Her coat scraped against the welts on her skin, each movement sending jolts of pain through her already sore muscles. She wrapped her arms around herself, the tightness in her chest growing with every step.
As she walked inside, she braced herself, her nerves on edge, half-expecting Niall to appear at any moment.
Warmth radiated from the large stove, tucked under a brick arch in the cosy kitchen. Shannon had spent many nights sitting by that oak table, chatting and drinking beer with Harry…and Niall.
Those memories left a bitterness in her dry mouth.
“Hang your coat up and go on through. I’ll bring you a bowl of stew once I’ve dished it out,” Harry instructed, already taking the lid off the pot.
After kicking off her boots, she hung the coat, then wandered through the kitchen to the sitting room where the fire crackled, glowing with a hypnotic flame that seemed to beckon her closer.
Dark red walls displayed portraits of Harry’s ancestors, their faces watching over the room. Horse sketches and watercolour landscapes added a whimsical touch.
Golden cups, trophies, plaques, and the occasional random sheet of paper that Harry had shoved aside covered the heavy mahogany furniture.
She padded closer to the fireplace, choosing the hunter green leather wingback chair to her left. The right one belonged to Harry. No one else dared to sit there, not unless they wanted to be thrown in the dung heap.
“Here you go. There’s a glass of Shiraz, too.” Harry set a large glass of red wine on the side table next to her chair and handed her a steaming bowl of stew.
He left her alone for a few minutes, then returned with his own portion and a generous measure of brandy.
“Thanks, Harry,” she said around a mouthful of soft potato.
“Anytime.” Harry dunked a chunk of bread into thegravy. “Didn’t like the thought of you being all alone tonight.”
He nodded toward her hunched shoulders and the way she had drawn her knees into her chest. “You look lost…sad.”
“I’m right here, Harry. Where I belong.” Her words were soft, but they carried the weight of the truth.
Harry forked out a sizable chunk of meat and held it out to Jackson, who waited at his feet. The fire crackled and spat, its warmth filling the room and adding to the comfortable silence.
They didn’t need words to share the space. Shannon picked at her food, still queasy, her gaze drifting to Harry as he fed most of his dinner to the dog.
A large, ornate clock on the mantle ticked, its rhythm loud.
She didn’t realise her eyes were growing heavy or that her head had slowly started to dip. So when she finally blinked open her eyes, the bowl was gone, and a thick patchwork quilt covered her.
Surprised, she blinked in her surroundings, finding Harry slouched in his chair, his fingers wrapped around a glass of brandy resting on his thigh. The man had an uncanny ability to never spill a drop of alcohol, even in his sleep.
Cigarette smoke clung to the air and Jackson lay curled up on the rug in front of the dying embers, his eyes flicking open when Shannon shifted.
“It’s okay, boy. I have to get to bed.”
Shannon glanced at the clock and groaned. Heralarm would go off in five hours and she’d be back on the yard, shovelling shit.
She folded the quilt, rose from the chair, and tiptoed through the kitchen, grabbing her coat from the hook on her way past. Outside, a wintry wind howled, urging her to walk faster along the short path to the yard.
Thankfully, the rain had stopped, but the night sky hung low and heavy, the darkness smothering the stars. As she neared the stables, Bucky appeared from a stable, his silhouette barely visible in the shadows.
“Hey, Bucky!” she called out, offering a forced smile as she quickened her pace. “Anything wrong?”
“Nah. Heard a noise. Nothing to worry about.” His voice drifted through the dim light. “Feeling better, Shan?”
“I’m getting there, thanks,” she replied, her voice tight. “See ya in the morning.”
Bucky continued checking the stables as Shannon bounded up the steps, her bruises pulsing with each step. The door was ajar. She could’ve sworn she’d locked it before leaving.
She hesitated, peering through the gap, straining for any sign of movement. The seconds stretched. Nothing.
