Page 8 of Irish Thoroughbred (Irish Hearts #1)

She raised her head and smiled at him. “Aye, that’s just what you would have done, and to what good?

Throwing your money away, taking yourself from the life you’d chosen…

I’d not have had that for a minute, and neither would Aunt Lettie, or Mother and Da.

The farm’s gone, just as they are, and so is Ireland.

Now I have you, I’m not needing another thing. ”

Looking into his eyes, seeing the concern and regret written there, she wished suddenly she had kept her own counsel.

“How is it, Padrick Cunnane, that a fine, handsome man like yourself never took a wife?” Her grin turned impish, and devils danced in her eyes.

“There must have been dozens of ladies willing. Have you never found a woman to love?”

He touched her cheek, giving her a wistful smile. “Aye, lass, that I did, but she chose your father.”

Deep green eyes filled with surprise that melted into sympathy. “Oh, Uncle Paddy!” She flung her arms around him, and Travis turned from the door and walked silently down the stairs.

The next morning the air seemed to sigh with spring, whispering promises of flowers and cool, leafy trees.

To Adelia it brought memories of other springs.

Spring was the time the earth asked to be replenished and grew pregnant with new life.

Her world had always revolved around the earth, its gifts and hardships, its demands and promises.

From the balcony of Paddy’s house she surveyed the land that was Travis’s.

It seemed to stretch on and on with the easy, gentle roll of a calm sea.

Green and brown waves were dotted not with boats but with finely sculptured Thoroughbreds.

It ran through her mind that she had no conception of what lay over the last hill.

This land was still a stranger. From the moment of her arrival in America she had seen little else but what belonged to Travis Grant.

Over the pure, sweet air floated an occasional whinny or the quick call of a bird.

But for this, there was silence. There was no strident call of rooster announcing the new day, no fields turned up waiting to receive seeds, no weeds demanding uprooting.

All at once homesickness washed over her so intensely that she could only shut her eyes and weather the storm.

So much is gone, she thought, and her hands hugged her elbows as if in comfort.

I’ll never be able to go back, never see the farm again.

Sighing, she opened her eyes and tried to shake off the melancholy.

There’s nothing to be done about it; the bridges are burned.

This is home now, and if it’s not really mine, it’s the closest I’ll come.

“Where are you, lass?”

Adelia started slightly as Paddy’s arm slipped around her; then she sighed again and rested against his shoulder. “Back on the farm, I suppose. Thinking about spring planting.”

“It’s a day for it, isn’t it? The air’s cool, and the sun’s warm.” He gave her shoulder a small squeeze, then clucked his tongue as if in regret. “I’ve got to go into town today. It’s a pity.”

“A pity?”

“I was hoping to get some seeds in around the walkway. Thought I might make a flower bed in front of the house, too.” He shook his head and sighed. “Just don’t know when I’ll find the time.”

“Oh, I’ll do it, Uncle Paddy. I’ve plenty of time.” Drawing away, she looked at him with such innocent acceptance of his trumped-up excuse that he nearly broke into a grin.

“Little Dee, I couldn’t ask you to do all that on your day off.” He creased his face into doubtful lines and patted her cheek. “No, it’s too much. I’ll get to it as soon as I find a bit of time.”

“Uncle Paddy, don’t be silly. I’d love to do it.” Her smile was blooming again, chasing the clouds from her eyes. “Just show me what you want done.”

“Well…” He permitted her to argue a few more minutes before allowing himself to be persuaded.

Armed with a myriad of seed packs and a small spade, Adelia stood on the patch of lawn surrounding Paddy’s house and mentally mapped out her landscaping.

Petunias along the walks, asters and marigolds against the house, impatiens for the border.

And sweet peas, she thought with a smile, for the trellis she had asked Paddy to buy.

In the fall, she decided, I’ll plant bulbs, as many as the ground will hold.

Daffodils and tulips. Satisfied with her planning, she began to turn the earth.

The sun grew warmer, and her sleeves were soon pushed past her elbows.

In the distance she could hear the sounds of men and horses going through their daily routine: a shout, laughter, the thud of hooves on dirt.

But soon, lost in her planting, she drifted apart.

Softly, she began to sing a song remembered from childhood, the words soothing and familiar.

The scent of fresh earth eased the ache with which she had awakened.

A shadow fell across her. Twisting her head, she dropped the spade nervously as Travis looked down at her.

“I’ve made you stop. I’m sorry.”

He seemed impossibly tall as he stood over her. She craned her neck and squinted against the sun. It glowed in an aura around his head, and for one fanciful moment she thought he looked like a knight on his way to vanquish dragons.

“No, you just startled me.” Picking up the spade, Adelia told herself she was a fool and began to work again.

“I didn’t mean the planting.” He crouched down beside her, his shoulders brushing hers. “I mean the song. It sounded very old and very sad.”

“Aye, it’s both.” She inched away, carefully patting soil over seeds. “A lot of Gaelic songs are old and sad.”

Folding his legs under him, he sat easily on the grass and watched her. “What’s it about?”

“Oh, love, of course. The saddest songs are always about love.” She lifted her head to smile at him. His face was close, his mouth a breath away. The spade hung suspended in her hand as she only stared, wondering what she would do if the whisper of space was gone and his mouth found hers.

“Is love always sad, Adelia?” His voice was as soft as the breeze that danced around them.

“I don’t know. I…” She felt the weakness growing stronger and tore her eyes from his. “We were talking about songs.”

“So we were,” Travis murmured, then brushed back the hair that curtained her face. She swallowed and began digging with renewed interest. “I never thanked you properly for your help yesterday with Solomy.”

“Oh, well…” Moving her shoulders, she kept her eyes on the ground. “I didn’t do that much. I’m just glad Solomy and the foal are well. Do you like flowers, Mr. Grant?” she asked, needing to change the subject.

“Yes, I like flowers. What are you planting?” His voice was casual as he lifted a package of seeds.

“All different kinds,” she told him, this time able to raise her head and smile. “They’ll be a lovely sight by summer. Your soil’s rich, Mr. Grant; it wants to give.” She squeezed a handful of earth, then held it out in her palm.

“You’d know more about that than I.” Taking her fingertips, he studied the soil in her hand. “You’re the farmer.”

“I was,” she amended and tried to free her hand.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about planting—vegetables or flowers.” He ignored her attempts to pull her fingers away and brought his eyes to hers. “I suppose it’s a gift.”

“It just takes time and effort, like anything else. Here.” Concluding that if she gave him something to do, her hand would be released, she held out some seeds.

“Just drop a few in and cover them up. Don’t crowd them,” she instructed as he obeyed.

“They want room to spread. Now you cover them up and let nature take over.” Smiling, she absently brushed a hand across her cheek.

“No matter what you do, nature has the last word in any case. A farmer knows that here the same way a farmer knows that in Ireland.”

“So, now that I’ve put them in,” he concluded with a grin, “I just sit back and watch them grow.”

“Well,” she said, tilting her head and giving him a sober stare, “there might be a thing or two more, like watering or weeding. These seeds will take quick, and the flowers will pop up before you know it. I’m putting in sweet peas there.

” She pointed across the lawn, forgetting that she still held the soil in her other hand.

“When the breeze comes up at night, the scent will drift through the windows. There’s something special about sweet peas.

They start off so small, but they’ll just keep climbing as long as there’s something to hold on to.

There should be a rosebush,” she murmured almost to herself.

“When the scents mingle together, it’s like nothing else on earth. Red roses, just starting to open up.”

“Are you homesick, Dee?” The question was low and gentle, but her head whipped back around in surprise.

“I…” Shrugging, she bent her face to her work again, uncomfortable that he had read her emotions so clearly.

“It’s quite natural.” He lifted her chin with his hand until their eyes met again. “It’s not easy to leave behind everything you’ve ever known.”

“No.” Moving her shoulders again, she turned away and began to spread marigold seeds.

“But I made the choice, and it truly was what I wanted. It’s what I want,” she amended with more firmness.

“I can’t say I’ve been unhappy a moment since I got off the plane.

I can’t go back, and I don’t really know if I’d want to if I could.

I’ve a new life now.” Tossing back her hair, she smiled at him.

“I like it here. The people, the work, the horses, the land.” Her hand made a wide, encompassing gesture.

“You’ve a beautiful home, Mr. Grant; anyone could be happy here. ”

He brushed a trace of dirt from her cheek and returned her smile. “I’m glad you think so, but it’s your home, too.”