A Funny Thing Happened.... Caroline Anderson
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if he could cope with a cow—except for the fine wool trousers that were going to get hopelessly ruined unless he changed.
‘What about the red thing to tie to a stick?’
‘Ah.’ She ran upstairs, found the red bra and a matching suspender belt, and stuffed them into a pocket. She’d tie them on when he wasn’t looking...
‘Let’s go and get your gear,’ she said, arriving back in the kitchen and pulling on her own coat and boots. She told the dogs to stay and headed out into the blizzard, torch in hand. She picked up a couple of stakes from the corner by the shed, and headed across the yard towards the lane.
He followed her, not more than a few inches away all the way to the car, and so she heard his muttered exclamation when they found it almost totally buried under the snow drift.
‘Where’s the case?’ she asked.
‘In the boot.’ He eyed the smothered boot with jaundice. ‘I suppose I’d better brush the snow off first.’
‘Probably,’ she agreed, and held the torch while he swiped at the light powdery heaps. It reminded her of why you couldn’t make a decent sandcastle with dry sand—it just kept on pouring down. In the end he swore in exasperation and just opened the boot, hauled out a smart garment bag and a monogrammed leather sports bag, and slammed the lid before the entire snow drift slid inside.
And so much for him not being able to afford a car with a radio, she thought, eyeing the BMW logo on the boot lid with jaundice. It probably had a gadget to pick up radio waves by telepathy!
‘I’d better lock it,’ he muttered, pointing the remote control at the car, and Jemima stifled a laugh. City types, she thought, and tried to forget that until just under a year ago she’d been one too.
‘I’ll put these sticks up,’ she told him, and, rummaging in her pocket, she pulled out the underwear, tied it to the sticks and then took one to the front, ramming it in by the side of the bumper where it would stay up and show.
She struggled back past the car, grabbed the other stick and was pushing it into place when Sam took the torch from her hand and pointed it at her ‘flags’.
‘What the—?’
‘Don’t you dare laugh,’ she warned him, but it was too much.
A chuckle rose in his throat, and without thinking she scooped up a handful of snow and shoved it down his miserable neck.
He let out a yell that would have woken the dead and returned the favour, and a huge glob of snow slid down her front and lodged in her bra.
‘Touché!’ she said with a laugh, and backed off, pulling her clothes away from her chest and shaking the snow out.
‘Pax?’ he asked warily, hefting a fresh snowball just in case.
She considered revenge, and then decided she’d get her own back on him in the next few hours anyway—in spades!
‘Absolutely,’ she agreed. ‘I’m cold enough without snow in my underwear. You can drop that.’
‘Not yet—just look on it as insurance,’ he told her, and she flashed the torch at him and caught a lingering smile that transformed his face and did odd things to her insides.
They headed back down the lane, bent over to shelter from the driving blizzard, and made it back to the cottage without incident.
‘I should change into jeans,’ she advised as they shed their outer gear and went back into the lamp-lit kitchen. ‘It can get mucky in the barn.’
‘Mucky?’ he said with suspicion, and she smiled.
‘That’s the one,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I should change in here—I’ll go and dig out some sheets and make up your bed while you do that.’
She pulled off her hat, shook the snow off her hair and ran upstairs with the torch, her socks soundless on the threadbare carpet. She decided to put him in the room over the parlour. After hers, which was over the kitchen, it was the warmest.
It was also right beside hers, which might not be such a good move. She eyed the doors of the other rooms, but they were small, cold and full of boxes that she still had to sort out.
She’d have to put up with his proximity, and not get into any more playful snowball fights with him that might lead on to other things. She was finished with all of that. She didn’t need it—or rangy, sexy men with wicked smiles and attitude. She made the bed up and tried not to think about what he was doing downstairs with those incredible long legs of his.
She tugged the quilt straight, patted the pillows and went back down, taking the torch with her. Again, her socks made no sound, and she arrived in the kitchen to find him crouched down in his designer jeans, scratching the dogs behind their ears.
Amazing.
‘I should watch Jess, she doesn’t like men much,’ she warned.
‘Jess?’
The collie pricked her ears and looked longingly at him.
‘Short for Jezebel,’ she muttered. Faithless mutt. Apart from Sam’s grandfather she’d bitten every other man who’d crossed the threshold since Uncle Tom had died!
‘Come on, let’s go and get this milking started. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll finish. Ever milked a cow before?’
He shuddered. Not a good sign. ‘No, thank God.’ ‘Oh. Oh, well, you’ll learn, I suppose. I wonder how long this power cut will last?’
‘Phone the electricity board. They usually have an idea.’
Stupid. She should have thought of that. If she hadn’t been so distracted by him, she probably would have done it ages ago. She took the torch into the parlour and rang up. It did nothing for her mood.
‘Unknown fault,’ she told him disgustedly. ‘Could be hours—it sounds like a huge area’s out. I thought it was my tree.’
‘Shorting out the whole of Dorset? It must be a hell of a tree.’
She laughed. ‘In its day, maybe. Now it’s just a pain. Come on, let’s turn you into a country boy. Ever seen the film City Slickers?’
He gave her a dirty look. She deserved it. It was a cheap shot.
‘Come on, townie,’ she said more kindly. ‘Let’s see what you’re made of. I’m sure I can find you something safe to do.’
She grabbed her coat, shoved her feet into her boots and picked up the lantern. ‘OK, cowpoke. Let’s be having you.’
He met her eyes without a word, and she saw him pick up her challenge like a gauntlet. Oh, lawks. She was in way over her head.
She tugged her hat down hard and went out into the blizzard...
CHAPTER TWO
HER revenge for the snowball came sooner than she expected. It took Daisy ten seconds to check Sam out and decide he needed butting in the ribs, and he leapt backwards with a grunt and smacked into the wall.
‘Daisy, that’s not nice,’ Jemima chided, and turned her attention to her crippled farmhand. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, eyeing his pinched mouth and closed eyes with concern. After all, it would be such a waste of all that God-sent muscle if he was really injured—
‘Oh, I’m fine, just peachy,’ he wheezed, and his eyes flickered open and speared her. ‘Can’t you—tie her up, or something? In fact, can’t you tie them all up?’
‘I don’t need to. It’s milking time. If I feed them they’ll go and stand in their stalls ready.’
‘Well, feed them then, for heaven’s sake!’ he pleaded, and levered himself off the wall, feeling his ribs cautiously.
Jemima