"I always do my research."
"Then you know I'm very good at what I do."
"I know you have a reputation for being unconventional."
"Is that what they're calling it now?" His smile widened. At his feet, a large dog of indeterminate breed thumped its tail against the hardwood floor. "This is Fitzgerald. He's part of the package."
Valentina looked at the dog. The dog looked at Valentina. It had the soulful eyes of a creature who had seen too much and judged accordingly.
"Dogs are not permitted in the tasting room."
"Fitzgerald isn't a dog. He's an associate."
"He has four legs and fur."
"Many of my best associates have four legs and fur." Ronan Burke set down his thermos on her immaculately polished bar.Without a coaster. "I'd like to see the vineyard now, if you don't mind."
"I do mind. You're three days early. The guest cottage hasn't been prepared. The?—"
"The vines don't care about guest cottages, Ms. Torres." He was already moving toward the door, the dog padding alongside him. "They care about soil and sun and the hands that tend them. I'd like to introduce myself."
"Introduce yourself. To the vines."
"They're more perceptive than most people give them credit for."
Valentina counted to five in her head. Then ten. Then decided that counting was pointless and followed him outside, because letting a strange Irishman wander her vineyard unsupervised was absolutely not happening.
The October sunwas warm on her face as they walked between the rows of vines. Harvest was mostly complete—they'd finished the last of the Pinot Noir two weeks ago—but the vines themselves were still lush, leaves just beginning to turn gold at the edges.
Ronan Burke walked slowly, deliberately, pausing every few feet to touch a leaf or examine a tendril. Fitzgerald trotted ahead, nose to the ground, following some invisible trail only he could perceive.
"You've been here a long time," Ronan said. Not a question.
"Twenty-three years."
"No. I mean the land. Your family."
"My husband's family owned this property for three generations before I took it over."
"Ah." He crouched down, pressing his palm flat against the soil between the vines. "But you're the one who woke it up."
"I don't know what that means."
"Don't you?" He looked up at her, and for a moment his expression was entirely serious. "This land has been sleeping for a very long time, Ms. Torres. And something—or someone—has been stirring it awake."
"That's very poetic. I prefer data."
"Data." He stood, brushing dirt from his knees. "I'll show you data. But first, I need to find something."
He was walking again, deeper into the vineyard, toward the oldest section—the original plantings from her husband's grandfather. Fitzgerald trotted ahead, nose to the ground, following some invisible trail.
"Find what?" Valentina demanded, following despite herself. "What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Burke?"
He didn't answer.
Fitzgerald started howling.
The sound cut through the afternoon quiet like a knife—a long, mournful note that seemed to resonate in Valentina's chest. The dog had stopped at the end of a row, nose pointed at the ground, whole body quivering.
