around the house. “I know how it works.”
“Fiona.”
She stopped at the corner and turned toward him.
“Thank you.” He gestured toward the plastic. “I appreciate your help.”
Before she even realized what she was doing, Fiona shot him a beaming smile. “You’re welcome, Mr. Huntsman.”
“It’s Trace,” he said when she turned away. “My old man was Mr. Huntsman.”
Wondering at the edge in his voice again, she shot him another smile, although this one was a bit forced. “You’re welcome, Trace.”
Chapter Six
“G oddamn it, Gregor, I am serious . You have one week to find Fiona a new place to live,” Trace growled into his cell phone as he stood in the middle of his neatly organized, cobweb-free barn. “Because if you don’t, I swear the next time she goes into town, I will torch my own damn house to get her out of here.”
“What’s the matter, Huntsman, do ye not like having fresh eggs for breakfast?”
“Eggs? You think this is about the chickens? Or the goat? Or the goddamned horse the size of an elephant? It’s about your sister cleaning and rearranging every square inch of my barn. She organized my tools, Gregor. And she found an old scythe and leveled every damned last weed all the way to the street!”
“Aye,” Kenzie said on a sigh. “Women do have a tendency to nest.”
“Nest?” Trace repeated through gritted teeth. He walkedover to look out the side window, only to scowl again when he saw Fiona—wearing his tool belt around the waist of her long coat—nailing a board she’d obviously found during her cleaning spree to one of the rotten paddock posts. “Dammit, Gregor, if she keeps fixing up this place, they’re going to raise my taxes.”
The horse and goat were in the paddock, the horse nuzzling Fiona’s shoulder and the goat, its neck stretched through the fence, trying to reach the leather pouch on her tool belt. Misneach was standing in a small water trough that Trace had never seen before, and the pup kept driving his head under the water, only to surface with a rock in his mouth, which he would then drop into the water again.
Trace’s mood darkened even more when he caught himself noticing how the low-hanging November sun made Fiona’s hair look like spun gold—especially the tendrils framing her flawless face—and how gracefully and efficiently she moved. And he sure as hell didn’t like that he liked coming home to a house that wasn’t empty, with the smell of wood smoke and the aroma of fresh-baked bread assaulting him the moment he stepped out of his truck.
Thank God he kept his door locked; if she ever saw his living quarters, she’d probably have a field day, or more likely a month of field days, cleaning the kitchen and organizing his sock drawer.
“Don’t ye see,” Kenzie said, turning serious. “Fiona’s nesting must mean she’s grown comfortable with you. That’s amazing progress in only two weeks, considering Killkenny got nothing but grief from her.”
“When he was a dragon and she was a hawk, ” Trace growled. “But whenever William or any other man stops by,she still vanishes and doesn’t reappear until they’re gone. And,” he continued when Kenzie tried to say something, “she can’t be comfortable with me, as we haven’t spoken two entire sentences to each other since I agreed to let her keep that puppy. Which,” he continued hotly, glaring at the chickens scattered through the yard, “has turned into twelve hens, a goat, and a horse. And when I stopped in just now to pick up some tools, I found two skunks curled up in some rags in a box on my workbench.”
“They’re orphans,” Kenzie said, the amusement back in his voice. “Fiona called this morning and asked me to go over there and check them out, and they told me they hadn’t seen their mama for many, many days.”
“They told you they’re orphans,” Trace repeated, deadpan, remembering that this was the man he had seen transform into a
“Fiona.”
She stopped at the corner and turned toward him.
“Thank you.” He gestured toward the plastic. “I appreciate your help.”
Before she even realized what she was doing, Fiona shot him a beaming smile. “You’re welcome, Mr. Huntsman.”
“It’s Trace,” he said when she turned away. “My old man was Mr. Huntsman.”
Wondering at the edge in his voice again, she shot him another smile, although this one was a bit forced. “You’re welcome, Trace.”
Chapter Six
“G oddamn it, Gregor, I am serious . You have one week to find Fiona a new place to live,” Trace growled into his cell phone as he stood in the middle of his neatly organized, cobweb-free barn. “Because if you don’t, I swear the next time she goes into town, I will torch my own damn house to get her out of here.”
“What’s the matter, Huntsman, do ye not like having fresh eggs for breakfast?”
“Eggs? You think this is about the chickens? Or the goat? Or the goddamned horse the size of an elephant? It’s about your sister cleaning and rearranging every square inch of my barn. She organized my tools, Gregor. And she found an old scythe and leveled every damned last weed all the way to the street!”
“Aye,” Kenzie said on a sigh. “Women do have a tendency to nest.”
“Nest?” Trace repeated through gritted teeth. He walkedover to look out the side window, only to scowl again when he saw Fiona—wearing his tool belt around the waist of her long coat—nailing a board she’d obviously found during her cleaning spree to one of the rotten paddock posts. “Dammit, Gregor, if she keeps fixing up this place, they’re going to raise my taxes.”
The horse and goat were in the paddock, the horse nuzzling Fiona’s shoulder and the goat, its neck stretched through the fence, trying to reach the leather pouch on her tool belt. Misneach was standing in a small water trough that Trace had never seen before, and the pup kept driving his head under the water, only to surface with a rock in his mouth, which he would then drop into the water again.
Trace’s mood darkened even more when he caught himself noticing how the low-hanging November sun made Fiona’s hair look like spun gold—especially the tendrils framing her flawless face—and how gracefully and efficiently she moved. And he sure as hell didn’t like that he liked coming home to a house that wasn’t empty, with the smell of wood smoke and the aroma of fresh-baked bread assaulting him the moment he stepped out of his truck.
Thank God he kept his door locked; if she ever saw his living quarters, she’d probably have a field day, or more likely a month of field days, cleaning the kitchen and organizing his sock drawer.
“Don’t ye see,” Kenzie said, turning serious. “Fiona’s nesting must mean she’s grown comfortable with you. That’s amazing progress in only two weeks, considering Killkenny got nothing but grief from her.”
“When he was a dragon and she was a hawk, ” Trace growled. “But whenever William or any other man stops by,she still vanishes and doesn’t reappear until they’re gone. And,” he continued when Kenzie tried to say something, “she can’t be comfortable with me, as we haven’t spoken two entire sentences to each other since I agreed to let her keep that puppy. Which,” he continued hotly, glaring at the chickens scattered through the yard, “has turned into twelve hens, a goat, and a horse. And when I stopped in just now to pick up some tools, I found two skunks curled up in some rags in a box on my workbench.”
“They’re orphans,” Kenzie said, the amusement back in his voice. “Fiona called this morning and asked me to go over there and check them out, and they told me they hadn’t seen their mama for many, many days.”
“They told you they’re orphans,” Trace repeated, deadpan, remembering that this was the man he had seen transform into a
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