Then she closed the door on him with a sharp crack of sound. So much for charm. Fine. He’d just stop at a B and B somewhere along the road. As he recalled, there was one not far from Maura’s farmhouse.
Still, it stung. Hardly the welcome he’d been expecting. Jefferson turned around on her porch and looked up and down the narrow Main Street of the village. It looked like a postcard, even in this miserable weather. Sidewalks were thin strips of cement that rose up and down as the road willed it. The shops were a rainbow of colors, and smoke drifted upward from chimneys to be caught by the ever-present wind. Doors were closed against the rain currently pummeling him and early-blooming flowers in pots bent with the water and wind.
Scraping one hand across his face, he stepped off the porch and headed for the Lion’s Den pub. At least there, he’d be able to get a meal and something hot to drink. Then he’d face the rest of the drive to Maura’s. As he jogged across the empty street, he told himself that Mrs. Boyle’s attitude was probably just a case of women sticking together. He already knew Maura was angry about something and the innkeeper was just showing solidarity. God knew every female he’d ever known would be willing to take the side of a fellow woman against a man no matter what the argument might be.
Jefferson stepped into the warmth of the pub and paused a moment to enjoy the glow of the fire in the hearth and the rich scents of beer and some kind of stew simmering in the kitchen. Then he nodded vaguely at a couple of men seated at a table, before taking a spot at the bar for himself. He’d barely settled himself when Michael came out of the kitchen, took a look at Jefferson and came to a sudden stop. His wide, genial face flushed dark red and his blue eyes flashed with trouble.
“We’re closed,” he said.
Jefferson muffled a groan. This he hadn’t expected at all and if he were to be honest about it, he could admit to himself that he felt a bit betrayed at the moment. He and Michael had become friends the last time he was here. And now, the look on the man’s face said he’d happily plant one of his meaty fists on Jefferson’s jaw.
“Closed?” Jefferson jerked a thumb in the direction of the two men, each sipping a freshly stacked Guinness beer. “What about them?”
“We’re not closed to them, are we?”
“So, it’s only me.”
“I didn’t say that.” Michael picked up a pristine bar rag and idly polished a bar that already shone like a dark jewel in the overhead light.
“Yeah.” Jefferson swallowed his anger because it wasn’t going to do him any good here anyway. Until he knew exactly what he was accused of, he couldn’t fight it.
He pushed off the stool, leaned both hands on the bar and met Michael’s heated stare with one of his own. “When we first met, you struck me as a fair man, Michael,” he said. “I’m sorry to be proven wrong.”
The man inhaled so sharply, his barrel chest swelled up to massive proportions. “Aye and you struck me as a man to do his duty.”
“Duty?” He threw both arms wide. “Is everyone in the village nuts all of a sudden? What’re you talking about?”
Michael slapped the bar with his palm. “What I’m talking about is you being nothing more than a rich American taking what he wants and never paying a mind to his leavings.”
Jefferson straightened up like someone had shoved a poker down the back of his shirt. He was trying to be reasonable here, but a man could only be pushed so far. “What leavings?”
“That’s not for me to say but for you to know.”
Great, he thought, disgusted. More code.
“Look, we obviously don’t know each other as well as I thought, Michael,” Jefferson told him, “so I’m going to let that insult go. But I can tell you I’ve never shirked my duty in my life—nor do I know anything about any ‘leavings’—not that I owe you any explanations.”
“Oh, on that you’re spot-on,” the big man muttered. “It’s not me you’re owin’, Jefferson King.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s time you found out, don’t you think?”
“And just who should I ask?” Even as he said the words though, he knew what the answer would be.
Sure enough, a moment later, Michael said, “Talk to Maura. She’ll tell you or not as she pleases. But don’t come into Craic looking for friends until you do.”
The men at the table behind him muttered agreement, but Jefferson paid them no attention at all. Why was the town one step short of a mob threatening to tar and feather him?
And why was he still standing there when he knew where he could go to get some answers?
“Fine. I’m here to talk to Maura anyway. I’ll settle this with her and then you and I are going to have a talk.”
“I look forward to it.”
He left the pub at a brisk walk and headed straight for his rental car. The rain pelted at him as if Heaven were throwing icy pebbles down just to elevate his misery. He felt the stares of dozens of people watching him as he went and realized that he’d fully expected to solve this problem with ease.
He’d had friends here, damn it. What could have happened to change that so completely? And why was Maura the key?
He fired up the engine and steered the small sports car down the narrow road leading out of town and toward Maura. It was time to get some answers.
The muddy track was familiar, and despite the carefully banked anger inside him, there was something else within, too. A curl of anticipation at the thought of seeing Maura again. He didn’t want it. Had fought the very memory of her for months. But being here again fed the flames he’d been trying to extinguish.
Now wasn’t the time for that, though. He wasn’t here to indulge in his desire for a woman who’d made no secret of the fact that she wasn’t interested. He wasn’t going to walk blindly back down a path he’d already traveled.
Besides, he was wet, tired and just this side of miserable when he pulled the rental car into Maura’s drive. Through the heavy mist and low-hanging clouds, the manor house sat like a beacon of light. Its whitewashed walls, dark green shutters and bright blue door belied the gray day and the jewel-colored flowers bursting from pots on either side of the door valiantly stood against an icy wind.
On the far side of the yard, three RVs, a tent and the equipment that made up a film shoot were staggered. People bustled about, though Jefferson knew the actors would be tucked inside their trailers, waiting out the weather. Between the rain and the delays caused by an uncooperative Maura and friends, Jefferson could practically hear money being flushed down the drain.
Frustrated with the entire situation, Jefferson opened the car door to a fresh wall of wet, and once he was standing on the sodden gravel drive slammed the door closed again.
Heads turned. Worker bees, the PA, Harry the director, all looked at him, but when Harry made to walk toward him, Jefferson held him back with one upraised hand. He wanted to talk to Maura before he got any more information.
“And she’d better have some damn answers,” he muttered, soles of his shoes sliding on the wet gravel.
With anger churning in his gut, he started for the house. He didn’t notice the charm of the place now. Paid no attention to the half-dozen or so spring lambs chasing each other through the fenced front yard.
He didn’t even slow down when someone shouted a warning, so he was taken by surprise when a black dog as big as a small bear charged from the corner of the house and made straight for him.
“Jesus Christ!” Jefferson’s shout of surprise was raw and hoarse, scraping from