Joe

I walked out of the police station the following morning to find my sister, Emma, having a panic attack at the wheel of my battered VW Transporter. Brilliant. Like I needed a boatload more guilt on top of everything else.

Sighing, I wrenched open the driver’s door and pried her sweaty hands off the steering wheel. “What are you doing here?”

“Someone had to pick you up,” she muttered through chattering teeth. “George left for his friend’s funeral last night, remember?”

Shit. “I forgot about that. Who brought Shadow down from the top field?”

“I did.”

“How? He’s got the wind up him at the moment. Pulled me over last week.”

“I managed,” Emma said. “Just. We’ve got no sugar left, though.”

Her smile was tight. I pulled her out of the van and gave her a hug, enveloping her elfin frame in my much larger arms, taking care not to smother her. Emma was as strong as any man—stronger—but she was fragile too, and I felt like a proper wanker for dragging her out when agoraphobia kept her on the farm for weeks at a time. “Seriously, girl. You didn’t have to come out.”

“Actually, I did.” Emma pulled back and fixed me with a look that made me wish I’d drunk a hell of a lot more than half a pint of shandy before I’d got nicked. “You can’t keep doing this, Joe. Mum’s upset, and we’re both terrified you’ll get in real trouble one day. What’s going to happen to the farm if you end up in prison?”

“Don’t be daft.” I released her and stepped away, hoping that she’d get in the passenger side and be done with it, but she didn’t move. “Jesus. I didn’t get charged with anything.”

“But you still got arrested for fighting. Again. And what the hell for? What has Dicky McGee ever done to you?”

That she didn’t know was oddly relieving. I’d worked hard to keep our father’s mess from our doorstep, though my mum likely knew more than she let on. “It doesn’t matter what he did—or what I did. It’s done and no one’s pressing charges. Can we just go home and get the stables done? I’ve got to fetch the horsebox home and cadge a spare tyre from somewhere.”

Emma shot me another withering look that belied the anxiety still making her tremble. “The stables are done,” she snapped. “And Dex brought the horsebox home last night. That’s how we knew where you were—he rescued it from the tow company and they said you’d been arrested.”

She turned on her heel and rounded the front of the van. The slam of the passenger door rang out in the empty car park and kickstarted a headache I could’ve done without. Guilt morphed into self-loathing, and the image of my mum fetching my father from the police station ran through my mind on a loop. I wasn’t a raging pisshead, but that aside, was I a better man?

Not today.

I got in the van and turned the key in the ignition. A thousand apologies danced on my tongue, but I kept them in. Emma had heard them all before, and we both knew that words meant nothing in our family. Never had.

A mile away from the police station, she turned in her seat and put her hand over mine. “That mare died, didn’t she?”

I nodded. “Didn’t get to her in time.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it? We should’ve kicked those barn doors in and brought her home as soon as we knew she was there.”

Emma shook her head. “You’d have got arrested for that, too, and charged with theft.”

“She’d be alive, though.”

“Not for long, and nor would our other old nags with you in prison. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Me and Mum—we can’t handle the farm on our own. We need you. And so do the horses we already have.”

My heart knew she was right, but it still hurt. “I wish the RSPCA wouldn’t call us before they had a seizure order. It fucks with my head.”

“Mine too.” Emma’s hand slipped from mine. “But we can’t let it eat us whole. There’s too much at stake.”

Wasn’t there always? I sighed and turned down the narrow lane that led to the farm. “We’ll be okay. If I can’t borrow a tyre for the horsebox, I’ll sell the van.”

“Dex lent us a tyre, but that’s not what I mean. Not really, anyway. There’s always a burst tyre, Joe. Or a broken fence, or a vet bill. When does it end? Mum’s worried we’ll lose some of the older horses if we can’t pay for their care.”

The thought of my wonderful mum—and Emma—worrying about losing our horses made me sick to my stomach. “We’ll find a way. We always do.”

“No, we don’t. We just beat back the flames until the next inferno, and we’re running out of water.”

I snorted. “That’s the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not a metaphor, dickhead. And even if it was, I’m still right. We’re doomed unless we come up with something to bring more cash in.”

I couldn’t figure out why she was telling me this now, when it had been the case ever since our grandpa had died three years ago. The farm had been his, and the running of it a mystery to all but him. It was only after his funeral that we’d realised it had been in the red for decades. He’d left it to me, and it weighed heavily on my shoulders that things had got even worse ever since. “I don’t have any bright ideas.”

“I know. Which is why I’ve accepted an Airbnb booking for Grandpa’s old room.”

“What?” I swung the van into the yard with a screech. “How? And what the hell is an Airbnb?”

“It’s an app where you can rent rooms out. We talked about this.”

“Yeah, we talked about it, but I never agreed to anything. All Grandpa’s stuff is still in there.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be,” Emma said. “And he wouldn’t want his room sitting there untouched while the farm goes down the toilet.”

“Oh, and you think having a bunch of scuzzy tourists tramping through our house is going to save us, do you?”

Emma gave me the finger and got out of the van. I followed suit and trailed after as she stalked into the house. Our mum—Sal—was in the kitchen making sandwiches for the motley crew of locals who worked on the farm—Toby, Jemima, and Lacey, they filed in, eyeing me and Emma like we were unexploded bombs.

I couldn’t blame them. Emma and I were chalk and cheese but cut from the same stubborn Carter cloth. Our rows were legendary. She threw things, I punched walls, and Sal cried until one of us saw sense. Usually Emma. Sense wasn’t my strong point when my temper burned.

But I was right this time. The farm was inland from the coastal madness that descended on Newquay pretty much all year round, but summer was peak twat season, and I didn’t want random out-of-towners fucking up my house. “It’s not happening, Emma. I don’t care what you’ve done. Undo it, and leave it alone.”

Emma opened a cupboard on the rickety dresser and grabbed a handful of plates. She banged them down on the kitchen table without looking at me. “I’m not undoing anything. And it’s not a bunch of randos—it’s one guy, and he wants the room for the whole summer.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “The whole summer?”

“Yes. Ten weeks. Payment up front. All we have to do is give him a kitchen cupboard and space in the fridge. We don’t even have to feed him.”

“How much are we charging him?”

“Fifty quid a night.”

“What?”

“You heard.” Emma took the heaping plate of sandwiches from Mum and dumped them on the table. “Fifty quid a night for ten weeks, Joe. That’s three-and-a-half-grand. Enough to fix the tractor, the horsebox, and pay some of these goons.”

She gestured around the table. No one looked up from their lunch, apparently disinterested now the storm had passed, and perhaps satisfied in the knowledge that no matter how dire the farm’s finances ever were, they always got paid.

Eventually got paid.

Whatever.

“Who is he?” I demanded. “And why does he want to hole up here for ten weeks? Just because he’s on his own, doesn’t mean he’s not a weirdo.”

Emma sighed and noisily dragged a chair from under the table. “He’s not a weirdo. Do you think I’m some kind of idiot? The app checked his credentials when he signed up, and he sent me a link to his blog when I accepted his booking so I could see who he was.”

“Show me.”

“No. I’m having my lunch. You can have a look later when you’re done being an idiot for the day.”

And that was apparently that. Defeated, I left the rest of them to their lunch and drifted out to the stables. Most of the horses were out in the fields, but a few of the most ancient knackers were in the stalls: Tauna and Carric, Noel, and my oldest four-legged friend, Mani. I whistled through my teeth and he came to his door, his whiskery nose searching automatically for the miniature hay cube treats I always carried in my pockets. I fed him a couple and knocked my head against his solid neck, my favourite place for brooding when the responsibility of the farm overwhelmed me.

But I couldn’t hide in the stables forever. The morning’s work had been done in my absence, but I still had a mountain to climb before I could catch up on the sleep my police station adventure had cost me.

I kissed Mani goodbye and left him to his life’s work of chewing up his manger. First on my list was the broken fence post in the top field. On better days, I’d have driven the tractor up there, but that was broken too.

It was getting dark by the time I made it back to the house. Everyone had left for the day, even Sal and Emma had gone home to the bungalow they shared on the other side of the farm. I fed the cats, picked up the post, and found a covered plate in the oven. Then I took my dinner into the shambolic place we called a living room and ate in the solitary silence I often craved during the day.

Sal’s chicken stew was amazing. The stack of red-topped bills, not so much. I flicked through them with growing unease, glad I’d left them until after dinner. Most could wait a few more weeks before things started getting cut off, but our feed supplier was running out of patience. I checked the farm’s online bank accounts to see how many public donations had rolled in over the last few days. Not enough. It was never enough. There were many things we could live without—nice cars, new clothes, even electricity if we relied on the ancient stove for heat and cooking. But if we couldn’t feed the horses, we were wasting our fucking time.

Depression settled over me in the dull haze I’d come to expect when I didn’t have a pub brawl to distract me. When did it end? When we were homeless and all the horses destroyed?

I took the bills outside and chucked them on the manure heap. When I returned to the darkened living room, I remembered the blog of our impending houseguest. Emma had left it open on the farm’s cracked tablet, but even the damaged screen couldn’t hide the glossy city lifestyle of whoever the hell Holistic Harry was. His blog was crammed full of snazzy fitness shots and close-ups of grass-coloured smoothies, and it was clear that wherever he was coming from was a world away from life on the farm.

A few shots showed him lifting impressive weights in the gym. Despite myself, I zeroed in on his torso, taking in the bunched chest muscles and rippling abs. I’d always had a thing for hench dudes, but despite living in surfer country, it had been a while since a bod as hot as Holistic Harry had passed through my limited orbit. I wondered idly if he had a face to match, but sadly the few images of himself cut off at the neck.

It also disproved Emma’s argument that checking out his blog proved who he was. There was a link to an Instagram account, but that shit was beyond me, so I checked out his biography page. His occupation was listed as a holistic physiotherapist and life coach. It meant nothing to me, but why would it when I knew nothing but the farm? Anything that wasn’t horses—or surfing, back in the day—was a mystery to me, and I liked it that way. The bloke didn’t sound like an axe murderer, but I was still bound to hate him.

* * *

Harry

Google Maps cut out on me just past Newquay town centre. I switched to the sparse directions my host had sent me but began to despair as I passed rows and rows of surfer vans and beach shacks, hoards of glitter-faced teenage girls, and the boys in too-tight shorts who trailed after them.

None of it looked anything like the idyllic farmland I was searching for, and I began to wonder if I’d come to the right place. But then the road headed inland and the vibrant seaside community faded out. I turned down a succession of narrow lanes until I finally spotted the hand-painted wooden sign for Whisper Farm.

The lane to the farm was the tightest of all. My car was small, but I was sure it wouldn’t fit and prayed I wouldn’t meet a vehicle coming the other way.

My hands were sweating by the time I pulled up outside the tidy bungalow where I’d arranged to meet Emma Carter, my host for the summer. I parked up and got out, gazing around at the outbuildings and fenced-off paddocks. There was no sign of any stables, though. Perhaps I really had fucked up my navigation.

The front door of the bungalow opened and a dark-haired woman rushed out. I met her at the end of the path. “Are you Emma?”

The woman shook her head. “No, I’m Sal. I’ve been told to send you straight up to the main house to meet Joe.”

“Joe? But I was meant to meet Emma?”

A shadow crossed the woman’s weather-beaten face. “Emma is more of an online person. It’s Joe you need to deal with now you’re here.”

Okaaay. Nothing about this trip had worked out the way I’d expected, and I’d only left London this morning. Of course the woman I’d arranged to meet was MIA. It went hand in hand with the book of notes I’d forgotten to bring and the ominous rattle coming from my car. If I hadn’t spent my whole adult life training myself to think otherwise, I’d have thought the world was against me. “Should I leave my car here? Or is there somewhere to park by the house?”

“Take the car,” the woman—Sal—said. “It rains a lot here, and you won’t want to be traipsing through the mud to fetch it if you want to go out.”

Going out wasn’t in my fun-packed schedule of tying myself to my laptop, but I thanked Sal anyway and got back in my car, making a mental note of her directions to the main house. I followed the dirt track through the fields, passing more paddocks and barns until I came to a small, stone house. A tall figure was waiting for me on the doorstep, smoking a cigarette and watching my approach with a gaze I could only describe as vaguely hostile.

Unnerved, I parked my car for a second time and got out, turning to face the utterly gorgeous man who had deigned to get to his feet. Jesus. They don’t make them like him anymore. I proffered a shaky hand. “Joe?”

A cool, calloused hand gripped mine and shook it briefly. “Right. You the bloke renting the room?”

“Yes. I’m Harry.”

“Holistic Harry?”

I blinked. “If you want to call me by my Instagram handle.”

Joe shot me a dead-eyed glance, which was disturbing as I considered the riot of moody blues colouring his eyes. Vibrant and yet conversely lifeless. Was that even a thing?

“Um,” I went on when Joe said nothing. “I’m here to rent the room? I’d arranged to meet Emma at the bungalow across the fields, but Sal sent me here.”

“Sal’s my mum.”

“She’s nice.”

“I know.”

That he loved his mum enough to agree made me want to run my fingers over the strong, tanned forearms he’d folded across his chest. I adored my own mother and missed her desperately now she’d retired to Spain. It was only that she deserved to live out her days in peace and sunshine that eased the ache in my heart.

“Are you coming in or what?”

I blinked again to find that Joe had stepped back to the front door of the house and opened it. He was staring at me expectantly, and I was just, well, staring.

Idiot. I pulled myself together and followed Joe into the house, trying to break the instant fixation I’d developed with the back of his deeply tanned neck. His hair was inky-dark and stuck up in all directions, like he’d spent all day upside down, but it curled beautifully just below his ears, and the urge to stick my finger in a perfect spiral was so strong I shoved my hands in my pockets.

It had been a while since a bloke had caught my attention like that. The last time had been Angelo, but I’d got over it pretty quick when—aside from the obvious client-therapist issues—he’d talked about nothing but how in love he was with his gorgeous boyfriend. Even now, the light in his eyes whenever he mentioned Dylan stung. I was jealous—not of Dylan, but of them both. I wanted someone to burn for me the way they did for each other, and to feel the same way in return.

At least, some days I did. Others I just wanted to escape the rat race my life had become. Which brought me back to the large stone-floored kitchen Joe had led me to.

“This is the kitchen,” he said unnecessarily. “Ma cleared a shelf for you in the fridge, and you can have one of the cupboards. She cooks enough dinner for an army every night, though, so you’re welcome to eat with the rabble.”

“The rabble?”

“Staff.”

“That’s nice,” I said absently, glancing around the homely space that was nothing like the sleek kitchen in my London flat.

“What is?”

“That you feed your staff. I’m lucky to get a mouldy water cooler where I work.”

“Yeah, well.” Joe scratched the back of his head. For a moment he looked directly at me. “It makes up for the peanuts I pay them.”

I’d read up on Whisper Farm before I’d set off. Their simple website had them listed as a horse rescue charity, and for some reason I’d expected something . . . grander, maybe, than the ramshackle farm I’d seen so far. Animal rescue centres in London were slick operations—gift shops, fundraising booths, and marketing spiel on every corner. This place wasn’t like that. There was nothing to indicate that it was a rescue centre. In fact, I hadn’t seen a horse yet.

“Still awake?”

“Hmm?”

Joe was right in front of me. Again, his piercing gaze seemed to penetrate my soul. “I was saying that there’s a bathroom upstairs that you can consider yours. It’s attached to Grandpa’s—to your room, and no one else uses it.”

I didn’t miss his slip. Nor the fleeting grief that crossed his face. And when he showed me upstairs, I saw why. The room I’d be renting for the next ten weeks was spotlessly clean and exactly as it had appeared in the photographs, but there were touches that the lens had missed—the rocking chair by the window, and the old school tobacco pipe on the ledge.

This room had been his grandfather’s.

A stillness came over me as I deposited my bag on the bed. I didn’t know why it mattered that Joe had frozen in the doorway, but it did. Something had happened here—in this room—and it had hurt him. And now I was going to spend the whole summer rubbing it in his face. “I don’t have to take this room, you know,” I said. “I came for the peace and quiet, so if there’s a—”

“Something wrong with the room?”

“No. It’s lovely, I just . . .” Just what? Made an assumption about his emotional attachment to it and figured I could make it all better? “It’s fine. I just don’t want to get in anyone’s way.”

“You won’t,” Joe said shortly. “Emma and my mum live in the bungalow, and no one else lives on-site.”

“What about you?”

“I live downstairs.”

Unless I’d missed a whole separate wing of the house, there was nothing downstairs but the kitchen, a living room, and a tiny walk-in shower, but I let it go. For all I knew, Joe spent every night with a girlfriend up the road, and it was none of my business.

And I wasn’t even curious if that girlfriend existed.

* * *

Later that day, after I’d unpacked my bag and set up my laptop at the large desk in my room, I wandered downstairs to ask directions to the nearest supermarket. Stupidly, I’d forgotten to bring a box of groceries with me.

Sal was in the kitchen, fussing with something on the stove. “There’s a Morrisons up the road, but it’s closed now.”

“Closed? Ah, shit . . . it’s Sunday. Damn. I took Friday off work so I’m all out of sync. Are there any smaller shops nearby that I could grab some supplies from?”

“Depends what you need.” Sal heaved a huge pot of potatoes to the sink and drained them. “The Londis in Holywell does a few bits, but old Dora’s a pisshead. She doesn’t stay open much past five whatever day of the week it is.”

My stomach growled as it considered going to bed empty. Sal laughed and reached around me for a potato masher. “Daft boy. Eat with us. There’s plenty to go around.”

And there was. Sal put a giant pie on the table, with a mountain of mash and more peas than I’d ever seen. Gravy followed, and just when I thought she was done, a loaf of fresh bread appeared from the oven.

I expected a hoard of staff to roll in when she bellowed out of the back door that dinner was ready, but only four new faces pulled up chairs at the kitchen table: two teenage girls, Jemima and Lacey; an even younger boy called Toby; and an old geezer in his sixties who everyone, apparently, called Uncle George.

The two girls looked at me and giggled. Sal swatted them with a tea towel. “Ignore ’em. Boy crazy, those two.”

I’d been accused of the same when I was their age, so I spared them a grin as I took a seat between Lacey and Uncle George. “Hey. I’m Harry.”

“We know,” Lacey said. “We saw your blog.”

I cringed. “Oh god. Really?”

For all I had a six-figure following, it still surprised and unnerved me when my real life collided with the online mask. I rarely showed my face on my blog for the sake of my physiotherapy patients, but the rest of it was all me—my life, as I lived it. Sometimes I regretted splashing it all over the Internet, but then I’d remember that regrets cancelled out the lessons I’d learned from my mistakes.

Or something like that. Over the years, I’d learned that I was a better teacher than the mess in my head deserved.

I left Lacey and Jemima to their giggling and turned to Uncle George. “I’m Harry. Nice to meet you.”

“George.” The old man turned to face me and held out his hand. “None of this ‘uncle’ nonsense. Can’t think why this young lot harp on about it.”

There was humour in his faded eyes that I’d hopefully understand over time. I peered at the newspaper he was reading. The headline alarmed me until I realised that the paper was a month old.

“Terrible business,” George said when he saw me looking. “What humans can do to each other.”

“Who cares what humans do to each other?” A new voice—female—came from behind me. “There’s too many on the planet anyway. It’s what humans do to horses that we care about.” A petite, dark-haired girl who looked and spoke exactly like Joe slid into the seat opposite. She picked up a fork and pointed it at George. “And don’t go lecturing me on empathy again. I’ve heard it all before.”

“Then you should know it already,” George returned mildly before returning to his paper.

The exchange was fascinating . . . and kind of lovely. In the city, anyone younger than thirty tended to stick together, like herds of sheep following the latest craze and trend. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten dinner with such a diverse age range. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten dinner with anyone that wasn’t Rhys or Angelo and Dylan. Shit. When had I become such a loner? And how was that even possible when I never seemed to have a minute to myself?

Sal dished up. Perhaps my size had given her the wrong impression about my appetite, but I was a little horrified when she heaped my plate with more carbs than I’d usually eat in a week. I wondered if there was a dog around that I could pass some off to on the sly, but Joe’s arrival distracted me from the ghost of my calorie-counting, protein-obsessed uni days.

He didn’t look at me. Just accepted a plate as full as mine and dropped into the seat beside the new woman in the room.

She elbowed him. “All right?”

Joe grunted in response, apparently preoccupied with a stack of envelopes, so she turned her attention to me. “Hi, Harry. I’m Emma. I took your booking.”

I smiled, hoping she wouldn’t notice me hiding potato under my pie. “Nice to meet you. You were right about the room. It’s perfect for writing. Lovely views.”

In my peripheral vision, Joe’s head jerked, but I forced myself to keep my eyes on Emma, noting that her eyes tightened a notch too. “It was my grandpa’s room,” she said. “He loved the big windows. Said he could keep watch over every creature on the farm.”

“I love it, too,” I said. “It’s such a calming space.”

Joe got up from the table, his chair scraping the flagstone floor. This time, I gave in and looked at him. His back was turned to me, but tight shoulders were my bread and butter, and the urge to put my hands on him was again so strong that I choked on the tiny mouthful of food I’d put in my mouth.

Emma’s gaze flickered to Joe too, but her expression was unreadable. Perhaps it was a family thing.

I wiped my mouth and drank some water. No one seemed to have noticed my foot-in-mouth moment or that I was struggling to look away from Joe as he pulled a six-pack from the fridge and popped the top on a can of Stella.

He turned as abruptly as he’d left the table and offered me a can with a jerk of his chin. I shook my head. “I’m good, thanks, mate.”

He grunted and gave the can to George. Then he picked up his plate and left the room.

His departure did odd things to me. Things I couldn’t quite decipher, let alone explain. I’d met people like Joe before—aloof and moody—but I’d always seen a glimmer of something else in them. A light, perhaps. A way in. It had taken me weeks to get Angelo to talk when we’d started working together, but I’d absolutely believed that he would . . . eventually. Joe was different. Not a client or even a friend—but his silence still bothered me.

A little while later, Emma swapped places with George. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you. I had grand plans to greet you with some homemade cake or something and show you around, but I bottled it at the last minute.”

“Bottled it? Not that scary, am I?”

“No. It’s not you . . . it’s—never mind. I’m sorry you got stuck with Joe. He’s not always so rude.”

So I hadn’t imagined it. Or the strange compulsion to defend him. “He was perfectly pleasant to me. Showed me the house. There was no cake, though.” Like you would’ve eaten it.

Emma took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking enough to mirror the horribly familiar disquiet in my own gut. I stared at them, wondering if I was imagining the buzz of anxiety coursing through her, and pushed my half-empty plate away. Great. I’d been here five minutes and I was already having some kind of meltdown.

“Do you want to see the horses?”

I jerked back to the present. “What?”

“The horses,” Emma repeated softly. “I can give you that tour now, if you like?”

I didn’t know much about horses, but curiosity got the better of me, and lacking any better ideas, I nodded and got to my feet. “Lead the way.”

Outside, I felt much better. The jitters I’d worked so hard to escape floated away on the summer breeze, and I gazed around the working yard with new eyes. Buildings I’d mistaken for barns were clearly stables, their half-doors open, revealing a horse or two in each one.

“We don’t double many up,” Emma said. “Most of them are too cranky to share, but Tauna and Carric bunk up together. They’ve never been apart.”

“Are they rescue horses?”

“Kind of. They don’t belong to us, though. They’re Dex’s. He’s got a place in Plymouth, but it’s too noisy for these old girls, so he keeps them here. Pays us enough for the space to keep the water on.”

“Sounds like a good bloke.”

Emma smiled. “He is. His fella has a Michelin-starred restaurant attached to their stables, so his place is rolling in it. Dex has bailed us out so many times I’ve lost count. The least we can do is take care of his girls.” She clicked her teeth and one of the elderly horses ambled to the half-door. It fumbled its whiskered lips on the wood until Emma gave it a treat from her pocket. “Do you want to give her one?”

“Me?” I eyed the horse—Tauna, apparently—with a healthy dose of apprehension. She seemed gentle enough, but I’d never been this close to a horse in my life, and her teeth were huge. “Um, okay.”

Emma passed me a cube of something grassy. “Hold your hand out flat and keep your thumb tucked in. If you don’t want to do that, you can balance the treat on your fist.”

Her gaze was playful, so I figured that only idiots took the second option. I held my hand out to Tauna, expecting her to come at me with her teeth, but of course, she didn’t. She took the treat like it was made of glass and bumped my hand with her nose. A thank you? Who the hell knew?

Not me.

Emma took me around all of the stables and paddocks, including a couple of Shetlands who’d recently retired from the beach and a pair of donkeys who’d arrived from India a few months ago.

“Ronnie and Reggie,” she said. “Joe and George think they’re hilarious when they’ve been on the whisky, but the names stuck.”

I couldn’t help smiling as I studied the donkeys. “They’re more delicate than I thought they’d be, and much prettier.”

“Were you expecting Eeyore?”

“Probably.” One of the donkeys came over. I was an expert at treat giving by now, so I held my hand out and fed it a grassy cube. “What’s in the field with the hill?”

“Shadow. He’s our only stallion, but I don’t take visitors up there. He’s too volatile.”

“Hormones, eh?”

“Something like that. He was Grandpa’s last horse from the old stud we used to have years ago. Never handled by anyone else. Even Joe struggles with him—” The landline phone attached to Emma’s back pocket rang loud enough to send the donkeys skittering away. She reached for it, but it cut off. “Someone’s picked up in the house. God knows who. Joe’s horrible on the phone.”

Emma stared out over the fields and paddocks. Her shaking had eased as we’d walked around, and she seemed calm enough now for me to take a chance. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Sal said something about you being better online than in person, and you seemed pretty freaked out about meeting me today. Do you have an anxiety disorder?”

“Wow.” Emma shook her head slightly. “You’re the first person around here to ever work that out for themselves. It took me years to explain it to this lot.” She jerked her head towards the house. “Not that they aren’t sympathetic, of course.”

“I think it’s difficult to imagine if you haven’t experienced it or studied it yourself.”

“You’ve studied it? I thought you were a personal trainer?”

“I’m a physiotherapist, actually. PT is part of that, but the work I do is more holistic.”

“Holistic Harry.” Emma nodded.

I snorted. “That’s my blog. And I started that as therapy for myself.”

Emma’s eyes widened slightly, but any response she may have made was cut off by Joe coming up behind us, his face far more animated than I’d seen so far.

“Police on the phone,” he said. “There’s a pony loose at Crantock Beach.”

“What?” Emma glanced around quickly. “It’s not one of ours.”

“That’s not why they called. It’s running riot and they need someone with a horsebox to come out and catch it. George is coming with me, but we’ll need to put Ava in with Mani and get a stall ready.”

“On it.” Emma nodded like this kind of thing happened all the time. Perhaps it did.

Joe spared me a glance as he turned away, and I sucked in a breath. His dark blue eyes had been on my mind since I’d first seen them this afternoon, but they’d been flat then—dull, even. Now they glittered, alive with whatever it was that got him out of bed in the morning, and I couldn’t look away.

I tracked him even after he’d turned his back on me and returned to the house. And I saw his face later that night when I closed my own eyes and tried fruitlessly to sleep.