miller wanted all the animals gone. He’d been very clear on that point. She couldn’t very well hide a horse. Or afford to feed him, she reminded herself.

She checked the feed bin. It was low, but with only Max eating, it would last for a while. She’d think of something.

She went out to the teamster’s rig and signed the papers for the other animals in the trailer, then watched the driver pull away.

Calling herself a fool, she headed for the stone house. Maybe the people who lived out on the main road near the bus stop would let her pasture him there. They had young children and she could exchange his keep for baby-sitting. She’d check when she went for groceries.

She couldn’t let Max be put down. He was too good a friend, and Trish had had so few loyal friends in her life.

She gathered up the laundry and the bag of Emma’s dirty diapers and hauled it all up to the main house. She’d do her laundry tomorrow while she was cleaning.

She worked all day, stopping frequently to nurse Emma. Her little nose was so stuffed up she had a hard time eating.

Exhausted, Trish finally decided it was time to quit. With Emma bundled up in her arms, she opened the front door and was shocked to see two inches of snow had already fallen.

She locked the door and fought the wind, making a quick stop at the barn to feed and water Max, who stood dozing in his stall. Tollie, the mutt, had made a bed in a pile of hay outside Max’s stall, and his tail thumped when she greeted him, his blind eyes staring right past her. Crew Cut, the cat with the scarred head and damaged ears, was curled up with the dog.

Tollie did pretty well, considering he couldn’t see a thing, but she noticed he was staying in the barn more and more. She left the door open a crack so Tollie and Crew could get out if they needed to.

She let herself in the door of her house. It was almost as cold inside as it was out in the snow. She needed to get the fireplace going so the room would be warm enough for Emma.

They’d have to sleep in front of the fire again tonight. She flipped the switch of the lamp in the front room.

Nothing happened.

Trish groaned. The power was out already and the storm had just started. That meant no lights and no water, because the well pump was electric.

Still holding Emma, she turned around and headed back to the main house to get the generator going.

Trish unlocked the door and settled Emma, who was starting to fuss, on the couch with pillows around her to keep her from rolling off. Then she tackled the generator.

Within minutes she had the lights on and could hear the hum of the refrigerator. She could also hear the wind starting to howl around the house.

Trish turned on the television and listened to the news as she tried to nurse Emma again. The baby felt too warm and Trish tried to gauge her temperature. She was still running a little fever, which would account for her crankiness. Normally she was a very happy baby.

The local newscaster was predicting temperatures in the teens, high winds and two feet of snow.

There was no way Trish could keep Emma warm at the stone house. There was no heat besides the fireplace, and when the wind blew, the flue did not draw well and the air inside became smoky. With her stuffed-up nose Emma was having enough trouble breathing as it was.

She tucked the baby into the crook of her arm. “I guess we’ll stay here tonight.”

Emma smiled a toothless little lopsided grin, the first one Trish had seen all day.

“There’s my girl. You like that idea?”

The baby gurgled and smiled again.

“We’ll just camp out right here. I’ll build a fire and we can be nice and warm all night. We can even watch television.”

Trish fixed herself a can of soup and made a mental note to replace it with her own money the next time she went to the grocery store. Just as she was finishing up she heard Tollie barking at the door to the screened porch on the side of the house.

She went out to let him in, and the chill took her breath away. The dog was caked with snow, and she had to shove against the screen door to close it, because of the wind. Just before she got it shut, Crew squeezed through the small opening and ran through the main door and into the house.

She brushed the old dog off before letting him in, then put a frayed towel in the corner near a heater vent and led him to the spot.

“If you’re staying in, you’ll stay there.”

Tollie turned around three times and then plopped down on the towel, apparently pleased with the arrangement. She could just see Crew’s tail under the china cabinet.

Trish lit the fire in the huge stone fireplace, then got out blankets from the linen closet and settled Emma and herself for the night, sinking into the soft cushions of the couch and savoring the luxury of sleeping in a warm room.

Exhausted, she didn’t even turn on the television and drifted off to sleep almost immediately, the sound of the storm howling around the house strangely soothing.

Tollie’s furious barking woke her up. Groggily she raised her head and looked around the dark room, wondering what had set the mutt off. Then she realized she wasn’t at home, she was at the main house.

She had no idea how long she’d been asleep, and the red glowing numbers of the digital clock on the microwave flashed 12:00. She hadn’t reset it after turning the generator on.

Just as she was about to get up and investigate what might be upsetting her normally placid dog, the overhead lights went on, blinding her.

She peered over the back of the couch, squinting into the bright light. To her horror, Ian Miller stood in the doorway to the great room. The shoulders of his coat were thick with snow, and there was a thunderous expression on his face.

He took his gaze off her for just a moment to glance over at Tollie, who stood stiff-legged and growling, all the hair raised on his back.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out without thinking. He wasn’t due for two more days.

He set his bag down with a thud. “I might ask you the same question,” he fairly growled at her.

Trish felt her heart sink. He’d fire her. Probably tonight, considering the furious expression on his face.

She told Tollie to hush and wondered where she could go. What was she going to do? She had no money, no marketable skills and no family. She still owed the hospital and the funeral home. She’d been homeless before, and she wasn’t going to let her baby live that kind of life. Ever. She looked down at her sleeping daughter, overwhelmed with dismay.

Ian stared at the tousled, delightful-looking woman curled up on his couch, her big blue eyes blinking against the light. He felt like Papa Bear come home to find Goldilocks in his bed.

Except he didn’t think Goldilocks had had a demented-looking mutt. At her command the dog had downgraded his barking to growls, and his spooky white eyes were staring past Ian. Ian watched Trish, but didn’t take his full attention off the dog.

She appeared to be confused and scared and still managed to look utterly enchanting.

Just what he needed, he thought, rubbing the tense muscles in the back of his neck. His dream of utter solitude dissolved in annoyance.

He was exhausted from fighting the storm all the way from Philadelphia. He’d decided this afternoon when he’d heard the weather predictions that if he waited to leave he’d be forced to delay the trip, possibly for days, and he couldn’t stand the thought of being stranded in the city when he could be at Blacksmith Farm. So he’d decided to come early.

He should have called to warn her, but it hadn’t occurred to him she’d be in his house.

“Well?” He was still waiting for her explanation.

She swallowed hard and made a helpless little gesture with her hand. “The power went out. No lights or water.”

He glanced up at the ceiling fixture. Did she think he was an idiot? “Looks like it came back.”

She shook her head full of tousled, blond curls. “This house is on a generator.”

“No generator at the stone house?”

She shook her head again and continued to stare at him as if he were Attila the Hun.

Just then a cat that looked as though it had gotten its head and tail caught in a piece of farm equipment sauntered into the room and jumped up onto the arm of the couch. Absently she scratched it under the chin, and Ian could hear the rumbling of its purr all the way across the room.

He looked around, wondering how many other animals might be lurking in the corners. At least the dog had settled down. The sound of her voice caught his attention.

“Mr. Miller?” She put the cat aside, struggled out of her nest of blankets and stood up. She was wearing pink flannel pajamas printed with yellow rubber ducks.

She looked as though she might cry. “I’m sorry to be here,” she said, her voice hitching, “but the baby has a cold and I needed to keep her warm.”

Baby? What baby? Ian looked around the room again, wondering how he had managed to stumble into this weird nightmare. “Baby?”

She pointed to a wash basket beside the couch. Ian took a step forward and saw a miniature version of Trish asleep in the basket.

He was hit with a punch of emotions that left him speechless and angry. He didn’t want the confused feelings that welled up and took him completely by surprise. She had a baby. This woman who looked like a child herself was a mother.

She started folding up the blankets with jerky movements. “I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Miller. I’ll get dressed and go home.”

She obviously hadn’t looked outside recently. They were in the beginning of a whiteout.

“No,” he said sharply, appalled at the idea. She couldn’t take a baby, sick or otherwise, out in this weather, not to mention live without power.

She probably wouldn’t even be able to find the stone house, even though it was only a short distance away.

She stopped folding the blankets and stared at him, her chin trembling. “No?”

Feeling uncharacteristically protective, he said, “Absolutely not.” He wasn’t going to let her take a step outside. She was such a little thing the drifts would come up to her waist.

She began blinking rapidly, as if she had something in her eye. “But where am I supposed to go?”

He wondered how sharp a brain she had under all those blond curls. Usually he didn’t have so much trouble communicating, but for some reason she didn’t seem to understand. Annoyed, he said, “Nowhere. You’ll stay here.”

He told himself he didn’t care if she was unhappy, but the misery on her face made him want to take her in his arms. Oh, yes, he definitely needed to get her back to the stone house as soon as possible. He’d order a second generator in the morning.

“Oh.” She sat back down on the couch, hugging the half-folded blanket to her chest. “Thank you.”

Ian glanced out the window. “Where is the baby’s father?” His voice sounded gruffer than he had intended. It was none of his business, but he needed to know, and that irritated him.

She swallowed hard and got a very strange look on her face. After a long pause she said, “Not here.”

Odd answer, he thought. The father should be the one worrying about her and their child, not him. He didn’t want the entanglement. “I have my cell phone. Can you call him?”

She blinked several more times. “Uh, no, probably not.”

What kind of answer was that? Either she could or she couldn’t. What did she mean, probably not?

She was acting very strangely. He studied her for a long moment, trying to read her odd behavior. “Trish, where is the baby’s father?”

She swallowed hard several times and stared at the floor. Then she raised her chin and looked right at him with those big, blue eyes. “He’s dead.”

Completely taken aback, Ian could only stare at her. Finally he said, “Dead?”

She nodded, her eyes welling with tears.

He didn’t know what to say. No wonder she looked so upset.

Now he really felt like he was in the middle of a bizarre nightmare. He wanted to know when and how the man had died, but because she looked so scared and hurt, he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

She must have loved him very much. Ian didn’t have the faintest idea why that should bother him.

Chapter Four

Trish couldn’t look at Mr. Miller. She stared into the fire, sure that when he got over the shock of hearing about Billy’s death he’d come to his senses and fire her.

She was so lost in her misery that when he spoke she jumped. She hadn’t heard him walk up beside her.

“Do you need any help with the arrangements?”

Her mind went blank. Arrangements? What was he talking about?

He waited patiently for a moment. “The funeral. Do you need me to call anyone for you?”

Of course. He thought Billy had just died. He didn’t know she’d been widowed for two and a half months—because she’d been afraid of losing her job so she’d covered it up.

His kindness nearly undid her. She shook her head. “No. It’s all over.”

She hadn’t been able to afford a funeral. There really hadn’t been anyone to attend, anyway. She’d asked Billy’s best friend to get his ashes from the funeral home because she didn’t have a car to go and pick them up.

A few days later he’d called to tell her Billy’s drinking buddies had had a memorial service for him down at the Stumble Inn, their favorite establishment. Apparently, it didn’t occur to them to ask her to come. She’d never asked him what he’d done with the ashes.