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The bridlepath was muddy, and she picked her way along it slowly, the mud sucking at her boots, before she came to Wood Lane, a narrow track hemmed in by high hedgerows that ran all along the side of the Mackeys’ farmland, before turning east towards the Mowbrays’.
She’d been walking down the road for about ten minutes when she heard the telltale grumble of a tractor behind her, and she stepped up onto the side of the lane, pressing against the prickly hedges, to let it pass. As it drew closer, her heart sank as she saw the face of the farmer sitting high above her.
Ben Mackey. And he wasn’t smiling.
Reluctantly she raised her hand in a wave, because it seemed rude not to, and she expected—hoped, anyway—that he’d simply wave back and keep going. Instead, he cut the engine of the tractor so that with a groan of exhaust it rolled to a stop a mere few feet from her. She craned her neck up to see him and managed something that approximated a smile. Sort of.
“Hey, Ben.”
“Hey.” He regarded her silently for what felt like minutes but was probably only a few seconds. Still, it felt long. Too long. Rachel had an urge to fidget, but she kept her ground. The smile went, though. “So, you’re back,” he said.
Obviously.“Till Friday.” She spoke brightly but also pointedly, and she wondered why she’d said it that way—almost like a warning. Perhaps it had been.
Ben’s expression darkened. “We need to talk.”
What?“Um, sorry?” Rachel asked. Now she was doing that pseudo-polite thing, a bit passive-aggressive. Oh, dear.
“We need to talk,” Ben repeated, now sounding annoyed that he’d had to say it twice. “Are you free? I’ll meet you back at the farmhouse.”
“Yours…?” Rachel was still spinning from this unheard-of directive. She had not been inside the Mackey farmhouse since she was seventeen. And what on earth did Ben need to speak to her about, when they basically hadn’t spoken in over ten years?
“Yes, mine.” He started up the tractor again, and the rumble of its engine meant further conversation was virtually impossible. In any case, he started driving off before Rachel could even formulate a reply. What did they have to talk about? And why did she feel as if she was about to be told off?
Gritting her teeth, dread swirling in her stomach, she marched down the road in the wake of the tractor, far enough back that she didn’t breathe in the dried mud it kicked up. At the gate to the Mackeys’ farm, Ben drove the tractor towards the barn while Rachel, after a moment’s indecision, walked towards the farmhouse. Unlike the Mowbray house’s Georgian squareness, the Mackeys’ farmhouse was long and low, whitewashed and rambling. Rachel recalled its slightly shabby cosiness from her childhood; the rooms of her own home had often been draughty and cold, but the Mackey farmhouse had always seemed happy and snug, filled with animals—they’d had three cats and four dogs at one point—and cheerful and busy in a way she didn’t remember her own home being. Its inglenook fireplace had always had a cheery blaze, Ben’s mum was usually pulling something delicious out of the Aga, and everything seemed warm and welcoming.
She waited outside the back door to the kitchen, listening to the bark and whine of the animals within, their tails beating a desperate staccato on the stone-flagged floor. After a few minutes, Ben came from the barn, his stride long-legged and firm. He wore a flannel shirt and a pair of very worn jeans; he’d taken off the outer clothes he’d worn while he’d been out in the fields.
As he came closer, his mouth twisted, although Rachel couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a sneer. Sort of both.
“You could have gone inside,” he said as he walked past her to open the door. The dogs rushed, surrounding her in a cheerful, frantic frenzy—two springer spaniels and a black Lab.
“Well, I didn’t want to presume,” Rachel replied a bit stiffly, and she bent to stroke the dogs’ heads and fondle their ears. “Jack and Jill,” she said, nodding to the two spaniels. “Still ticking away?”
“No, Jack died two years ago,” Ben told her. “And Jill the year before that. They’re from their litter, though. These are Sonny and Cher.”
“Nice,” Rachel replied with a small smile. “I’m sorry about Jack and Jill, though.” She’d loved those dogs; Fred was from one of Jill’s litters.
He shrugged his acceptance of her condolences and gestured her to come inside; he was standing in the doorway, which meant she had to squeeze past him. She did so, averting her head, trying not to breathe, not even sure why she found it so difficult. She’d forgotten how broad he was—not particularly tall, an inch or two under six feet, but muscular and strong. She swallowed dryly, cursing herself for noticing. For thinking about it. Forremembering.
The kitchen was just as she recalled it—low-ceilinged and filled with comfortable clutter, from the tangle of boots by the door to the mess of papers heaped on the sofa against one wall.
“Cuppa,” Ben said, not a question, and went to fill the kettle before plonking it on the big red Aga. A tin of tiffin was cooling on top of the Aga, and he cut two large squares, without asking, before putting them on plates and handing one to Rachel.
“Thank you,” Rachel murmured, perplexed and unsettled by this seeming friendliness—although it wasn’t really friendly; he didn’t talk to her all the while, which was admittedly not that unusual, and there was a certain grimness to his brisk movements. This, she supposed, was simply normal Yorkshire hospitality, offered to anyone and everyone, even her.
“So how was Ibiza?” he asked, and she grimaced. Already it felt like a long time ago.
“Short,” she replied. “But I’m here now.”
“As I can see.”
Rachel bit her tongue on any reply as the kettle boiled and Ben began to make a pot of tea. He brought it to the table, gesturing to Rachel to sit. The dogs had settled themselves on the floor, the black Lab by the Aga and the spaniels under the table, eager for crumbs.
Rachel sat opposite Ben and gave him what she hoped was a smiling, direct look. “So, what’s this all about?”
“You need to stay.”
Rachel blinked, surprised that she was surprised at Ben being as blunt as that. Of course he was. He always had been.
