Summer At Willow Tree Farm: The Perfect Romantic Escape. Heidi Rice

*

      ‘You are not driving. Are you bonkers?’ Ellie marched ahead of Art across the car park and ignored his beyond stupid suggestion.

      ‘Why not? I’m fine now. And I’m a safer driver than you are.’

      ‘You’re not fine.’ She clicked the locks with the key fob and flung open the door. Settling in the driver’s seat, she waited for Art to climb in on the other side. The mulish expression on his face didn’t bother her as much as the white bandage on his hand which covered thirty-two stitches. She knew this because she had counted every single one.

      As he wrestled with the seat belt with his right hand, she remembered that he was left-handed. She turned on the ignition and left him to struggle with the seat belt on his own.

      ‘I can drive one-handed,’ he said. ‘And even one-handed, I’ve got a better chance of getting us back alive than you have.’

      ‘Hardly. You’ve been shot full of enough painkillers to fell an ox, plus driving will only open up the wound.’ She crunched the gears, shifted into reverse, and wheeled into a three-point turn. Art gripped the dash like an old woman. She ignored the not-so-subtle hint. ‘And even though that would totally serve you right,’ she added, ‘the good Dr Grant’s just wasted twenty minutes stitching you up.’ Twenty minutes that had felt like twenty years. ‘And I’m not going to let you undo all her hard work just because you’re an idiot.’

      A dark brow hitched up his forehead. ‘Since when did you become my keeper?’

      ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be resigning the position as soon as is humanly possible.’ With that in mind she accelerated down the country lane that led to the town’s main street. ‘And anyway, this is my car, so you don’t get a say.’

      He didn’t reply, finally having conceded defeat. Feeling magnanimous in victory, she eased her foot off the accelerator as they headed over the speed bumps on the outskirts of town, and took her time getting onto the roundabout, waiting for a space big enough not to require the need to play chicken with any articulated lorries.

      They’d been driving along the A30 for a good ten minutes, before he finally spoke again. ‘Thanks for helping me out. The cut was worse than I thought.’

      The admission sounded weary and grudging.

      ‘Just a tad,’ she said, unable to resist a smile at his frown.

      They drove on, the road passing the newbuilds on the outskirts of Gratesbury to wind through a landscape of fields banked by high hedges.

      His eyelids kept drifting to half-mast and then popping open again. She remembered Josh doing the same thing as a toddler, when he was exhausted but didn’t want to go to bed. The thought made her think of Art as a boy, and the terror on his face when they’d walk into the unit.

      ‘Why didn’t you tell me you have a phobia of hospitals?’

      His eyelids jerked open. He stared at her, the slow blink making her aware of exactly how long his lashes were.

      He had the most amazing eyes, the tawny hazelnut brown embedded with flecks of gold. The bloodshot quality added to the glittery sheen of the low-grade temperature the good Dr Grant had told her to keep an eye on – because, at some point during today’s drama, she had become Art’s keeper.

      ‘I haven’t got a phobia. I just don’t like them much,’ he said, but his gaze flicked away as he said it and she knew he was lying.

      How about that? She could still tell if Art Dalton was or was not speaking the truth. The way she had all those years ago.

      It was a heady feeling, like discovering a superpower she thought she’d lost.

      She drove down the track that led to the farm, recalling their exchange in the treatment room before Dr Grant had returned to give Art his thirty-two stitches.

      OK, maybe she wasn’t totally immune to Art’s non-charms. But there would be no more flirting, with or without abs. Handling the fallout from one disastrous relationship was more than enough incentive to keep her libido on lockdown for the next decade, let alone the rest of the summer.

CHAPTER SEVEN

      Driving into the farmyard, with Art dozing in the passenger seat, Ellie spotted a woman busy loading a muddy four-by-four while a young girl danced around beside her.

      Art jerked awake as Ellie braked. As he hauled himself out of the car, the woman rushed towards them, the little girl bouncing behind her.

      ‘Art, what the hell happened to your hand?’ The woman’s eyebrows drew together. Tall and slim, with her long mahogany-coloured hair tied back in a ponytail, she looked elegant even in an ensemble of faded jeans, a baggy T-shirt and wellington boots.

      ‘Just had a disagreement with the rotary blade.’ Art lifted his bandaged hand as if to prove it was still attached. ‘It’s sorted.’

      ‘Give or take thirty-two stitches,’ Ellie added.

      Art shot her his stop-being-a-drama-queen look.

      ‘Thirty-two stitches! In one hand?’ The woman crossed her arms over her chest, her concern escalating. ‘That sounds like some disagreement.’

      ‘Mummy, has Art lost his fingers?’ The girl clung to her mother’s leg, her eyes widening with a combination of fear and fascination. A puff of wild red hair surrounded a face covered in freckles, making her look like Little Orphan Annie after she’d been electrocuted.

      ‘No, sweetie, they’re still there,’ the woman murmured patting the child’s head. ‘Just about,’ she added under her breath.

      Art crouched down and wiggled his fingers inside the bandage. ‘See, Melody, it’s all good.’ Straightening, he swept a sharp look over Ellie and Melody’s mother. ‘Stop scaring the children, ladies.’ He lifted the bag of medication out of Ellie’s hand. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ He rubbed the girl’s hair. ‘Bye, Melly,’ he said, then headed across the yard and disappeared behind the farmhouse.

      What work did he think he was going to be doing on a farm with an injured hand? Ellie wondered, but stopped herself from shouting after him. Time to relinquish her responsibilities as Art’s keeper.

      ‘There goes the most stubborn guy on the planet,’ remarked the woman standing beside her.

      ‘You have no idea,’ Ellie murmured, the stomach muscles that had been knotted tight ever since Art had raced into the kitchen dripping blood finally starting to relax. ‘I had to practically kidnap him to get him to the doctor’s.’

      ‘Why does that not surprise me,’ the woman said, before unfolding her arms and offering Ellie her hand. ‘Hi, Tess Peveney, I’m Mike’s wife. You’re Dee’s daughter?’

      Ellie nodded, returning the firm handshake.

      Mike had to be the red-headed guy she’d met the day before. Melody had obviously inherited her father’s mercurial hair.

      ‘Ellie Preston,’ she introduced herself, her maiden name coming out more naturally this time. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

      ‘You too. Sorry I missed the welcoming party yesterday. I was busy suffering the tortures of hell in Gratesbury. Otherwise known as helping out at a birthday party for sixteen four-year-old girls.’ She tucked her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and shuddered. ‘If I hear “Let It Go” or see another pink balloon, Barbie cupcake or sparkly deely bopper again in this lifetime I may have to be sectioned.’

      Ellie laughed. ‘That sounds almost as traumatic as having to drag a bleeding man to Gratesbury’s minor injury unit.’

      Tess grinned. ‘Nope, it’s much worse. I think I may actually have post-traumatic Frozen disorder.’