She turned slightly and followed his gaze, down the mountainside behind her, then looked back to him. “I asked Mr. Jenkins, rather politely, I thought, and he said yes.” She smiled. “I’m discovering you Yanks are suckers for a lass with an Irish accent.”
Seth had to fight the smile that naturally rose to his lips at her droll tone. This wasn’t funny. “You could have been permanently injured or worse,” he told her. “These aren’t toys.”
“He offered an escort, but I could see your vineyard from where I started. He laid out the general route, told me to stick to the deer paths through the snow, cautioned me heartily about going off trail, and told me to turn around if I couldn’t navigate easily. The only reason I ended up as I did was I mistook the drift for part of the slope incline.” She smiled. “Imagine my surprise when I plowed right in.” She turned to look at the back end of the snowmobile, which was still visible. “I did a standard eject off the back end and let the engine die in the bank. It should be fine.” She looked back to him, as if that took care of that.
“You did a . . . standard eject,” he repeated, somewhat hollowly. She’d said it as if it was something she did every day. “What was that shriek then? I thought you were pinned under the damn thing.”
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I think half a snowman went down the back of my jacket when I got up. It was a bit of a chilly surprise, I tell you,” she added with a grin. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
Unfazed by his continued scowl, she leaned in and lowered her voice, and he found himself bending down to hear her, as if the two of them were about to share a secret. “If it makes you feel a wee bit better, my older brother is something of a professional with these sorts of machines. Anything with an engine, really. He’s a professional stuntman. He taught me a fair bit of what he knows where vehicles are concerned. Normally there’s a big landing pad when you leap off. Fortunately, I had a nice pile of snow to catch me.” She smiled up at him. “If we ever get caught up in a high-speed car chase, I’m your girl.”
Her face was just inches below his now. Normally he’d be having all sorts of thoughts about those eyes of hers and her mouth with those bow-tie lips, and maybe what would happen if he just lowered his head the rest of the way ...
Only Seth’s brain was still hung up on “professional stuntman.” She was ... well, he didn’t know what she was. He did know she wasn’t like any woman he’d ever met before.
He straightened, tempted to smile again. She was engaging, and it was hard not to fall under the spell of her gregarious charm. Hell, he was tempted to laugh right along with her. But he was still coming down off the adrenaline punch from the initial wreck, not to mention her cry of alarm might have jarred loose one or two memories from his time overseas that he otherwise was pretty good at keeping buried. And then there was the residual irritation over his sister’s high-handedness mixed in there, too. So, the best he could come up with was, “Moira did mention you were self-sufficient.”
Her lips curved in a dry smile. “You should trust her.” Then she motioned behind her with a gloved hand. “You know, that half-buried snow machine notwithstanding.”
He did chuckle then, even as he gave his head a slight shake. He felt like he’d followed Alice straight down the rabbit hole. Or into the snowbank, as the case may be.
She stuck out her gloved hand. “Pippa MacMillan,” she said. “I promise I won’t be quite so much work going forward. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”
He doubted that, very much. He took her gloved hand in his now chapped-pink, bare one and gave a light shake. His hand felt like a bear paw wrapped around her small, slender fingers.
“I appreciate your letting me bunk in. Your sister said you had plenty of room, but I promise I won’t be in the way. I’m happy to lend a hand if you need one.” She propped her hand on her brow and looked around at the drifts of snow, with more still coming down. “I was imagining springtime in the mountains, though, so maybe that’s not much of an offer.”
“This is springtime in the mountains.”
She grinned at that. “I love the snow. Don’t get to spend much time in it, so this has been a lovely bonus.”
A lovely bonus. “Well, you’ll have a fair amount of it to play in, though my heart might appreciate it if we leave the snowmobile stunts out of it, at least until the storm dies down.”
“Deal,” she said easily.
“And thank you for the offer of help, but I thought you were here to rest,” he said, trying to find his way past their very unorthodox meeting to something resembling normalcy. “Moira mentioned something about throat surgery?” He thought again about that yelp and tried not to wince. He noted she had a thick scarf wrapped multiple times around her neck. She’d had it pulled up over her mouth and nose at one point, as it still had a crust of snow and ice embedded in the front of it, creating a distinct outline from where her goggles had held the scarf in place.
“Nothing to worry about. I’m not an invalid,” she assured him. “The surgery was a good while back. I might not sound it quite yet, but my voice is fine. I just needed to get off the carousel of crazy for a bit. I’ve still got vocal exercises to work on. I probably shouldn’t be out in this much longer, though,” she added; then her grin came right back.
“What?” he asked, curious despite himself, when she didn’t go on.
“That rush of cold air was actually the only part of my race up the hill that was perhaps a bit foolhardy. It was just so ... freeing. My hired airport transport couldn’t get farther up the mountain road, so we turned in at Mr. Jenkins’s croft. I was hoping he wouldn’t mind a temporary visitor until the plows came through. Then I saw the snow machine parked out back and the next thing I knew, I was asking to borrow it. Don’t be angry with him. I told him about my brother, and even gave him a little demonstration. I had planned to drive it on up the roadway, but he said it would be faster and easier to just go on up the hill. I offered to pay him for the rental, if that’s a concern.”
“No,” Seth said. “Out here we do what we can to help those who need it.”
“Aye, he said as much. That’s how it is in the village where I grew up, too.” Her face lit up as she shrugged. “Honestly, I simply couldn’t resist. No one looking over my shoulder, no one fussing after me, worrying every little thing to death. It just felt so good, you know?”
“I do,” he said. And it was the truth. At least that last part. His entire existence in Virginia could be summed up by that exact same sentiment. “I’ll try not to add any more to that chorus then.”
She smiled. “And I’ll try not to scare the bejesus out of you.”
“Deal,” he said, smiling briefly as he echoed her earlier agreement. He glanced at the snowmobile. “Did you have any gear? Bags?”
“It’s all down with Mr. Jenkins. I figured I could retrieve it once the roads were clear. If you’ve got a spare toothbrush and a tumble dryer, I’ll be fine. I’m pretty low maintenance. Well, I used to be. I’m pretty sure I still am.” She smiled at him. “I’m entourage-free, so I have that going for me at any rate.”
Seth just blinked. It was like being caught inside a snowstorm with a tornado. A tiny tornado, but still. He was about to lead the way up to the house, figuring they could exit through the waist-deep trough he’d made when he’d plowed through to get to her, when he noticed she was looking at something past his left shoulder, her eyes growing wide.
“Your sister didn’t tell me you had your own yetis up here.”
Seth heard the snort behind him before he even looked. He briefly ducked his chin to his chest and momentarily closed his eyes, wondering when, exactly, he’d lost complete control of his life. In his rush to save a woman who clearly didn’t need saving, he’d obviously neglected to close the barn door. Seth turned to find Dexter standing a few yards behind him, his heavy coat now caked with the heavily falling snow. Small flakes glistened from the tips of Dex’s ridiculously long, dark eyelashes as he stepped closer, his
soulful gaze fixed on Seth.
“This is Dexter,” Seth said. “He’s a llama.”
Pippa laughed. “Yes, I’m familiar with the breed. Long-legged sheep, my sister calls them.”
Seth nodded, thinking it was an apt description. “He came with the winery.”
“Of course he did,” Pippa said, without missing a beat. “Does he like women? Can I pet him?”
“He’s an attention whor—hound,” Seth corrected. “He’ll adore you on sight if you even look in his direction. But he’s a jealous lover, so be careful. He’ll spit if he thinks you aren’t showing him enough attention. And, full disclosure, no amount of love will ever be enough. So, you might just want to avoid—”
But it was too late. Pippa had slipped by Seth and was already stroking the base of Dexter’s long neck, crooning nonsense words to the beast. Seth sighed inwardly, thinking his second call, after barking at Mabry, was going to be to Moira, warning her never to pull a stunt like this again. He had a million and ten things that needed doing and this late-season snowstorm wasn’t helping matters any. Having a full-time guest, even one as sharp and gregarious as Miss MacMillan—maybe most especially due to that—was going to add to that load, no matter how self-sufficient she was. She’d only been here a blink and he was already hours behind schedule.
Then Pippa was talking to Dex while leading him back through the snow, heading toward the barn, not the house, her delightful laughter filling the air as Dex nudged her along while trying to simultaneously nibble on her headband.
Everyone else is having a grand old time. Made him feel like he was being a grumpy old man. Maybe he’d let the enormous burden he’d taken on with the winery get to him. Just a little. He remembered his plan to find his guest alternate lodgings, and that brightened his mood. Maybe he’d only lose the one day. He’d get it sorted out, get her sorted away, deal with Dex, and maybe get to one or two of the items on his lengthy to-do list before sundown. Then he could focus on the mound of paperwork that needed attention that evening.
“Are you coming?” Pippa called out. “Last one to the barn gets to defrost a llama!”
He shook his head in resignation, but he was chuckling despite himself as he followed along after the unlikely pair. He’d look back on that moment later and wonder how he hadn’t realized right then that nothing in his life would ever be the same again.
Chapter Three
Pippa unwrapped the towel from her hair and breathed in the moist, warm air while she combed the tangles free. The hot shower and the resulting thick billows of steam had thawed her out entirely, leaving her feeling relaxed and warm, through and through. It had felt so good to fly up the side of the mountain, snowflakes pelting her, the wind brushing past. The snow machine—snowmobile, as Seth called it—had been easy to handle, responsive, and one heck of a lot of fun. She’d felt so . . . alive. Alive in a way she hadn’t felt, or, more to the point, hadn’t allowed herself to feel in far too long.
She knew she was fine, knew her throat was fine, her voice was fine. Or as fine as it was going to be. It had been eleven months since the surgery. She’d done everything the doctors and specialists had told her to, following their guidelines down to the letter. She’d been given the all clear to begin singing again months ago. She had a few precautions she needed to take, but there was nothing to stop her from resuming her old life. With a reduced performance schedule at first, yes, but ... she should be out there, singing, recording, performing.
Should be.
Every time she spoke, however, she heard a completely different voice come out of her mouth. One that was still foreign and unfamiliar to her. Her doctors said the last bit of throatiness could fade in time, though she might retain a bit of it forever. It wasn’t the huskiness she minded. In fact, she thought it made her sound a bit sexy. She giggled at that as she caught the image of herself in the slowly defogging mirror. “Oh, you’re dead sexy, you are.”
She was a pipsqueak, or so her grandda had always called her, with all the curves of a ten-year-old lad. She hardly thought having a bit of throat in her voice was going to suddenly imbue her with sex appeal. But she didn’t mind it. Maybe she’d even get used to it. Some day.
It wasn’t really that she was afraid it would change her sound, although that did concern her a wee bit. No, mostly it was that every time she opened her mouth and spoke, and heard that rasp, she was reminded of that day, standing on the stage in London. It was the last day of her first world tour, one that had taken a far greater toll on her than she’d been wanting to admit, even to herself. She’d been singing her heart out, and, as it happened, she’d sung her voice right out, too. She’d known she needed a rest, knew her voice needed a rest, and she’d planned a nice long one, just as soon as they packed up and headed home to Dublin. But it had been one show too many. Her vocal cords had ruptured right there, on stage, leaving her unable to make any sound at all.
Everything had happened so quickly after that, and though utterly terrifying at the time, she’d come to terms with the catastrophe over the painstakingly slow, seemingly endless, weeks and months of arduous recovery that had followed. That was behind her now, too. She could sing again. Finally.
Only she hadn’t.
She had a vocal coach who specialized in post-surgical reentry for singers. Only Pippa had never actually had a single session with her. She’d never so much as uttered a single note, not even in the privacy of her own shower. Not because what came out would sound foreign ... but because she was utterly, if irrationally, terrified it would happen again. She’d come to terms with the fact it had happened once, but her surgeon had told her that if it happened again, she was done singing. For good.
“So, instead, you’re just going to bloody end it now by not taking the chance,” she said with a resigned sigh. She wanted to take a chance. Wanted to get up her nerve. Wanted to find her way back to the thing that had always been part of her. She’d started singing shortly after she’d taken her first step, or so her ma told everyone who would listen. Song had been Pippa’s boon companion ever since, accompanying her through every single day of her life, both good and bad. Music and song were the soundtrack of her being.
She wanted her song back. Desperately. Not for her career, nor even for the fans who had so delightfully and shockingly given her a livelihood she cherished. She wanted it back for herself. She missed her steadfast companion. So much so, she ached.
That little shriek in the snow pile out there had been the first sound she’d made louder than normal conversation since that night on stage. “And look, nothing bad happened,” she reminded herself. “You’re fine.”
And yet . . .
Pippa realized she was caressing her throat, protecting it, and dropped her hand away. She dried herself off and pulled on the T-shirt her rather gargantuan host had kindly loaned her. It literally fell all the way to her knees. The long sleeves hung well past her fingertips. She took it off, rolled up both sleeves, then carefully slid it on again and turned to the mirror. She laughed and struck a few poses. Her towel-dried hair fell in an unruly mass past her shoulders. Not exactly wavy, definitely not straight, nor curly, just ... unruly. Her face was still a flushed pink from the cold and now the steam. She did the fish-face model pose, then stuck her tongue out at herself. “Oh aye, you’re the epitome of allure, Pippa Mavreen, that you are.”
Smiling, she dug her black leggings out from the pile of clothes she’d shrugged out of earlier and pulled them on under the T-shirt. Seth had given her a pair of jogging bottoms, but she didn’t even bother trying them on. She’d need a cummerbund to keep them up and would have to roll the legs up so many times she’d need straps around her ankles as well. She’d worn the leggings under two other layers and they hadn’t gotten damp, so they’d do for now.
Her socks, however, were soaked. She eyed the nice thick pair of red and gray ones Seth had given her and decided they were better than going barefoot. She pulled them on, then rolled down the tops, making lit
tle tubes around her ankles. She looked like she had duck feet. “Glorious,” she said with a grin, wriggling her toes in the roomy foot space. But they were comfy, soft, and toasty warm. They’d do just fine. As long as she didn’t have to run anywhere.
Seth had taken her jacket when they’d come inside, and her boots. She bundled up the rest of her damp clothes and the damp towels, and walked back through the house to what he’d called the mudroom, where they’d first entered. There was a washer and tumble dryer there, and in short order, she had a load going. The bathroom she’d used was adjacent to the guest bedroom he’d said would be hers. She’d stuck her nose in the two other rooms at that end of the chalet, but they appeared to be guest rooms as well, so she assumed he lodged at the other end of the place.
She walked out into the main room and took a slower turnabout now that she was alone. Seth had gone back out into the snowstorm, back to whatever it was he’d been doing before her ignominious arrival. He’d told her to make herself at home, and that whatever was in the kitchen was up for grabs, as he’d put it. She wasn’t sure when he’d be returning and had decided it really wasn’t her business to know.
He’d made some mention of only being informed of her arrival shortly before it had happened and apologized for not being more prepared for guests. All told, he’d been polite enough. There had been a hint of a smile once or twice when they’d been out in the snow, but otherwise he seemed neither pleased nor displeased by the situation thrust upon him. Maybe a bit nonplussed. Then, after he’d given her those few instructions, he’d headed back outside.
She could hardly blame him. It had been on the tip of her tongue during their trek in from the barn, where they’d left Dexter to defrost on his own, to tell her erstwhile host that she’d make other arrangements for her stay.
Bluestone & Vine Page 3