“He was in my garden. He was a little disorientated.”
Peter’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. “I told him to stay here while I moved the sheep,” he finally said. Juliet could hear both guilt and confusion in his voice. “He’s normally very good about staying put when I ask him to.”
“He told me he wanted to go to the pub,” Juliet explained. “But I got him back here and saw to his feet—”
“His feet?”
“He was barefoot,” Juliet explained. “And without a shirt. He must have walked all the way from Bega Farm to Tarn House.”
Peter raked a hand through his hair, his fist clenching on the flyaway strands. “I shouldn’t have—”
“He’s all right, Peter.”
“Let me go check on him.” He moved past her to the sitting room, tracking mud across the kitchen floor. At least, Juliet thought, she hadn’t gotten round to mopping up yet.
A few minutes later Peter returned to the kitchen. He stared at her for a moment, and then his gaze moved to the cleaned kitchen. “Thank you,” he finally said. “You’ve been very kind.”
“It’s nothing.”
Peter didn’t answer; his face was still pale, his expression dazed. Juliet had an urge to hug him, but she doubted that would go over well and in any case she wasn’t sure she could manage it. She felt as jerky and awkward as a wooden marionette; it had suddenly become difficult to know what to do with her arms.
She decided he could use a shot of whiskey instead, and she could, as well. She fetched the bottle of Glenfiddich and poured them both measures before handing one to Peter, who took it almost absently, his gaze unfocused.
“Thank you. . . .”
“Drink up, Peter.”
He took a sip, blinking as the alcohol hit the back of his throat, and then he drained his glass and placed it on the counter. “I won’t be able to manage on my own anymore,” he said, and Juliet shook her head.
“No, probably not. But having a caregiver in could be a good thing.”
“Dad won’t like being meddled with.”
“He was all right with me.”
“But some stranger . . .”
“You could interview someone,” Juliet suggested. “Find someone he likes.”
Peter gave her a bleak look. “There’s not enough money to be choosy.”
Juliet nodded. There was no such thing as a rich sheep farmer, not in Cumbria. “I’m sorry,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say, and she was.
“I’m sorry too,” Peter said. “And I don’t mean my dad. I’m sorry I’ve . . . I haven’t been more forgiving.”
Juliet stared at him, dry-mouthed, before she finally managed to stammer back, “I’m—I’m sorry I did something you needed to forgive.”
And finally,finallyPeter gave her one of those slow smiles she’d missed this last month. “We areet, then, Juliet?”
“We’re areet,” she answered with a return smile. She couldn’t keep from feeling a little twist of sorrow, though, for what they might have had, and missed out on. All because she’d been so bloody stupid. So afraid.
“I should go.” She took a step towards the door.
“Thank you for everything,” Peter said. “I’d drive you back, but—”
“You don’t want to leave your dad. And I have my car. I understand, Peter. And if you need help, you know you can ask me.” She looked at him seriously, almost sternly, because she knew Peter was as proud as he was gentle, and he wouldn’t like asking for help. “If you need someone to come and sit with your dad, or you could bring him up to Tarn House for a change of scenery. I’m around most days.”
“He might like that,” Peter said, which was as close to a yes as Juliet would get. She nodded, and Peter nodded back, and then, reluctantly because she knew she wanted to stay, she left.
