"Oh, I think we're okay now."
Having dispatched the carrot, Artie returned to the window, and Georgia handed him an apple. The big brown eyes of the dog glazed over with ecstasy as he returned to his spot on the grass. "I think he'll let me out of the car and into the house, don't you?"
"Oh, Artie will be fine. You're his new best friend. But, Georgia—"
"Oh, Artie, you are such a handsome boy." Georgia opened the door cautiously. "Such a good boy."
The dog's tail smacked the turf. Mashed up chunks of apple dribbled through his big smiling dog-mouth.
"Piece o' cake," she told Laura. "Thanks for the help. Right now, I'm going to unload the car. The danger's past. I'll give you a call tomorrow."
"But Georgia—" Laura sighed as she realized that Georgia had already disconnected the call, thinking
all was well at Pumpkin Hill. A snarling Artie was nothing, Laura knew, compared to a snarling Matt.
Artie could be beguiled by a carrot, tamed with an apple.
It was going to take a lot more to maneuver past Matt.
nine
T
he sun had dropped lower in the sky when Matt awoke and found himself beneath the tree in the middle of the field, his neck miserably crinked from being held in so awkward a position. He muttered a curse and tried to massage the back of his neck only to find that one arm had fallen asleep in protest of having spent the past two hours tucked behind his head. Matt stood up and tried to shake the blood back into his left arm while he rubbed his neck with his right.
"Artie," he called when he realized the dog was nowhere in sight.
He whistled, long and loud. Once, twice, then looked around, expecting to see the big black dog streaking across the field in his direction. Nothing moved except a few low-hanging branches of the tree as a bit of breeze stirred up.
Concerned when the second whistle brought no more response than had the first, Matt walked with brisk apprehension toward the farmyard, fearful that
Artie had chased something across the road and was, at that moment, off and running to parts unknown. He was still rubbing the back of his neck when he reached
the grassy area between the barn
and the old chicken house. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
A tiny, trim blond woman tossed a stick halfway across the drive, with Artie in hot pursuit of the prize. From the distance, Matt could hear her laughter as Artie jumped into the air and caught the stick like a Frisbee. She patted her blue-jeaned knee and the dog trotted back happily to her, wagging his tail as he presented her with the stick to be tossed again.
It was the blonde from the inn. Matt was certain of it, even without seeing her face. Her hair—palest silk in the late afternoon sun—hung almost to her waist as she gathered it with one hand, catching it in something that held it in one long sweet line down her back. She moved with the same grace with which she had crossed the parking lot that day at the Bishop's Inn, effortlessly flowing like an easy stream on an April morning. She had made him think of music then, and now, for some odd reason, she made him think of a jewelry box Laura had gotten for Christmas one year. It had been made of pink leather, and inside stood a tiny dancer that twirled to tinny music when the lid was opened.
Matt's heart sank when he realized that he was more than likely still sleeping under the tree. A woman like this didn't cross your path twice in real life—except in dreams.
Artie strutted across the yard, cheerfully showing off, nuzzling her hand and wagging merrily when she
bent down and scratched behind both of the dog's ears at the same time.
Matt watched in fascination as his dream woman— a fairy princess, if ever he'd seen one—continued to play toss-the-stick with his dog.
Several minutes passed before Artie spied his master and decided to include Matt in the game. The dog raced up the drive, stick in mouth, then stopped about five feet from Matt, challenging him to chase him and try to take the stick from his mouth. Matt had taken no more than two steps toward Artie when the dog turned and raced back toward the blonde.
What could Matt do but follow?
Besides, in dreams,
he was thinking as he chased his dog toward the farmhouse,
the beautiful princess always showed up, sooner or later.
He was halfway across the drive, wondering if he appeared to be running in slow motion the way people always did in TV dreams, when his left foot rolled over a large stone, causing his foot to twist and sharp pain to shoot through his ankle.
That's when it occurred to him that maybe this wasn't a dream. After all, things weren't supposed to hurt in dreams, and here he was, going down on one hand with knives of heat running up his left leg.
"Are you all right?" The princess was rushing toward him.
"Oh. Fine. Sure." He gritted his teeth and smiled up into eyes green as spring grass and shiny as new dimes. "It's just a little twist."
"Are you positive?" she was asking, her voice like soft bells.
"
Yes." He felt fortunate to have gotten that one word out.
She was beautiful enough to take a man's breath away, and for a lo
ng moment, it seemed to Matt, sh
e had taken his.
"Maybe some ice
…
" she was gesturing toward the farmhouse and saying something that his brain— struggling as it was with the effects of both pain and something else that was registering at a point equidistant between infatuation and lust—wasn't quite comprehending.
"You live here?" he asked, understanding seeping through.
"As of yesterday." She nodded.
Their tenant? The princess was their tenant?
Yes!
She took his arm gently and asked, "Would it help if you leaned on me? I can help you to the back steps."
He wanted to tell her that he wasn't really hurt
that
badly, but her arm was already around his waist, surprising him with its strength for one so slender.
Matt knew he should remind her of the dangers of permitting a stranger to get so close, but she smelled of sunlight and new grass and her red-and-white flannel shirt was soft against his bare arms and he couldn't get the words out. Of course, actually leaning on her was out of the question, she
was
barely five three or so and he being close to six feet, but he felt compelled to let her think she was helping. After all, she looked so anxious, so sincere.
"If you think you can get into the house, we can prop your foot up and maybe put some ice in a towel," she offered.
"You know, you really should not do that." He couldn't help himself. Women who looked l
ike that-—who smelled like that
really shouldn't be so naive.
"Do what?"
"Offer to take a strange man into your home." He frowned. What if he'd been up to no good? "It's dangerous. Didn't your mother ever warn you about strangers?"
"Every chance she gets." The princess laughed and held the door open for him. "But you're not a stranger."
"I wouldn't think that carrying your bags for you at the inn would make me less of a stranger." He followed her into the kitchen, his frown deepening.
"You're Laura's brother, Matt." She smiled sweetly and pulled a chair away from the kitchen table, motioning for him to sit.
He did, earning himself a fine view of the back of her jeans as she leaned over to get a dishtowel from a nearby drawer.
"That's right." He nodded, his head filling with the buzz that had been set off inside his head when she had smiled at him.
It was, the scientist in him observed, the same kind of inner ear noise you got when you stayed underwater for too long. Something told him that no amount of head-shaking would shake off this buzz.
He continued to admire her as
sh
e took a white box filled with ice from the freezer and set it on the counter next to
th
e dishtowel, which she opened and layered with ice.
She handed him the towel with one hand and
swung another chair around to face him with the other, saying, "You can prop your leg up on this chair and leave the ice on your ankle for a few minutes. It'll help to keep it from swelling."
"Thanks." As if he hadn't suffered a million injuries over the years, from the sandbox to the football field.
"I made iced tea this morning. It's herbal. Would you like a some?"
"Yes, that'd be great. Thank you." He watched her reach into a near cupboard to take down two amber colored glasses. Without thinking he said, "My aunt always used those glasses for iced tea in the summer. There was a pitcher that matched, and she always made iced tea in the pitcher and served it in the glasses."
The princess smiled as she opened the refrigerator door. "You would be referring to this pitcher?" she said as she lifted it from the top shelf and placed it on the counter.
"Yes." He nodded, pleased in some unexplainable way to see her using things that he himself had used.
"I found it in the closet." She pointed to the tall built-in closets at one end of the room. "I hope you don't mind. Laura said I could use what was here."
"No, I don't mind at all."
She poured the tea into the first glass, which she handed to him, saying, "I hope you like this. It's cranberry with some fresh lemon in it."
He sipped at it. "It's great." It could have been hemlock for all he knew at that moment, held as he was in the spell of those moss green eyes.
"Oh, good, I'm glad you like it." She poured her own glass, then leaned back against the counter.
"So, Laura told you about me, did she?" As he watched the princess move toward the table, he blessed his sister with ever fiber of his body. He owed Laura big time for this.
"Yes, she did."
"What did she tell you?"
"Well, she told me about Artie—actually, I was speaking with her on my cell phone when I drove up and Artie attacked my car." She pointed to the Jeep that was parked near the side of the house.
"Artie attacked your car?"
"Laura said he was just being territorial, this being his place and all. He was jumping up at the driver's side window and snarling."
"I'm so sorry. Did he scratch your door?"
"No, I don't think so." She shook her head and her hair shimmered like gentle waves with the movement. "He was really bouncing more against the glass than he was the side of the car. Scared me half to death at first, though."
"I guess he can be pretty fearsome sometimes. I'm sorry if he frightened you, but he's pretty protective."
"He makes a very impressive wat
c
h-beast."
"So what else did Laura tell you about her little brother?" Matt knew he was flirting. He also knew he couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed it this much.
A look of wariness crossed the delicate features of her face.
"Well, she said that you probably wouldn't be too happy about finding me here
…
"
"
Oh, I know I was reluctant to rent out the farm. I have to admit that I resisted the idea at first. But I've come around to the idea. And Laura's right, we've left the place vacant for longer than we should have. I guess we're lucky that there's been no real damage done to the place." He paused, then asked, "
Laura did tell you about the barn
being broken into last week?"
"Yes. Actually, I was at the inn when Chief Monroe called to tell her abou
t the kids sneaking into the barn
to have a little party."
"Well, then, you know that it was probably time for us to do this. Nothing personal, but I don't think either of us felt comfortable handing over the keys to our mother's family home to a complete stranger, but it had to be done."
"I'd feel the same way, I'm sure—but then again, I'm hardly a stranger, either."
He looked at her blankly, and in that moment, she understood.
"Laura didn't tell you who your tenant is, did she?" she said slowly.
He shook his head. "No. Just that she found someone who could move in right away."
She stretched her hand out to him and he took it, cradling her small palm in his and liking the feeling.
"I'
m Georgia Enright."
For a very long moment, he was certain he had misunderstood. Then with the resignation of one who had known all along that it had been too good to be true, he repeated flatly, "Georgia Enright."
"That's right," she nodded.
"Well then," he said from between clenched teeth
as he dropped her hand unceremoniously, "I guess that explains why Laura neglected to tell me the name of the tenant, doesn't it?"
"Why does it make a difference who I am?" she asked.
He ignored her, choosing to dump the remains of his tea into the sink without bothering to answer.
"Well, I wouldn't get too comfortable here if I were you, Miss Enright," he said without looking at her.
"And why is that?" she asked, her cheeks beginning to flush as her oh-so-carefully controlled temper began to rise.
"Because you won't be staying." For a brief second he considered rinsing out the sink where the tea had splashed against the porcelain, then decided against it.
"Excuse me?" Her hands rolled into fists, her nails biting against her palms.
"I said, you are not staying here. This is as much my house as it is Laura's, and I don't want you here. We'll find another tenant."
"May I remind you that Laura and I have an agreement?" she asked with much more calm than she was feeling.
"Un-agree." He brushed her aside as he limped through the back door, across the back porch, and down the steps.
Georgia's fists found their way to her hips as she marched behind him. "I moved out here in good faith—"
He turned to her and said, "I'd like you to be gone by Wednesday."
"That's ridiculous." She planted both feet firmly
on the ground and stared him down.
"I'
m not going anywhere."