Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) Read Online Free Page B

Martin Rainnie led two Clydesdale mares into the yard, his collie trotting beside him. He stiffened slightly as he noticed his daughter in Chelle’s arms, then walked by her without a word and tied his horses to the hitching post. Jack and Brian came out of the stable to greet him.
    “Now then, Martin.”
    “Mornin’, Jack, Brian. These two need doin’ again.”
    In spite of his gruffness and his broad Yorkshire, there was something pleasing in Mr. Rainnie’s voice. Deep, but not too deep, its tone varied in a way that made Chelle think perhaps he really was musical. Jack gave one of the mares a friendly slap on the neck, loosed her from the hitching post and backed her into the middle of the yard.
    “Aye. You first then, Tessa.”
    Brian stoked the forge and blew the fire to white heat with the bellows while Jack pulled the shoes from Tessa’s plate-sized hooves. Mr. Rainnie held the mare’s halter and kept his back to Chelle. She couldn’t help thinking that he resembled his horses. Massive but in proportion, without the quickness and agility of a man with Rory’s lighter build, but graceful in his own way. No doubt a lot of women would find Mr. Rainnie attractive.
    The dog seemed to remember Chelle. Tail wagging, he took a couple of steps toward her, then trotted up when she held out her hand.
    “Hello, Gyp. You trust me when I’m not near your sheep, do you?” The dog sniffed her fingers, then settled down on the cobbles at her feet. Mr. Rainnie made a restless movement, but he didn’t call Gyp back.
    Brian broke the silence. “Have you started shearing yet, Martin?”
    “Not yet. Next week, likely, if I can get help. That mightn’t be easy this year. I ran into John Watson, Westlake’s agent, this morning at the store, and he told me Westlake’s dropping his price for wool. Market’s all upset because of the mess overseas, he says. It’s hard to pay shearers when the fleece is worth a pittance.”
    Brian took a red-hot shoe and pressed it to the mare’s hoof. The reek of burning horn filled the air as Jack trimmed the hoof, using the blackened imprint as a guide.
    “It wouldn’t surprise me if Westlake is in some kind of a scrape with his business concerns in London, a scrape that needs cash to get out of.”
    Mr. Rainnie shrugged. “Perhaps. I’m thinking that he’s gettin’ on, and his daughter would no doubt rather be in London. His wife’s spent all her time there for years. He hasn’t any sons so he may be gettin’ ready to sell the mill here. Well, I won’t starve with the farm to feed me, whether he buys my fleeces or not.”
    From things she’d heard, Chelle gathered that most of Mallonby shared her uncle’s opinion of Phillip Westlake, the owner of the woolen mill, a self-made man who was too conscious of the fact and cared little for those below him. The men talked sheep and crops while they shod Tessa and the other mare, Neely. When she thought Leah had been in the sun long enough, Chelle took her inside. Not once had Mr. Rainnie glanced her way, if he could help it, but she felt his gaze on her back as she went in.
    Perhaps he wasn’t quite as indifferent to Leah as he seemed. Or had he been watching her? She shook off the feeling of those green eyes on her, took Leah to Jean and started for the village to run an errand for her aunt.
    A waft of fragrance welcomed her when she stepped into the Binghams’ shop, a blend of mint, spices, soap and tobacco that reminded her of the mercantile at home. Candy jars lined the front window to entice passersby, while a row of bags and barrels along the back wall held the usual staples. Behind the counter, Mrs. Bingham looked up from her newspaper.
    “Now then, Miss McShannon, what can I do for you?” Mallonby people hadn’t quite decided how to speak to Chelle yet. They weren’t sure where she fit in their social order, but most of them chose to be polite.
    “Aunt Caroline needs some sugar. Five pounds, please.”
    As Chelle paid