he’s worried about you.”
“Because I’ve asked him for a few favors lately?” Brennan twisted the wrench over a screw, cursing when it fell out of his hands with a clatter. “I’ve run this farm my whole life, all by myself. Lockley’s don’t rely on other people to do their work.”
“I don’t think he’s worried about helping you with the work,” Tara said gently, picking up the wrench again and putting it back in his hands. “He’s worried about you. That you might be in pain. He doesn’t want you to be in any pain.”
A barn cat mewed and rubbed up against Brennan. He brushed his good hand idly over its soft fur. “Did he tell you to come over here and talk to me?”
“No,” Tara assured him. “In fact, I think he’d be pretty upset if he found out.”
“Why?”
“I get the feeling Dominic doesn’t like people meddling.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I want to help you.”
Brennan glanced up suspiciously. “How?”
“Why don’t we go inside where it’s warm and I’ll explain.”
“Are you inviting yourself into my house?”
“Yes. I think I am.”
“Being that it’s my house. And my farm. I’ll be the one doing the inviting.” Brennan studied her from his spot on the ground. “And right now I don’t have the time to entertain a guest.” Picking up the wrench, he took another try at the screw, twisting with all his might. “God damn it!” he cursed as it fell out of his hands.
Tara dropped to her knees, concern knitting her brow. “Mr. Lockley?”
“What?”
“How much pain are you in?”
“I’m fine,” he said, gruffly, trying to push to his feet. But the weight shifted into his bad hand and he staggered. Tara reached for his arm, but he jerked away from her, pulling himself up by the seat of the tractor. Brushing the dirt from his palms onto his pants, he turned and glared at her.
Tara stepped back, studied the older man’s scowling face. “You didn’t want me to see that, did you?”
“You didn’t see anything,” Brennan countered, taking a step back and wincing when his knee wobbled.
Tara watched him struggle, but when he tried to put weight on his foot and it wouldn’t hold, she caught his big arm in hers, and helped him into the house despite his protests.
“I didn’t invite you in here, you know,” Brennan muttered, as she helped him into a rickety chair at the wooden table.
“I know,” Tara said. “But now that I’m here, why don’t you tell me how bad it really is?”
Brennan folded his calloused hands on the table, regarded her silently.
“Does it hurt this much all the time?”
“No.”
“Just in the morning?”
He was silent for a long time, then answered finally. “Sometimes it hurts a little at night.”
“Sometimes?”
“Sometimes,” he repeated, stubbornly.
She’d be willing to bet he hurt every night. Filling a glass with water, she brought it over to him and then walked back to the stove. “How long has this been going on?”
He took a swallow of the water. “Can’t remember.”
Tara glanced over her shoulder.
“Okay,” he grumbled at her raised eyebrow. “A couple years.”
“I thought as much,” Tara said, unzipping her pack and crumbling petals into a large pot, filling it with water and setting it on the heat to boil.
“What are you doing?” Brennan asked, suspiciously.
“Making tea.”
“What kind of tea?”
“Herbal tea.”
“Were those rose petals you just pulled out of that bag?”
“Yes.”
“Never heard of putting rose petals in tea before,” Brennan muttered.
“Trust me,” Tara said, rustling around in Brennan’s cupboards and pulling out a bottle of cooking oil. Pouring it into a mug she crumbled burdock and lavender leaves into the mixture and swirled it around until the herbs floated to the bottom, filling the room with their scent.
Brennan eyed her, warily. “Now what are you doing?”
She
“Because I’ve asked him for a few favors lately?” Brennan twisted the wrench over a screw, cursing when it fell out of his hands with a clatter. “I’ve run this farm my whole life, all by myself. Lockley’s don’t rely on other people to do their work.”
“I don’t think he’s worried about helping you with the work,” Tara said gently, picking up the wrench again and putting it back in his hands. “He’s worried about you. That you might be in pain. He doesn’t want you to be in any pain.”
A barn cat mewed and rubbed up against Brennan. He brushed his good hand idly over its soft fur. “Did he tell you to come over here and talk to me?”
“No,” Tara assured him. “In fact, I think he’d be pretty upset if he found out.”
“Why?”
“I get the feeling Dominic doesn’t like people meddling.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I want to help you.”
Brennan glanced up suspiciously. “How?”
“Why don’t we go inside where it’s warm and I’ll explain.”
“Are you inviting yourself into my house?”
“Yes. I think I am.”
“Being that it’s my house. And my farm. I’ll be the one doing the inviting.” Brennan studied her from his spot on the ground. “And right now I don’t have the time to entertain a guest.” Picking up the wrench, he took another try at the screw, twisting with all his might. “God damn it!” he cursed as it fell out of his hands.
Tara dropped to her knees, concern knitting her brow. “Mr. Lockley?”
“What?”
“How much pain are you in?”
“I’m fine,” he said, gruffly, trying to push to his feet. But the weight shifted into his bad hand and he staggered. Tara reached for his arm, but he jerked away from her, pulling himself up by the seat of the tractor. Brushing the dirt from his palms onto his pants, he turned and glared at her.
Tara stepped back, studied the older man’s scowling face. “You didn’t want me to see that, did you?”
“You didn’t see anything,” Brennan countered, taking a step back and wincing when his knee wobbled.
Tara watched him struggle, but when he tried to put weight on his foot and it wouldn’t hold, she caught his big arm in hers, and helped him into the house despite his protests.
“I didn’t invite you in here, you know,” Brennan muttered, as she helped him into a rickety chair at the wooden table.
“I know,” Tara said. “But now that I’m here, why don’t you tell me how bad it really is?”
Brennan folded his calloused hands on the table, regarded her silently.
“Does it hurt this much all the time?”
“No.”
“Just in the morning?”
He was silent for a long time, then answered finally. “Sometimes it hurts a little at night.”
“Sometimes?”
“Sometimes,” he repeated, stubbornly.
She’d be willing to bet he hurt every night. Filling a glass with water, she brought it over to him and then walked back to the stove. “How long has this been going on?”
He took a swallow of the water. “Can’t remember.”
Tara glanced over her shoulder.
“Okay,” he grumbled at her raised eyebrow. “A couple years.”
“I thought as much,” Tara said, unzipping her pack and crumbling petals into a large pot, filling it with water and setting it on the heat to boil.
“What are you doing?” Brennan asked, suspiciously.
“Making tea.”
“What kind of tea?”
“Herbal tea.”
“Were those rose petals you just pulled out of that bag?”
“Yes.”
“Never heard of putting rose petals in tea before,” Brennan muttered.
“Trust me,” Tara said, rustling around in Brennan’s cupboards and pulling out a bottle of cooking oil. Pouring it into a mug she crumbled burdock and lavender leaves into the mixture and swirled it around until the herbs floated to the bottom, filling the room with their scent.
Brennan eyed her, warily. “Now what are you doing?”
She
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