The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) by Lauren Gilley Read Free Book Online

big purchase. A lot of risk for us. Look into it. Go by and talk to Richards, tour the place, see what you make of it. Then we’ll vote.”
     

Four
     
    “Dad, please go home.” Emmie pressed the phone close to her ear and dropped her voice to a whisper, not wanting anyone in the barn to overhear her. “I can’t pick you up tonight; I have evening lessons. Please, please just pay your tab and go home.”
                  There was a long pause on Karl’s end, the sound of his labored breath rushing across the receiver.
                  “Where’s Maryann?” Emmie asked quietly. “She was supposed to be home today.”
                  “Well, she ain’t.”
                  “Dad. Go home–”
                  There was a loud throat-clearing behind her and she jumped. “I gotta go,” she told her dad. “I’ll call you later, and you better be at home.” She disconnected knowing that he’d be a puddle on the floor of Bell Bar in a few hours, feeling helpless as hell and sick to death of it.
                  Fred stood behind her, looking apologetic. “Someone asking about the farm, chica . Wants to talk to you.”
                  She took a deep breath that didn’t do much to fortify her. “Where is he?”
                  “At the tables. I told him you were busy, said he might need to wait.”
                  “I’ve got lessons later, so might as well get it over with.” Another breath. “Thanks, Fred.”
                  The “tables” were the picnic tables around the side of the barn, in the shade of the roof’s overhang, with a nice view of both arenas and whatever was happening in them. A man sat at the nearest, sitting with his back to the tabletop, elbows braced back against it, watching Melissa Harper put her horse through its paces. He was blonde, that rich wheat color that always seemed to come with a really thick headful of hair. He wore a faded chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows, jeans, and an impressive pair of scuffed black boots. He reached to scratch at his bristly chin and Emmie caught the flash of metal on his hand: heavy masculine rings, one on each finger.
                  His head turned toward her as she approached, and her step faltered.
                  His eyes . She’d never seen such wintry blue eyes, almost colorless, and luminous though he had them narrowed. She would have said his face was sharp and foxy, and it would have been a compliment.
                  “Hi,” she greeted, recovering, stepping up to the table. “My groom said you wanted to talk about the farm.”
                  He nodded, and something about the set of his mouth looked like he was about to smile. His eyes raked over her, top-down and then back up. “That’s right.”
                  The voice!
                  There was no mistaking it. This was the guy from the other night, who’d unlocked the gate for her. The mystery Englishman neighbor.
                  Thrown by the realization, wanting to squirm under his scrutiny, she kicked her chin up and said, “You really need to talk to Mr. Richards. I’m just the barn manager.”
                  “Right.” His gaze lingered a moment on her breasts then came finally back to her face. “I’ll get to that. I wanna see the place first. If you’ve got time for a tour.”
                  “I…” She did, but he’d set all her nerves on edge.
                  He stood, hands going in his pockets, and she saw he wasn’t much taller than her. Five-six at the most. A compact little guy, but well-built. She liked how casual and very un-developer-like he seemed, standing in front of her with patient expectation.
                  “Can I ask why you’re interested in the farm?”