dogs and a handler following them. Was that Colin? He was too far away. I couldn’t tell. Suddenly, my palms were sweaty and my breathing short. I was ridiculously nervous. Either he’d remember me or he wouldn’t. It was no big deal. Right?
I stepped away from the car. My curiosity about whether it was him momentarily pushed aside my nerves, and I moved closer to the platform just to take a better look. Once I knew if it was Colin or not, I reasoned, I could always run back and hide behind the car. So mature, I know.
Halfway to the observation deck, disaster struck. One of the sheep broke away from the flock, heading straight for me. Instead of jumping out of the way, like a perfectly functional normal person, I stood frozen, even as I saw one of the dogs peel away to run down the sheep, who was now bleating in a frenzied terror that seemed perfectly understandable to me.
The sheep’s eyes were wide with fright, and the black-and-white dog looked more like a wolf, with teeth bared, as it closed in on its prey. The sheep sideswiped me, knocking me to the ground as if I were a human shield that would protect it from the dog, which would have bounded past me in hot pursuit if not for the voice of command that broke through the cacophony of the tourists’ gasps and cries, the bleating sheep, and the panting dog.
“Lie low, Seamus, lie low,” the handler I’d seen on the hill ordered, and Seamus dropped to the ground beside me. I glared at him, but he showed not one bit of remorse.
It was then that I felt the cold seep into my hands and knees. I glanced down to see I’d been knocked into a mud puddle. Great. I pulled my hands out of the muck. They were dripping mud and water—I sincerely hoped it was water—and I tried to find a patch of grass so I could push myself up to my feet. I flailed a bit just before two strong hands grabbed me under the arms and hauled me up to standing.
I glanced over my shoulder, and my breath caught. I’d know those blue eyes, those deep dimples, and that particular cowlick in that thatch of dark-red hair anywhere. Colin Donovan!
chapter eight
ALL RIGHT, MISS?” he asked.
I ducked my head, letting my hair fall over my face. For the nanosecond that our eyes met, I didn’t see startled recognition in his gaze, just the polite inquiry of a stranger making certain I hadn’t hurt myself.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Sure, if wet, muddy, and cold is your definition of fine,” he replied. There was laughter in his voice. It was so achingly familiar, I wanted to tip my head back and laugh, too, but a hot case of shyness kept me from looking up. “Thomas, take our guest here to the washroom and ask Mrs. O’Brien if she has a change of clothes for her.”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said.
“That’s not necessary,” I protested.
“I insist,” Colin said. He was talking to the top of my head, as I kept my face averted—like a weirdo—while I brushed at my knees as if I were trying to get clean, although what I was actually doing was avoiding his gaze. I simply couldn’t reconnect with him like this. It wasn’t at all like I had imagined it, and the control freak in me was having a hissy fit of epic proportions. I wondered if I could slink off the property without anyone noticing and walk back to the cottages.
“This way, miss,” Thomas—I presumed it was him, since I had yet to look up—said.
I turned away from Colin and followed the voice. Tall and skinny, with the open face of a boy rather than a man, Thomas looked to be about eighteen, and he smiled at me with kindness and not mockery, which I appreciated.
We left the platform behind, and there it was. The old white farmhouse with black trim and shutters; flower boxes on all the lower windows; and a big garden, barren now, that ran along the side of the house. Beyond that was the barn, where I had learned to shear sheep, and in between the two was the long low-slung bunkhouse, also white with black shutters, just like the big house. It was there we’d all bunked down during our time on the farm. I smiled, remembering late nights of laughter, big breakfasts, and days spent out