The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (4 page)

"I guess you didn't sleep well?" He shot her an alert questioning glance and Kate shrugged. "Seems like you'd been up for a while when Abigail discovered you 'prowling.' Jet lag?"

He plucked a muffin from the basket. "Maybe, but I'm quite an early riser, anyway. I've been a farmer most of my life."

"And a good one, I hear." Kate watched him over the rim of her mug. "I hesitate to say so, but Phillip told me as much."

Conor winced, lowering the muffin from his mouth. "Sorry. I was too knackered last night to be sensible. You've a right to expect some details about me."

"So, you're going to share a few?"

"Fire away. What do you want to know?"

"That's up to you." Kate pushed back, feeling his eyes follow her as she went to the refrigerator and returned with a ceramic jar of fresh butter. "Listen, respect for privacy is the hallmark of a good Vermonter and a good host." She took a knife from a drawer under the counter. "I try to be both, even though I'll never be recognized as a 'real' Vermonter. I'm a city transplant."

"Which city?" Conor asked.

"New York, born and raised, mostly by my grandmother. My mother died when I was six months old and my father traveled a lot. And married a lot," Kate added with a wry smile.

"Big family?"

She nodded. "Four brothers, one sister. I'm the baby and they find me hopelessly bohemian. Compared to them, I guess I am. I see what you did there, by the way. Are we back to me, now?"

Smiling, he dropped his gaze and studied his hands. "You're good at this. Okay, then. Dingle Peninsula, born and raised. Do you know it?"

Kate shook her head, taking her seat again.

"Well, some say the map of Ireland looks like a sleeping bear cub, its back toward England and its paws facing the Atlantic. The Dingle peninsula is the little claw on its right foot, on the southwest coast. Our dairy farm sits above Ventry Bay, which is shaped a bit like your lake here but a lot bigger, and with the open ocean at one end."
 

For several minutes Conor seemed to lose himself in the description of his home and its surroundings—its geography, the views from the upper pastures, the day-to-day operations and the layout of the farm. Captivated by the poetic lilt of his words Kate could have listened for hours, and was disappointed when he stopped with a self-conscious frown.

"More than you wanted to know, I suppose."

"Not true. It sounds beautiful."

"It was. Well, still is, sure. Anyway, that's where I grew up."
 

"You're going to miss it," Kate said gently.
 

Conor gave a humorless laugh. "I do already. Funny, since at one time I wanted nothing to do with the place. I never wanted to be a farmer. I went off to the Dublin Conservatory of Music when I was seventeen and left my brother Thomas to run the farm, but I ended up back home in the end."

"And was your family a big one?"

"No, not big at all and I'm the last. I had just the one brother. He's dead."
   

Conor took a long sip from his mug, giving her a weary look of appeal. Kate swallowed the reflexive follow-up question and reached for a muffin.

"I made the butter myself. What do you think?"

S
INCE
C
ONOR
HAD
already explored the public rooms on his own—the gift shop near the front door; the living room with its fireplace, Persian rugs and baby grand piano; and the narrow, book-lined library next to the dining room—they began Kate's promised tour with a walk around the grounds. From the screened porch they went out through the perennial garden and down a staircase of widely spaced rocks in the hillside. The stairs ended in a wide grassy plateau running next to the brook, about forty feet below the house. On the opposite bank a tree-covered hill rose from the water line, and further upstream the opening between the two banks narrowed, creating a rock-strewn gorge which could be seen to spectacular effect from above.

"The last farm manager I had started this project," Kate said as they descended to the brook. "He left, so I tackled the job myself."

"Did you?" Conor surveyed the line of boulders embedded in the hill and Kate followed his gaze.

"They don't match, do they? I dragged them over here in a cart and I couldn't manage anything bigger."

The wind picked up as they walked along the bank downstream and crossed back over the meadow toward the road.
 

"This will need to be mowed soon." She gestured at the grass while trying to grab at the ribbons of hair whipping around her face. "I should get the tractor ready."

Fishing in her pockets she brought out a barrette that sprang open and flew from her fingers, landing next to Conor's boot. He picked it up and brushed away a piece of grass before handing it back. His face was so expressionless Kate wondered if she was tiring him out, or maybe boring him.

"You do the mowing as well? With a tractor?" Not waiting for a reply, Conor squatted down to insert a jackknife into the dirt and she bit at the inside of her lip, her concern erased by irritation. Whenever she hinted at any skill with some piece of machinery the skepticism she encountered aggravated her to the point of belligerence.
 

"I'm actually pretty good with the tractor." Kate heard the sharp edge in her voice, but he was rubbing a bit of soil between his fingers, oblivious. "I'm good with a tedder, too. I've even taken a few turns with a gas-powered posthole digger. I suppose you find that hard to believe? Everyone does, until they see me doing it."

"I find it hard to believe you're not dead on your feet," Conor said absently, then squinted up at her. "That was meant as a compliment. How do you stay busy when you're not making butter, hauling rocks and mowing fields? Oh, right. You manage an inn with a five-star restaurant. It's brilliant, the way you keep everything going. I can't imagine the effort."

"Oh. Well . . . thanks." In confusion, Kate fiddled with the buttons of her coat. "How did you know it was a five-star restaurant?"

"I read the brochure in my room." Conor pocketed the jackknife as he rose. His face remained bland, but a tremor shivered along his cheek. "Will we have a peek at your cows, now?"

They crossed the road and climbed up to the barn. The enormous structure, built in the early 1900s, featured a stately ventilator cupola topped by an antique weathervane. A guest had once informed Kate the artifact might be worth more than the barn, the land it sat on, and the cows inside.

They picked their way through the softening mud to the barn's sliding door and Kate's spirits abruptly sank. She'd hoped this quiet stranger would be the answer to a prayer but as she heaved on the door and heard it squeal along its rusty track she realized how unappealing the entire operation probably appeared to him.
 

On the strength of Abigail's reputation in culinary circles the inn and restaurant had turned a profit for the last three years, but the dairy business was a perennial money pit. The farm survived on her regular personal investments and the sporadic contributions of managers who never lasted more than a season. She couldn't rely on Jared Percy much longer, and doubted a man who'd already told her he didn't want to be a farmer would find anything in the barn to entice him. She followed Conor inside, where he'd pulled up short.

"Huh. Wasn't expecting that." Arms crossed, he stared at the large corral on their left. Its design was "bedded pack," a gated rectangular space that allowed the cows to roam freely rather than being confined to stalls. "What's under the sawdust?"

"About eighteen inches of dirt on top of concrete," Kate said.

He released a low hiss. "Bloody hell. That was a job for somebody. Is this all of them?"

"The whole gang. We're milking sixteen right now, and two are getting ready to calve."

 
"No bulls?"

"Only the kind in a syringe." Kate's smile faltered. "And no milking parlor. They go through the gate into the tie stall section to be milked."

Conor was a step ahead of her, heading for the tie-stall area. He peered up at the ceiling and down the aisle at a small tank at the end. "A dumping station? I haven't seen one in years. You've no central milk line either, then?"

"I'm afraid not."

The rudimentary methods in place at her farm were only a few steps beyond milking by hand. Heavy portable bucket milkers were emptied into a "dumping station," a cylinder on wheels with a long hose attached to vacuum the milk into a cooling tank. Kate was no expert, but it didn't take a genius to see this was one of the reasons she had such trouble holding on to farm managers.

"It's not very efficient I guess, and a lot more work."
 

"A little harder on the knees and the back I suppose." Conor strolled down the aisle, giving her a reassuring wink. "But, sure it's only sixteen cows."

"How many cows did you milk?" she asked.

"About seventy-five."

Gently nudging a cow from the gate, he slipped into the pack area. Watching him, Kate felt a twinge of renewed hope. For the first time his guarded diffidence had dropped away and Conor seemed at ease, almost lighthearted. He approached one of the cows and gave her a scratch behind the ears, then crouched beside her. With a light groan, Kate saw this was the cow that had kicked her the previous summer. He probed an area around the front leg.

"Is she hurt?" She reluctantly moved closer.

"A cut just above her shank, not too bad. Have you got some disinfectant?"

She found the medical kit in the milk room but stopped outside the gate, fumbling awkwardly in trying to hand it over to him. Without comment, Conor came to take the box from her. He cleaned and bandaged the wound and then slowly circled the animal, looking for further signs of injury. Finally, he stopped with his arms resting on the cow's back and looked at Kate.

"Are you frightened of them?"

An unexpected emotion shuddered through her, dreary resignation tinged with shame. "Not really—at least, I didn't used to be. I'm not sure what happened. All of a sudden I seemed to make them nervous, and this one broke my arm with one good kick. I'm afraid they don't like me."

"That's hard to believe." Conor smiled. "But maybe they're afraid you don't like them."

"Oh, well." Kate gave a shaky laugh. "I never wanted to be a farmer either, you know. That was Michael's department."

He nodded, serious again. "Your husband."

"Yes. He died almost six years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes."
 

With a startled horror, Kate realized she was going to cry.

4

I
T
HAPPENED
SO
QUICKLY
C
ONOR
HAD
TO
STARE
to make sure he wasn't mistaken. One minute she'd been laughing and the next she was in tears. He swatted the pockets of his jeans uselessly. His old-fashioned brother would never have been caught without a handkerchief. Thomas had always insisted they served as an invaluable crutch when faced with weeping women, while Conor needled that since he wasn't in the habit of making women cry he didn't need them.
 

"Fuck." The oath slipped out on an exhaled sigh. "Kate, are you all right, there? Should we . . . would you like to get some fresh air? Maybe?"

They emerged from the dimness of the barn into bright sunshine, and he followed her to a picnic bench placed along a tree line separating the pasture from an adjoining hay field. Kate sat down heavily. Loose in every joint, the seat skewed dangerously sideways and he braced a hand on the edge before lowering himself with more caution.

Kate had already composed herself, but the changing shade of her eyes—a sort of aquamarine in full sunlight—presented a different kind of distraction, one Conor could neutralize only by rationing his glimpses at them, like a man sipping at something he knows is too strong for him.

"That was . . . weird." She sounded calm and puzzled. After considering a number of responses, he decided to risk none of them.

"I'm not usually like this." She dropped her chin to her chest. "What an idiotic thing to say. "

"It's not idiotic." Conor was grateful to offer a comment that couldn't be misconstrued.

"Have you ever been married?" she asked.

"No. I got engaged once, years ago. Didn't work out. She thought she could do better and I'm sure she was right."

"That's very gallant." She smiled and bent her head, picking at the cracked edge of the bench. "You probably think I hate those cows. I don't, but I can't say I love them, either. He seemed to, though. We found the inn on our honeymoon. How could a painter resist a name like Rembrandt, right?"

"Was he an artist?" Conor asked.

"No, I am . . . was. Am." Her brow puckered. "Michael grew up on a farm in Newfoundland, but he had a falling out with his family and ended up in New York. He had a job selling software systems to restaurants and bars—high tech cash registers, basically. He still liked to call himself a 'simple Newfie farmer.' I met him at a cocktail party my father hosted at La Grenouille. He wasn't an invited guest. He'd come to train the bartender, then he crashed the party to meet me." A private smile touched her lips and quickly disappeared. "Anyway. We came back here for our first anniversary and found out the place was for sale. Eventually, we made an offer and they accepted."

Kate stopped. The sun continued climbing and a bead of perspiration trickled down Conor's back. He removed his jacket and laid it between them. After a moment she reached down to pluck one of the early dandelions dotting the pasture like pinpricks of sunlight.

"A week after his memorial service I went ahead with the closing. We'd already made the arrangements. My family called me crazy, but that's nothing new. I headed up here with a couple of suitcases. Good thing I had them because the rest of my stuff got lost. The moving van never showed up. Ever. Talk about a clean slate. But I don't regret coming here, not for a minute." She rubbed the flower against her lips and gazed at the barn. "I do wonder if keeping the farm was a mistake. I want to believe my motives were noble, but sometimes I think I'm hanging on to these cows just so . . ."