Wild Irish Rose

by Ava Miles

  “Wonderful,” Clara said, petting Boru, who nuzzled to her side. “Hargreaves isn’t fond of animals, but I’ve always liked them.”

  “You don’t have to clean up after them,” Arthur said. “All right, my bones are aching, and I need to sit after that trip.”

  “What you need is a good walk,” Clara said, “but we’ll see to it after we settle in.”

  Cian appeared, a happy smile on his face. Becca introduced him to the group.

  “If you’ll take this lovely couple to the cottage, Becca,” Cian said, “I’ll see this gentleman to his room.”

  Becca met his gaze. She hadn’t been out of the house since Trevor Merriam had appeared two days earlier. The rain had been her excuse for not walking Boru, although they’d all known better. She knew a good prodding when she saw it, but he was right. Perhaps this couple would help give her the push she needed to take the thirty-five steps out to the cottage.

  “Wonderful,” she said, infusing cheer into her voice. “Arthur and Clara, please follow me. We’ll have to get a little wet again if that’s all right.”

  “Contrary to some people’s opinions,” Arthur said, “I don’t melt. Not sure about Clara here.”

  Becca almost laughed out loud at the Wicked Witch reference to The Wizard of Oz. “We’ll be fine.”

  She took them through the house to the back door, stopping to distribute umbrellas.

  “The house is beautiful,” Clara said, tucking her arm through her husband’s after they decided to share an umbrella. “Has it been in your family since it was built?”

  “Yes,” Becca said, hoping the reminder of her ancestry would bolster her courage. “Six generations back.”

  Boru gave a bark when she reached for the door latch, as if to reassure her. Her heart didn’t pound like this when she opened the front door for guests.

  Open the door. All you have to do is take that first step. Then another and another still. You can do it.

  She pulled on the door handle, aware she’d stopped breathing but unable to draw breath. Boru nudged her backside, and she stretched her foot out like a ballet dancer might and touched the wet stones of the path outside. One.

  “Everything all right?” Arthur asked.

  She turned her head quickly to meet his gaze and flashed what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I hate getting wet, is all. Don’t mind me.” She hated to lie, but she figured God would forgive her a white fib. She didn’t share her agoraphobia with anyone, although some in town had likely guessed.

  Raising her umbrella, she clutched it as if it were a lifeboat on the Titanic. Two.

  “You needn’t get wet on our account,” Clara said.

  Part of her craved the reprieve. It would be so easy to give in. To direct them to the cottage without leading them to it. “No, I’d love to show it to you. If it’s not too personal of a question, how did you two meet?” She made herself take that third step and then the fourth.

  The couple started walking next to her, and Boru nuzzled her clenched hand. She’d forgotten the leash in her anxiety, but he would never leave her side.

  “We knew each other when Arthur came to New York City for college and worked at The New York Times. He thought I was a brat, and back then, he was much too driven for me. He returned home to Dare Valley to start his own newspaper and got married. I stayed in New York and did the same. Our spouses passed away, and we reconnected through my nephew. It’s been a surprising and wild ride, especially now that this one finally retired. At eighty, no less.”

  Becca focused on feeling the path under her feet, counting silently. “Eighty? You’re pulling my leg. Arthur, you don’t look a day past sixty.”

  He laughed loudly, the sound helping her loosen her grip on the umbrella. “You must not have a lot of old people for guests. Sixty? You made my day, Ms. O’Neill.”

  “Becca, please,” she said, listening to the squish of wet grass under her feet when she took those first couple of steps off the stone path. “One of my ancestors purposefully left the path to the cottage unfinished, hoping to confuse his oftentimes inebriated cousins whom he let live here for free for a spell. They overstayed their welcome, you see.”

  “I need to do something like that with Hargreaves,” Arthur said, laughing.

  “Oh, you’re too terrible, and I don’t know why I love you so,” Clara said. “Becca, are those alpacas I see?”

  She steeled herself to look away from the ground for a moment and let her gaze travel to their pasture off in the distance. They still looked funny to her, what with their long necks, but she loved them. They were hers, after all, and part of her new plans. “Yes, we have sheep and rabbits as well. We’re going to be making some of the finest Irish yarn around pretty soon.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Clara said. “I love a woman with a head on her shoulders. Arthur, we should get you a good Irish sweater while you’re here. He’s always complaining about the cold.”

  “I can make him one, if you’d like,” Becca found herself saying. She’d knitted items for special guests before. Although she usually didn’t make the offer so soon, something about these two had charmed her. “I love to knit, and I have some new yarn I’d like to try out.”

  Arthur patted her gently on the back. “I’d love to be your guinea pig.”

  She finished counting the steps to the cottage and breathed a sigh of relief as she lowered her umbrella and opened the door for them. Boru stayed where he was, knowing better than to walk into the cottage. “Welcome to Honeysuckle Cottage.” She stepped inside quickly, the walls of the cottage immediately calming her. “The name was from another ancestor.”

  “Sounds like your ancestor liked the ladies,” Clara said cheekily. “Goodness, Arthur, isn’t this the loveliest spot on earth?”

  The sitting room was done in creams and gold, and roses and wildflowers spilled out of crystal vases arranged on the antique furniture she’d used to decorate the cottage. “The bedroom is to the right, and over to the left is a lovely little kitchen nook for having a cozy dinner or enjoying a spot of tea.. There’s a house phone on the desk in the small office off the bedroom. Please call us for anything you might need. We don’t answer after nine, but we’re ready to help at seven in the morning. Oh, and there’s bottled water and some snacks in the fridge and an electric kettle and some fine Irish teas in the kitchen.”

  “It sounds delightful,” Clara said as Arthur stuck the umbrella in the stand.

  Becca watched as he turned around and gave his wife a golden smile.

  Oh, to be loved like that, she thought.

  “I’ll leave you be,” she said, joining Boru outside and reopening her umbrella.

  “Oh, Becca, I almost forgot,” Clara called, leaving her husband’s side. “My nephew will be joining us for dinner, so we’ll need a table for four tonight if you have it.”

  Oh, they had family here? Now their honeymoon destination made more sense. She always wondered what drew people to this part of the country, but she figured they’d tell her if they wanted her to know.

  “If he’s your nephew, I’m sure he’ll be wonderful. We’ll look forward to meeting him and serving you in the dining room. See you then.”

  She closed the door and leaned back against it. Boru pressed his nose to her thigh, grounding her. Retracing her steps was never as hard as taking those first ones, she’d discovered. The trick was to look at how far she’d come. If she’d done it once, she could do it again.

  She let her gaze follow the dark, wet grass to the rain-splattered stones leading back to the main house. Another thirty-three steps and she’d be back home.

  As she took that first step, she felt a tide of courage course through her body. Nothing was going to stop her from walking back to the house. Cian had been right to press her.

  Nothing was going to make her hole up in her house for days on end again, not after all the progress she’d made. Certainly not the Merriams’ continued offers. She took each step more quickly t
his time, feeling stronger with each stride.

  Yes, it was important to remember how far she’d come.

  Chapter 5

  Trevor’s trek to the local pub hadn’t produced much useable information about Becca O’Neill. In fact, the townspeople had seemed downright hostile. Sure, their turned-up noses and cold-shoulder disregard wouldn’t have felt notable somewhere like New York City, but this was Ireland, the country where almost everyone was friendly. Or so he’d found. Some would say it was a stereotype, but he’d traveled enough to know better. The Irish were some of the most welcoming people he’d ever met, one of the reasons he’d moved to Dublin.

  But not here, it seemed, and he had a notion someone had spread the word about who he was and why he was in town. They were closing ranks around Becca O’Neill and making sure he knew what they thought of his plans. And they didn’t even know the full scope yet.

  One of the barmaids had loose lips, at least, and she’d waxed poetic about how much Becca did for the community, especially with this new venture of hers.

  The woman had sheep now? And rabbits and alpacas? He hadn’t noticed any animals on his brief visit, and the information wasn’t in Connor’s file. According to the barmaid, Becca was planning to make and dye her own yarn. He’d spent enough time in Ireland to know its knitwear was rightly famous.

  But why raise the animals when it was far easier to buy wool for dyeing from other sources? She liked animals obviously, but sheep? They were a nuisance if you asked him. He hated shooing them out of the road when they crossed in front of his car on country roads. They never listened.

  A woman with this herd wasn’t going anywhere. And she likely needed all four hundred acres with that kind of herd. He decided to call Connor with an update—it was early morning in California, but Con would be up—and sat on his undersized bed as he tapped his brother’s number.

  “I hope you have good news for me,” Connor said the minute he answered.

  “Do you ever say ‘yo’ or ‘hello’ when you answer the phone, or is it just me you’re cranky with?” Trevor asked.

  “I’m too busy to be cranky,” Connor said. “Hello, Trevor, how’s your day been?”

  He snorted. “Like you care. Look, this isn’t going to be a quick deal. I discovered Ms. O’Neill’s just bought a bunch of sheep and other animals for her own Irish yarn business, which is likely why she turned down my offer to buy only half her land.”

  “Half? You’re already weakening our negotiating position?”

  “The inn’s been in the family for hundreds of years, Con,” he said. “There’s no chance she’ll sell it all. Also, from the vibe of the pub, I don’t think we’ll have any allies in town. In fact, I think we could have some problems.”

  “Music to my ears,” he said dryly.

  Their operations didn’t need community buy-in, but everything seemed to go easier when they had it. “As you know, not everyone believes in oil and gas ventures in Ireland. We’ll have to bring more to the table than our usual community outreach. I could talk about how Merriam Enterprises is into renewable energy until I’m blue in the face, and it won’t do much to assure these locals.” The residents would balk at the idea of their quaint town expanding and changing. He just knew it.

  “Thanks for the depressing update. I’m working my ass off with the Irish oil and gas authorities to get them to make an exception and let us drill on land.”

  “I told you it wouldn’t be easy,” Trevor said.

  “If it were easy, we wouldn’t be in this business,” Connor said.

  “As lead negotiator and board member, this is where I need to ask if you’re really sure you want to continue.” He had to say it. “We’re running into obstacle after obstacle with this one. I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”

  “Becca O’Neill is the only real obstacle, and convincing her is your job. Do it! I don’t want to hear any more excuses.”

  That shut him up. Connor never talked to him like that.

  “I hear Uncle Arthur and Aunt Clara are visiting. Flynn mentioned you set them up to stay at the O’Neill place. Good thinking.”

  He took a sip of his cold coffee, hoping to remove the bitterness in his mouth. “I’ve been known to have a few good ideas over the years. I’m meeting them shortly for dinner. Hopefully Becca won’t kick me out. Of course, Aunt Clara might kick me too if she finds out I used her and Uncle Arthur.”

  “Remind her she’s a Merriam and that we need her help,” Connor said.

  As if. “You call her and tell her that. I know J.T. has fallen for her completely, but I’m still a little scared of her.”

  “J.T. thinks she might be able to outdrink you,” Connor said. “Now that I’d love to see.”

  Another challenge. No one could outdrink Trevor, except one wisp of a Chinese sailor he’d come across on a trip to Hong Kong. As far as Trevor was concerned, the man had been half-human. “I’ll let you know if we have a drinking showdown. I need to run. Hey, maybe take an hour and get a massage. You need some downtime.”

  He didn’t often comment on his brother’s working habits. All the Merriams worked hard; it had been bred into them, but Connor was the most driven, and he’d been working almost nonstop since Corey’s death.

  “You fussing like a mother hen? Make the deal, Trev. We need this one.”

  No, he thought. Connor needed it. Was this the only way he could help his brother assuage some of the guilt he felt for Corey’s death? God help him. He felt like it would be a deal with the devil.

  “I always give you my A-game,” Trev said. “See you, bro.”

  “You too,” Connor said before hanging up.

  Trevor tapped the table, looking for a solution to their problem. Usually their goals were clear and focused, but emotion had bled into this one.

  It didn’t help that he was attracted to Ms. O’Neill. He walked to the mirror in the run-down bathroom and ran a hand over his jaw. Would shaving a second time be too obvious? Hell, he was being a moron. It wasn’t like she’d notice, and even if she did, it would be better if she hadn’t. Connor would kick him in the ass if he knew what he was thinking right now.

  He settled for slapping on more cologne and walked out to the bedroom again. The cleaning crew hadn’t made his bed, and he was beginning to wonder if the owners of this bed and breakfast were in league with the rest of the chilly townspeople. No one could make scones that bad unintentionally, could they? His stomach grumbled. He needed a good meal, or he was going to have to buy some prepared food at the market.

  As he left The Stag’s Head, he was sure one of the cleaning women gave him a nasty look. That confirmed it.

  On his way to The Wild Irish Rose, he called Aunt Clara and arranged to meet her and Uncle Arthur at their cottage for cocktails before dinner. She’d described how to find it on foot from the parking lot, so he parked and strode in that direction, taking in the various greens on the land before him. Until he’d come to Ireland, Trevor had never known there were so many shades of green, everything from the green you’d find in a spring leaf to the steely emerald of Irish moss. The sea was crashing in the distance, the gray-blue waters plowing into the coastline. A large tangerine sun was slowly descending from the sky to the sea. Miles of oil lay under it all, and no one would know it from this scene. He took a moment to enjoy the view. My God, Becca O’Neill really did have a fine stretch of land. If he weren’t on the move so much, he’d want a place like this on the coast.

  Something wet touched the back of his neck, and he jumped. Turning around, he almost let out a girly scream. A brown alpaca with a tangled brown mess over its big eyes was standing two feet from him, and while he didn’t know anything about the breed, it seemed to be smiling at him.

  “Shoo,” he said to the animal.

  He stepped back quickly to avoid another overfriendly lunge, and when he reached his hand out to stop its progress, it licked his palm.

  “Stop that!” he cried. “Go away.”

  It
lunged at him again, humming in a way that made his short hairs stand up, so he tried out an Irish phrase in his desperation to move it along. “Feck off.”

  He heard someone laughing and turned to see the woman who’d brought the scones the other day, Aileen. Great. He’d probably get kicked out before he made it to the cottage.

  “She seems to like the look of you,” the woman said. “I remember thinking the same thing until I realized who you were. I’m Aileen. We met the other day.”

  “I remember,” he said, stepping back again as the alpaca tried to rest her head on his shoulder. “This is awkward. Can you call this animal off?”

  “She’s not a dog,” Aileen said, laughing softly. “She seems to be sweet on you.” Her expression shifted to a more serious look. “I like to think animals know the true nature of a man. What are you doing here, Trevor Merriam?”

  “Yoo-hoo,” he heard Aunt Clara call from a distance away. “Trevor, did you get sidelined by the alpaca? Come here and kiss your auntie.”

  Kiss his auntie? Words he’d never imagined hearing from her. Still, the interruption was welcome. “My aunt and uncle are staying here for their second honeymoon.”

  “You’re the nephew?” She shook her head. “Well, if that isn’t a Janey Mack. They’re lovely people. Are you really a hardline businessman?”

  He lurched out of the way when the damned alpaca tried to put her head on him again. “Yes, of course. I need to go to my aunt, if you’ll excuse me. Stop that!”

  “Her name is Buttercup,” Aileen said. “We’ll see you at dinner with your family, Trevor Merriam.”

  She strode off, and he was left staring at the animal. Its big brown eyes were crinkled at the corners, and from the way its mouth had turned up in a human-like smile, he feared Aileen could be right. Buttercup might have a crush on him.

  The animal made a loud humming sound and cocked its head to the side.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” he said.