Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 135799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Billy the goat is kept in the far paddock. He is a little rebellious but a nice goat all the same. He eats mostly natural feed but has a bag of feed, also in the stable. It is marked clearly with his name.
The ducks.
Our lovely ladies are a source of many hours of pleasure. However, they do get anxious when they haven’t been fed.
There isn’t enough natural food for them in the lake and they will need to be given their pellets each morning. Adhere to their regular feeding schedule and all will be easy with them.
Humphrey the ram.
Now, Humphrey was my husband’s and is an acquired taste.
He doesn’t like people, and will become violent if confronted.
He is completely self-sufficient and it is best not to toy with him.
Call the veterinarian if you need any assistance on his welfare, do not attempt to tend to it yourself.
The only person he ever took to was my beloved husband and I’m afraid he hasn’t been the same since he passed.
Thank you so much, Mr. Miles.
You have no idea what a relief it is to know that they are to be cared for.
Yours sincerely,
Frances Melania
I look up at Elliot in surprise.
“Can you believe that shit?” he asks.
My eyes skim the letter again. “So . . . you’re a fully fledged farmer now?”
“No.” He takes the container of pellets to the back door and peers around the side of the curtain. “It’s just temporary until I get something sorted.”
“No, Elliot. You gave her your word, or at least your solicitor did. They have to stay.”
He gives a disgusted shake of his head and opens the door in a rush. The ducks catch sight of him and begin to run toward him with their wings in the air, squawking loudly.
He runs down the lawn and throws the pellets in the air in their direction, and then he bolts back to the house. He rushes in and slams the door behind him as if a wild animal has just chased him. “There,” he announces proudly. “See . . . I know what I’m doing.” He dusts his hands together as if he’s just fought a dragon and won.
I smile broadly; the poor bastard is scared for his life. “I’m very impressed, Mr. Miles.”
Elliot takes my hand in his. “Come on, we have to get back. It’s going to be dark soon.”
Hand in hand we begin to walk up the hill toward the house. It’s been the best day. We’ve spent it walking around the property and checking things out. It really is beautiful and there is so much to see.
“When did you buy this place?”
“Last year, in June.”
“Over six months ago?” I ask in surprise.
“Yes. She wanted to stay as long as she could after I completed on the property. So, I waited.”
I smile as we make our way back up the hill. “It was worth every second, it’s breathtaking.”
Elliot’s eyes roam over the rolling hills before us. “From the moment I saw it, I knew that it would be mine.”
I smile at his dreamy stance. “Have you always wanted to live out here?”
“No. For a long time I resented having to live in the UK. I just wanted to go back to New York.”
I frown as I listen. “You couldn’t go back?”
“I could, but not if I wanted the job that I have now. It could only be here. Jameson is the CEO in the States.”
I nod as a clearer picture comes through. “What changed?” I ask. “To make you want to . . .”
“I don’t know,” he says as he walks. “A few years ago, I went home to New York and I was sitting in a bar with a big group of friends that in the past I had always missed.”
I listen intently.
“And not one of them had one thing to say that interested me.”
I frown.
“It was like a lightbulb went off, and I had an epiphany, one that for some reason had previously eluded me. I realized that my only connection with America and New York was my family, and I see them all the time wherever I am. I decided that day, then and there, that I would make my life here.”
I smile.
“And besides”—he picks up my hand and kisses the back of it—“I have a thing for English girls.”
I smirk. “Plural, Elliot,” I remind him.
“Girl,” he mouths.
We walk for a while. “And the art thing?” I ask.
“Ah.” He smiles, as if he’s been waiting for me to ask. “I’ve collected art since I was old enough for pocket money.”
“Why?”
He raises his eyebrows as if searching for an answer. “It calls to me.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.” His gaze goes over to the paddocks as he contemplates his answer. “It’s like I feel the artists’ emotions as they painted.” He bends down and picks a flower and passes it to me.