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Marcella I’d be back at the pub before the lunchtime rush.”
    “I’d love to come back to see you before I leave, Mrs. MacCarthy,” Jayme said. “If that’s okay.”
    Ma beamed. “Of course it’s okay. And please call me Molly. You’re family, after all.”
    They’d barely reached the mudroom when the back door swung open. In marched his little brother, Shea.
    “Thank feck you’re here,” Shea said when he spotted Ruairí. “Come and help me. One of the cows is after bolting.”
    “In this weather?”
    Shea grimaced. “Exactly. It’s Daisy, too.”
    “Feck.” Daisy was pregnant and known to be a bit contrary of late. “I’ll put on my wellies.”
    “Let me help,” Jayme said, reaching for his arm. A familiar frisson of awareness passed between them. Having her in close proximity was rapidly shredding every vestige of self-control he possessed.
    He glanced at her feet. “In those shoes? I think not. And I doubt any of us has wellies small enough to fit you.”
    “Never mind my boots. I’m happy to assist.”
    “Let her,” Shea said bluntly. “I need all the help I can get. And if she and Sharon come, Ma can stay in out of the rain.”
    Jayme grabbed her raincoat from the coat stand. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Four
    “WHAT DO YOU know about cows?”
    Jayme wiped rain from her nose and looked at her handsome companion. He was regarding her with a cynical half smile. “I know that they moo.”
    He laughed. “If you want to help us look for Daisy, that’s fine. But don’t go anywhere near her if you see her. She’s pregnant and irascible. Give one of us a shout, and we’ll deal with her.”
    They’d parted ways with Shea and Sharon at the cowshed. Thankfully, the rain had dwindled to drizzle, but the ground was wet and slick with mud. She was grateful to have Ruairí at her side, deftly guiding them past the deepest of the puddles.
    “I’m glad your family’s farm is on higher ground than the road. Otherwise, we’d have to swim.”
    He grinned a slow, teasing smile that warmed her from the top of her scalp down to her ill-clad toes. “How are your feet holding up? Those boots don’t look waterproof.”
    “My feet are a little damp,” she admitted, “but I’ll cope.”
    He led her toward lush green fields separated by the old-fashioned stone walls she’d noticed on their drive. With each step, her boots sank deeper into the mud. “How long does your mother have to live?”
    His face darkened at the question. “Initially, the doctors gave her six months. A year later, she’s still with us. She’s doing reasonably well at the moment, but they warned us her condition could take a turn for the worse at any moment.”
    On instinct, she slipped her small hand into his large one. He didn’t resist. “Why didn’t you tell me your mother was sick?”
    He turned his attention to the pasture. “I don’t know. The night I left, we were too busy fighting. To be honest, I half suspected it was a scheme cooked up by her and my sisters to get me to come home and reconcile with my father. Whatever Marcella says, it wasn’t my decision to cut ties with my entire family. When I left, my father forbade my mother to contact me.”
    “And she obeyed?” She entwined her fingers with his, watched his Adam’s apple bob.
    “Yeah.” He blinked a few times, failing to conceal the moisture in his eyes. “But it was a long time ago. I got over it and lived my life.”
    “And met me.”
    “And met you.”
    They lapsed into silence. The tension of earlier had eased, but the connection between them remained tenuous. “Was it your mother who called you last year? The night we fought?”
    He inclined his head a fraction. “She called me at work, out of the blue. I thought it was some sort of sick joke at first, but Ma was direct. Said the doctors didn’t give her long to live and that both the pub and the farm were in the red. Shea had taken over the running of the farm, and she needed someone to