“But I’ve come to do the milk—”
“I’ve already done it,” Lachlan said distractedly, his eyes closely watching Rory’s hands at the hoof as he made sure to hold the animal perfectly still in his muscular arms. The lamb’s eyes were wide and rolling, its blunt muzzle parted in its pants and frightened bleats. Finley knew all too well how deceptively strong the animals were.
“Well…the sow?” she offered, and sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
“That, too, lass,” her father said on a sigh and then tossed the trimmers into a wooden tray and stood with a groan as Lachlan slowly turned his body and carefully let the animal find its feet before the gate before turning it loose in the paddock. “Eight piglets in the night. He’d most of it sorted before I was roused.”
Finley looked to the large man again, trying to keep the look of resentment from her face but obviously failing if Lachlan’s smug expression was an indication.
“Well, isn’t he just the pet?” she said through a condescending smile. “I’d like to know what I’m to do all the morn.”
Rory sighed again and looked up to the rough barn ceiling again, this time as if praying for patience.
Lachlan Blair responded instead. “Butter.”
Finley was thrown off her tangent by the odd response. She frowned. “What?”
“It’s the richest of cream from a milking,” he said slowly, “Beaten with a paddle. I like butter with my bannocks. Be a good lass and put it on the table.”
Finley glared at him, and she couldn’t be certain it wasn’t a sneeze, but it sounded very much like her father had muffled a laugh at her expense. He was taking to the friendly banter a bit too well, to Finley’s mind.
“Sure, I will,” she said sweetly. “You just be certain to eat all the sparkly bannocks. They’re a special recipe I’ll make just for you.”
If anything, Lachlan’s grin grew more sensual. “Mmm,” he said with a waggle of his brows. “Butterandcrunchy oatcakes? I’m a lucky man.”
Finley could still hear her father’s laughter echoing in the barn as she stalked back to the house, jerking her shawl tighter around her against the stinging chill and her throbbing pride. But she wore her own conceding grin. And she wouldn’t smell like an animal at breakfast.
It wasn’t an unpleasant way to start the day.
The next several days took on new routines not only for Finley and the farm, but for all of Carson Town. The first project Lachlan had proposed was the repair and expansion of the storehouse, and for the better part of a week, all the able-bodied men in the town were set to hauling rock from the north end of the beach to the center of town with one of the new Blair carts, until the man-made mountain was nearly as tall as the store roof itself, and in arguably better condition.
Sections of the existing wall were rebuilt where hastily erected stone had leaned and buckled beneath years of storms and wind and neglect. The roof was stripped entirely to its bones, many rafters replaced as a new main beam was laid above what was once the rear exterior wall, and supported with new posts dotting the shallow trench where the expanded stalls were being laid. The storehouse would be exactly twice its original size when finished, and was designed in a way that the town could use the building for several purposes. Once the thatching was in place, the women set to work sorting and organizing the bounty of provisions they’d received from the Blairs, and Finley tingled with a foreign pride as the women—both young and old—marveled not only at the windfall Finley’s husband had brought to Carson Town, but at his impressive physical prowess.
More than one of the young girls blushed and giggled when Lachlan passed in the course of his labors, and Finley could hear the whispers of, “the Blair.” No doubt they were retelling the same inflated escapades of Lachlan that Finley had heard as a child.
Finley found herself watching him, too, and when next he passed and caught her eye, giving her a wink, she turned away quickly while her cheeks heated and the girls giggled all the more loudly. Even Ina Carson had a secret smile on her face as she sat on a low stool, weaving wide, shallow baskets of strong, green reeds.
Their family suppers, too, were lively, salted with recounting events and progresses of the day and Lachlan and Finley’s baiting of each other. By the time the storehouse was finished, a fortnight later, Finley realized the tight feeling in her chest she experienced when Lachlan took his leave from the farm every night as disappointment. She dreaded seeing his wide back pass into the darkness beyond the door, being relegated to following her parents to the rear of the house as if she were still a child while her husband escaped to the eerie peace of the old house.
But this night, Lachlan did not stand with a kind word for Ina and excuse himself for the evening. Instead, he withdrew a corked flask from inside his shawl and placed it on the table as Finley cleared the dishes.
“Sure and what have you got there, lad?” Rory queried in a high, admiring tone. “A need for the metal cups, have we?”
“Aye, and we well deserve it after the work we’ve done,” Lachlan said with a grin, and then caught Finley staring at him and gave her another of his blasted winks.
Ina reached for the two prized, stemmed pewter cups displayed on the highest shelf and turned with a wide smile, setting the vessels on the table before wiping each in turn with a corner of her apron.
“I’ve nae had the mull in ever so long,” she said with breathy excitement. “Sure the Blair is good to share it with us after all his labors.”
But Finley knew there was more going on thatthe Blairwasn’t revealing to her parents yet, and her senses were on alert as he uncorked the bottle with a surreptitious grin on his full lips set in the shadow of his stubbled jaw. He poured a splash into each cup and then picked them both up, handing one to Rory and then gestured toward the old man with his own.
“May the road rise up to meet ye,” he said with a sparkle in his eye.
Rory’s face brightened with hesitant surprise. He raised his cup a mite higher toward Lachlan. “May the wind allus be at yer back.”
The two men drank, and then Finley’s father set down his pewter cup on the wooden table with a bang and a gasp. “By God, it’s Irish!” he said in a hoarse voice.
Lachlan’s grin was pushing the wince from his face as he leaned up, already pouring another glug each into the cups. He handed his to Finley.
