Daddy, He Wrote. Jill Limber
another house.
The main house, a restored plank house, was plenty big, with its warm, inviting and comfortable interior.
The whole place was obviously well cared for. He hadn’t met the people who worked there, but if they stayed out of Ian’s way and did their jobs, Ian didn’t care if he ever met them.
He’d always needed complete quiet and solitude to write. Philadelphia was becoming impossible. Not only did fans hound him, but his parents demanded he be a part of their busy society circle, as if he were some kind of trophy they’d acquired.
He’d considered moving to New York to be closer to his publisher and editor, but that was as bad as Philadelphia. He was tired of being pressured to show up at the important parties, invited because of his fame. No one wanted to know him, they just wanted to be seen with him.
The more he declined what Joyce described as the “significant invitations,” the more popular he became.
The business end of his life was no better. He’d hired an army of people to take care of things. Joyce, his agent, a property manager, an accountant, and they just seemed to complicate his life instead of freeing him up.
He wanted to be able to write in peace and quiet, live an uncomplicated life with no interruptions. He wanted what Thoreau had sought, his own Walden Pond.
No entanglements.
Maybe then he could get his old spark back and write a decent book to give to his publisher. He had a deadline looming, and nothing he was willing to show anyone, especially his editor.
He closed the program on his laptop and went to pack, his spirits lifting at the thought he would at least get to stop at the farm.
When he returned home he’d have the rest of the things he wanted to take with him packed and shipped. If the place turned out to be as conducive to work as he hoped, he’d think about putting his apartment up for sale.
Chapter Two
Trish was working in the barn when she heard the car coming up the driveway that led only to the farm.
It couldn’t be him, not yet, she thought frantically, looking down at her filthy clothes.
He wasn’t scheduled to arrive for three hours. Thank goodness she’d finished getting the house ready this morning.
She dumped her shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow and yanked off her gloves. Wiping her hands on the rag stuffed in her pocket, she walked over to glance into the basket on the workbench where Emma had just fallen asleep. She tucked the warm blanket securely around her daughter and kissed her forehead with a brush of her lips.
“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.