Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) by Jennie Marsland Page A

a lass.” Martin’s voice was low and easy, followed by the sounds of him removing the mare’s harness. Gyp barked and jumped, earning a quiet chuckle. “Daft old lad, are you ever going to act your age? Go on, now.”
    Chelle discovered that she’d stopped milking to listen. Irritated with herself, she turned back to the cow and sent milk hissing into the pail. When Martin stilled, she knew he’d heard her. He appeared at the entrance to the stall, blocking her light. “Go on inside. I’ll finish out here.”
    Chelle looked up. She wasn’t sure why, perhaps just because it reminded her of home, but she felt childishly determined to finish the chore. “Martin, I grew up on a farm. I’m used to milking, and Leah’s asleep. I have time. Why don’t you start with the other cow?”
    His eyes flashed irritation as he took a step closer. “You’re here to look after Leah, not the stock. If she wakes early, Jessie will have to tend to her in the middle of getting supper. Go on inside.”
    His voice held no warmth now. Clearly, she’d overstepped a boundary, though she had no idea what it was. Without replying, Chelle stood and edged past him.
    In the cramped space, he seemed larger than ever. His legs would make two of hers in thickness, as would his forearms, revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of his cotton shirt. He exuded power along with the scents of clean sweat and fresh air. Was he intentionally trying to intimidate her? If so, he succeeded. The thought irked her, so she stopped and rested a hand on the cow’s side. “If I’ve done something to annoy you, tell me and I’ll try not to do it again.”
    Martin took Chelle’s place on the stool and looked up with an exasperated scowl. “Can’t take no for an answer, can you? I’m used to doing my own chores, is all, and I’d prefer that you leave me to it.”
    “Of course.” Chelle flashed him an irritating grin and took her time leaving the byre. There might be a glimmer of attraction between them, but if this was how it affected him, it couldn’t die out fast enough.
    If you and I were to spend a week together, Mr. Rainnie, we’d be at each other’s throats by the end of it.
    But perhaps she was being a bit unfair. It couldn’t be easy for Martin to see her looking after his daughter and doing chores that his wife had probably done. As Aunt Caroline had said, he was doing the best he could to deal with his grief—one thing he and Chelle had in common.
    She fed Leah when she woke, then convinced Jessie to let her make buttermilk biscuits to go with the corned beef and cabbage for supper. Poignant memories of her mother crowded in as she mixed and cut the dough. Chelle wasn’t used to baking with a coal range, but the biscuits came out better than she’d feared they might, if not quite as well as she’d hoped.
    Martin came in as she was taking them from the oven. Leah toddled over to him, clutching the rag doll he’d bought her last week. He scooped the little girl up in his arms. He might feel the need to be prickly with Chelle, but Leah already had him wrapped around her little finger, and she knew it. The man was infatuated. It didn’t seem possible that less than three weeks ago, he’d wanted his daughter kept out of his sight.
    Maybe that’s why he’s crusty with me. I was close to his daughter while he was keeping her at arm’s length, and he’s a little jealous of that. If so, Chelle could forgive him, as long as he loved Leah as she deserved.
    Chelle chatted with Jessie over supper while Martin ate in silence. Then, with the meal over, the dishes done, and the baby settled for the night, she slipped out to sit on the doorstep to enjoy the cool breeze sweeping down from the hillside. The house didn’t boast a summer kitchen and perhaps in this climate didn’t really need one, but today it would have been a blessing.
    Minutes later, a few stray notes from Martin’s fiddle drifted from the open window. He played the first few bars