Page 3 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
“Thank you...” He’d already gone, striding down to the far end of the milking shed. There had been no ‘my luvver’, no answering smile. He looked as if he didn’t know how.
But he certainly was a hunk. His eyes were dark beneath dark, level brows. The hard line of his jaw was shaded by a hint of stubble, and in the open collar of his plaid cotton shirt she had caught a glimpse of rough, curling hair at the base of his throat.
He was wearing brown oilskin dungarees — hardly the most elegant of garments, but they did nothing to detract from his hunkiness. There was something uncompromisingly male about him. It was in the easy confidence in the way he moved, the air of someone completely comfortable in his own skin.
She couldn’t say that he had been impressed in return — the cool glance that had flickered over her had registered nothing but indifference. She really couldn’t blame him for that. She must look as if she’d dropped in from another planet, in her slim-fit designer jeans and the flat scarlet pumps she wore for driving. Both caked in mud.
She probably had a couple of smears of mud on her face, too. And her hair, which her stepsister frequently disparaged as ‘not-quite blonde’, had fallen from the neat twist on the top of her head to tumble untidily over her shoulders.
Not that she was bothered what he thought of her — no matter how good-looking he was. She was only here for a few days — a week at most — to clear out Molly’s things and check out any repairs or renovations needed at the cottage before she put it on the market.
Then she’d be off back to London, to her career and her fiancé. And this guy wouldn’t figure in her memories at all.
She glanced around, but there was nowhere to sit except for a bale of hay. Well, that would have to do. The brown-and-white terrier came to sniff around her feet and jump up with his paws on her knees to say hello.
At least someone was friendly.
She stroked his soft head and tickled behind his ears, and his tongue lolled out, his warm brown eyes conveying pure ecstasy. Then he was off, back to sniffing and snuffling around the feed sacks — probably looking for rats. A new group of cows were ambling in from outside, ushered by the efficient collies into the stainless-steel pens. Vicky watched, fascinated, as the farmerworked his way steadily along the line, wiping their swollen pink udders with some brown liquid and fitting the rubber tubes. It was almost like a well-coordinated dance.
The shed was warm, and she was growing accustomed to the smell. The contented mooing of the cows and the rhythmic click and clang of the milking machinery spun a strange melody, a lullaby...
* * *
“Okay, are you ready to go?”
Vicky sat up sharply, startled awake. She hadn’t intended to fall asleep. Had she been sleeping with her mouth open? Or worse, snoring?
“Oh . . . yes, right. Thank you.”
She scrambled to her feet as he walked away. The mud had dried around her shoes, making them even more uncomfortable than when they had been wet, but there was nothing she could do about that now.
She followed him as he strode across the farmyard. He walked with an easy, athletic stride, the little terrier scrambling around his feet. The dungarees had gone... and what was she doing, admiring his butt in those well-worn jeans?
He swung himself up into the cab, the dog jumping up behind him, and held his hand out to her. She regarded the height of the cab with some misgiving.
“Jump up.” Yes, he could smile. “Unless you’d prefer to walk?”
“No . . . um . . . okay — thank you very much.”
She put her hand in his and found herself hauled bodily up into the cab. There was a narrow seat next to the driver’s seat — but the dog was sitting on it, a look of smug possession on his furry little face.
The farmer laughed and clicked his tongue. “Come, Rufus.”
Instantly the dog scrambled up and disposed himself around those wide shoulders, gazing alertly out of the windscreen, ready to give directions.
The farmer brushed a hand over the seat, though it had little effect. “I’m afraid it’s a bit mucky.”
“That’s okay — these jeans are probably beyond salvation already.” The little dog turned his head to study her with those quick dark eyes. She tickled one floppy brown ear. “He’s a cute little thing.”
The farmer laughed dryly. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He thinks he’s a Great Dane.”
So — he had a sense of humour after all? Vicky laughed too. “You’re probably glad he isn’t if he makes a habit of sitting on your shoulders.”
“Oh, that’s far from being his only bad habit.” He tickled the little dog under the chin, inducing a look of sheer bliss. “Bring any more half-dead rats into the house, Rufty Tufty, and you’re for the dog pound, you horrible mutt.”
Clearly the mutt wasn’t remotely intimidated by the threat, turning his head to lap his long pink tongue up his master’s cheek.
“I’m Tom, by the way.” He fired up the tractor’s ignition and it rumbled into life like some giant Transformers monster.
