“Don’t be daft.” I released her and stepped away, hoping that she’d get in the passenger side and be done with it, but she didn’t move. “Jesus. I didn’t get charged with anything.”
“But you still got arrested for fighting. Again. And what the hell for? What has Dicky McGee ever done to you?”
That she didn’t know was oddly relieving. I’d worked hard to keep our father’s mess from our doorstep, though my mum likely knew more than she let on. “It doesn’t matter what he did—or what I did. It’s done and no one’s pressing charges. Can we just go home and get the stables done? I’ve got to fetch the horsebox home and cadge a spare tyre from somewhere.”
Emma shot me another withering look that belied the anxiety still making her tremble. “The stables are done,” she snapped. “And Dex brought the horsebox home last night. That’s how we knew where you were—he rescued it from the tow company and they said you’d been arrested.”
She turned on her heel and rounded the front of the van. The slam of the passenger door rang out in the empty car park and kickstarted a headache I could’ve done without. Guilt morphed into self-loathing, and the image of my mum fetching my father from the police station ran through my mind on a loop. I wasn’t a raging pisshead, but that aside, was I a better man?
Not today.
I got in the van and turned the key in the ignition. A thousand apologies danced on my tongue, but I kept them in. Emma had heard them all before, and we both knew that words meant nothing in our family. Never had.
A mile away from the police station, she turned in her seat and put her hand over mine. “That mare died, didn’t she?”
I nodded. “Didn’t get to her in time.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it? We should’ve kicked those barn doors in and brought her home as soon as we knew she was there.”
Emma shook her head. “You’d have got arrested for that, too, and charged with theft.”
“She’d be alive, though.”
“Not for long, and nor would our other old nags with you in prison. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Me and Mum—we can’t handle the farm on our own. We need you. And so do the horses we already have.”
My heart knew she was right, but it still hurt. “I wish the RSPCA wouldn’t call us before they had a seizure order. It fucks with my head.”
“Mine too.” Emma’s hand slipped from mine. “But we can’t let it eat us whole. There’s too much at stake.”
Wasn’t there always? I sighed and turned down the narrow lane that led to the farm. “We’ll be okay. If I can’t borrow a tyre for the horsebox, I’ll sell the van.”
“Dex lent us a tyre, but that’s not what I mean. Not really, anyway. There’s always a burst tyre, Joe. Or a broken fence, or a vet bill. When does it end? Mum’s worried we’ll lose some of the older horses if we can’t pay for their care.”
The thought of my wonderful mum—and Emma—worrying about losing our horses made me sick to my stomach. “We’ll find a way. We always do.”
“No, we don’t. We just beat back the flames until the next inferno, and we’re running out of water.”
I snorted. “That’s the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s not a metaphor, dickhead. And even if it was, I’m still right. We’re doomed unless we come up with something to bring more cash in.”
I couldn’t figure out why she was telling me this now, when it had been the case ever since our grandpa had died three years ago. The farm had been his, and the running of it a mystery to all but him. It was only after his funeral that we’d realised it had been in the red for decades. He’d left it to me, and it weighed heavily on my shoulders that things had got even worse ever since. “I don’t have any bright ideas.”
“I know. Which is why I’ve accepted an Airbnb booking for Grandpa’s old room.”
“What?” I swung the van into the yard with a screech. “How? And what the hell is an Airbnb?”
“It’s an app where you can rent rooms out. We talked about this.”
“Yeah, we talked about it, but I never agreed to anything. All Grandpa’s stuff is still in there.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be,” Emma said. “And he wouldn’t want his room sitting there untouched while the farm goes down the toilet.”
“Oh, and you think having a bunch of scuzzy tourists tramping through our house is going to save us, do you?”
Emma gave me the finger and got out of the van. I followed suit and trailed after as she stalked into the house. Our mum—Sal—was in the kitchen making sandwiches for the motley crew of locals who worked on the farm—Toby, Jemima, and Lacey, they filed in, eyeing me and Emma like we were unexploded bombs.
I couldn’t blame them. Emma and I were chalk and cheese but cut from the same stubborn Carter cloth. Our rows were legendary. She threw things, I punched walls, and Sal cried until one of us saw sense. Usually Emma. Sense wasn’t my strong point when my temper burned.
But I was right this time. The farm was inland from the coastal madness that descended on Newquay pretty much all year round, but summer was peak twat season, and I didn’t want random out-of-towners fucking up my house. “It’s not happening, Emma. I don’t care what you’ve done. Undo it, and leave it alone.”
Emma opened a cupboard on the rickety dresser and grabbed a handful of plates. She banged them down on the kitchen table without looking at me. “I’m not undoing anything. And it’s not a bunch of randos—it’s one guy, and he wants the room for the whole summer.”
That stopped me in my tracks. “The whole summer?”
“Yes. Ten weeks. Payment up front. All we have to do is give him a kitchen cupboard and space in the fridge. We don’t even have to feed him.”
“How much are we charging him?”
“Fifty quid a night.”
“What?”
“You heard.” Emma took the heaping plate of sandwiches from Mum and dumped them on the table. “Fifty quid a night for ten weeks, Joe. That’s three-and-a-half-grand. Enough to fix the tractor, the horsebox, and pay some of these goons.”
She gestured around the table. No one looked up from their lunch, apparently disinterested now the storm had passed, and perhaps satisfied in the knowledge that no matter how dire the farm’s finances ever were, they always got paid.
Eventually got paid.
Whatever.
“Who is he?” I demanded. “And why does he want to hole up here for ten weeks? Just because he’s on his own, doesn’t mean he’s not a weirdo.”
Emma sighed and noisily dragged a chair from under the table. “He’s not a weirdo. Do you think I’m some kind of idiot? The app checked his credentials when he signed up, and he sent me a link to his blog when I accepted his booking so I could see who he was.”
“Show me.”
“No. I’m having my lunch. You can have a look later when you’re done being an idiot for the day.”
And that was apparently that. Defeated, I left the rest of them to their lunch and drifted out to the stables. Most of the horses were out in the fields, but a few of the most ancient knackers were in the stalls: Tauna and Carric, Noel, and my oldest four-legged friend, Mani. I whistled through my teeth and he came to his door, his whiskery nose searching automatically for the miniature hay cube treats I always carried in my pockets. I fed him a couple and knocked my head against his solid neck, my favourite place for brooding when the responsibility of the farm overwhelmed me.
But I couldn’t hide in the stables forever. The morning’s work had been done in my absence, but I still had a mountain to climb before I could catch up on the sleep my police station adventure had cost me.
I kissed Mani goodbye and left him to his life’s work of chewing up his manger. First on my list was the broken fence post in the top field. On better days, I’d have driven the tractor up there, but that was broken too.
It was getting dark by the time I made it back to the house. Everyone had le
ft for the day, even Sal and Emma had gone home to the bungalow they shared on the other side of the farm. I fed the cats, picked up the post, and found a covered plate in the oven. Then I took my dinner into the shambolic place we called a living room and ate in the solitary silence I often craved during the day.
Sal’s chicken stew was amazing. The stack of red-topped bills, not so much. I flicked through them with growing unease, glad I’d left them until after dinner. Most could wait a few more weeks before things started getting cut off, but our feed supplier was running out of patience. I checked the farm’s online bank accounts to see how many public donations had rolled in over the last few days. Not enough. It was never enough. There were many things we could live without—nice cars, new clothes, even electricity if we relied on the ancient stove for heat and cooking. But if we couldn’t feed the horses, we were wasting our fucking time.
Depression settled over me in the dull haze I’d come to expect when I didn’t have a pub brawl to distract me. When did it end? When we were homeless and all the horses destroyed?
I took the bills outside and chucked them on the manure heap. When I returned to the darkened living room, I remembered the blog of our impending houseguest. Emma had left it open on the farm’s cracked tablet, but even the damaged screen couldn’t hide the glossy city lifestyle of whoever the hell Holistic Harry was. His blog was crammed full of snazzy fitness shots and close-ups of grass-coloured smoothies, and it was clear that wherever he was coming from was a world away from life on the farm.
A few shots showed him lifting impressive weights in the gym. Despite myself, I zeroed in on his torso, taking in the bunched chest muscles and rippling abs. I’d always had a thing for hench dudes, but despite living in surfer country, it had been a while since a bod as hot as Holistic Harry had passed through my limited orbit. I wondered idly if he had a face to match, but sadly the few images of himself cut off at the neck.
It also disproved Emma’s argument that checking out his blog proved who he was. There was a link to an Instagram account, but that shit was beyond me, so I checked out his biography page. His occupation was listed as a holistic physiotherapist and life coach. It meant nothing to me, but why would it when I knew nothing but the farm? Anything that wasn’t horses—or surfing, back in the day—was a mystery to me, and I liked it that way. The bloke didn’t sound like an axe murderer, but I was still bound to hate him.
Harry
Google Maps cut out on me just past Newquay town centre. I switched to the sparse directions my host had sent me but began to despair as I passed rows and rows of surfer vans and beach shacks, hoards of glitter-faced teenage girls, and the boys in too-tight shorts who trailed after them.
None of it looked anything like the idyllic farmland I was searching for, and I began to wonder if I’d come to the right place. But then the road headed inland and the vibrant seaside community faded out. I turned down a succession of narrow lanes until I finally spotted the hand-painted wooden sign for Whisper Farm.
The lane to the farm was the tightest of all. My car was small, but I was sure it wouldn’t fit and prayed I wouldn’t meet a vehicle coming the other way.
My hands were sweating by the time I pulled up outside the tidy bungalow where I’d arranged to meet Emma Carter, my host for the summer. I parked up and got out, gazing around at the outbuildings and fenced-off paddocks. There was no sign of any stables, though. Perhaps I really had fucked up my navigation.
The front door of the bungalow opened and a dark-haired woman rushed out. I met her at the end of the path. “Are you Emma?”
The woman shook her head. “No, I’m Sal. I’ve been told to send you straight up to the main house to meet Joe.”
“Joe? But I was meant to meet Emma?”
A shadow crossed the woman’s weather-beaten face. “Emma is more of an online person. It’s Joe you need to deal with now you’re here.”
Okaaay. Nothing about this trip had worked out the way I’d expected, and I’d only left London this morning. Of course the woman I’d arranged to meet was MIA. It went hand in hand with the book of notes I’d forgotten to bring and the ominous rattle coming from my car. If I hadn’t spent my whole adult life training myself to think otherwise, I’d have thought the world was against me. “Should I leave my car here? Or is there somewhere to park by the house?”
“Take the car,” the woman—Sal—said. “It rains a lot here, and you won’t want to be traipsing through the mud to fetch it if you want to go out.”
Going out wasn’t in my fun-packed schedule of tying myself to my laptop, but I thanked Sal anyway and got back in my car, making a mental note of her directions to the main house. I followed the dirt track through the fields, passing more paddocks and barns until I came to a small, stone house. A tall figure was waiting for me on the doorstep, smoking a cigarette and watching my approach with a gaze I could only describe as vaguely hostile.
Unnerved, I parked my car for a second time and got out, turning to face the utterly gorgeous man who had deigned to get to his feet. Jesus. They don’t make them like him anymore. I proffered a shaky hand. “Joe?”
A cool, calloused hand gripped mine and shook it briefly. “Right. You the bloke renting the room?”
“Yes. I’m Harry.”
“Holistic Harry?”
I blinked. “If you want to call me by my Instagram handle.”
Joe shot me a dead-eyed glance, which was disturbing as I considered the riot of moody blues colouring his eyes. Vibrant and yet conversely lifeless. Was that even a thing?
“Um,” I went on when Joe said nothing. “I’m here to rent the room? I’d arranged to meet Emma at the bungalow across the fields, but Sal sent me here.”
“Sal’s my mum.”
“She’s nice.”
“I know.”
That he loved his mum enough to agree made me want to run my fingers over the strong, tanned forearms he’d folded across his chest. I adored my own mother and missed her desperately now she’d retired to Spain. It was only that she deserved to live out her days in peace and sunshine that eased the ache in my heart.
“Are you coming in or what?”
I blinked again to find that Joe had stepped back to the front door of the house and opened it. He was staring at me expectantly, and I was just, well, staring.
Idiot. I pulled myself together and followed Joe into the house, trying to break the instant fixation I’d developed with the back of his deeply tanned neck. His hair was inky-dark and stuck up in all directions, like he’d spent all day upside down, but it curled beautifully just below his ears, and the urge to stick my finger in a perfect spiral was so strong I shoved my hands in my pockets.
It had been a while since a bloke had caught my attention like that. The last time had been Angelo, but I’d got over it pretty quick when—aside from the obvious client-therapist issues—he’d talked about nothing but how in love he was with his gorgeous boyfriend. Even now, the light in his eyes whenever he mentioned Dylan stung. I was jealous—not of Dylan, but of them both. I wanted someone to burn for me the way they did for each other, and to feel the same way in return.
At least, some days I did. Others I just wanted to escape the rat race my life had become. Which brought me back to the large stone-floored kitchen Joe had led me to.
“This is the kitchen,” he said unnecessarily. “Ma cleared a shelf for you in the fridge, and you can have one of the cupboards. She cooks enough dinner for an army every night, though, so you’re welcome to eat with the rabble.”
“The rabble?”
“Staff.”
“That’s nice,” I said absently, glancing around the homely space that was nothing like the sleek kitchen in my London flat.
“What is?”
“That you feed your staff. I’m lucky to get a mouldy water cooler where I work.”
“Yeah, well.” Joe scratched the back of his head. For a moment he looked directly at me. “It makes up for the peanuts I pay them.�
�
I’d read up on Whisper Farm before I’d set off. Their simple website had them listed as a horse rescue charity, and for some reason I’d expected something . . . grander, maybe, than the ramshackle farm I’d seen so far. Animal rescue centres in London were slick operations—gift shops, fundraising booths, and marketing spiel on every corner. This place wasn’t like that. There was nothing to indicate that it was a rescue centre. In fact, I hadn’t seen a horse yet.
“Still awake?”
“Hmm?”
Joe was right in front of me. Again, his piercing gaze seemed to penetrate my soul. “I was saying that there’s a bathroom upstairs that you can consider yours. It’s attached to Grandpa’s—to your room, and no one else uses it.”
I didn’t miss his slip. Nor the fleeting grief that crossed his face. And when he showed me upstairs, I saw why. The room I’d be renting for the next ten weeks was spotlessly clean and exactly as it had appeared in the photographs, but there were touches that the lens had missed—the rocking chair by the window, and the old school tobacco pipe on the ledge.
This room had been his grandfather’s.
A stillness came over me as I deposited my bag on the bed. I didn’t know why it mattered that Joe had frozen in the doorway, but it did. Something had happened here—in this room—and it had hurt him. And now I was going to spend the whole summer rubbing it in his face. “I don’t have to take this room, you know,” I said. “I came for the peace and quiet, so if there’s a—”
“Something wrong with the room?”
“No. It’s lovely, I just . . .” Just what? Made an assumption about his emotional attachment to it and figured I could make it all better? “It’s fine. I just don’t want to get in anyone’s way.”
“You won’t,” Joe said shortly. “Emma and my mum live in the bungalow, and no one else lives on-site.”
Whisper (Skins Book 2) Page 2
