The Mighty Quinns: Dermot

“Farm,” she said. “It’s a farm, not a ranch.”

“I thought you said it was a dairy.”

“A dairy… farm.” She cleared her throat nervously. Was this man really answering her ad?

“So, do you need a hand? Because I need a job and somewhere to stay.”

“You want to work for me?” At first, Rachel couldn’t believe her good fortune. But then, as she began to consider his offer, she was forced to contemplate why a man as handsome as this one was willing to take a low-paying job without any chance for advancement and virtually no benefits besides all the free goat’s milk he could drink. “You don’t look like a guy who’s spent much time on a farm.”

“And you look nothing like a goat farmer,” he said, a teasing smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I’m going to be in Mapleton for six weeks. I need a job to occupy my time. And I need a place to stay, somewhere cheap. I’m willing to work hard if you’ll give me room and board and a decent wage.”

“How decent?” she asked.

“I don’t know. What were you looking to pay?”

“Full-time, I should offer you two hundred a week, plus meals and lodging,” she said. “I can afford a hundred a week. Cash. Plus room and board.”

“A hundred sounds good to me. As long as the meals are decent.” He moved to grab another sack and loaded it into the back of the truck. “All of these?”

She nodded as she studied him shrewdly. No, this couldn’t possibly be happening to her. Men like this didn’t just drop into her life. There must be something more to his story, maybe something… criminal? “What’s your name?”

“Dermot,” he said. “Dermot Quinn.”

“Where are you from?”

“Seattle.” He straightened, rubbing his hands on the front of his jeans. “Is this an interview now? As you can see, I’m strong. I’m pretty smart and handy around the house. I’ll do what I’m told, unless I don’t agree with it, and then I’ll tell you.”

“You’re good at home repairs?”

He nodded. “I can build you just about anything you’d like if you’ve got tools and materials. Hell, I could build you a boat.”

“I don’t need a boat,” she said. Rachel looked at him intently. “Is there anything that I should know about you before I offer you this job?”

His eyebrow slowly rose as he gave her a quizzical look. “I… prefer beer to wine. I don’t like cooked vegetables. I’m not very good at doing my laundry. And I sleep in the buff. Is that what you’re getting at?”

An image of him, naked, his limbs twisted in her bedsheets, flashed in Rachel’s mind. “Actually, I was going to ask if you have a criminal record,” she said. “But I guess the rest is good to know.” She couldn’t help but smile at the confusion on his face.

“No!” he said. “Of course not. I’ve never even had a speeding ticket.”

“If you don’t have a criminal record, why aren’t you looking for a real job? A guy with your… talents?”

“Is this an imaginary job you’re offering?”

“No. But I mean a job that pays more than slave wages and doesn’t involve cleaning gutters and shoveling goat poop. A job where your pretty face might get you more than three dollars an hour.”

“It’s a long story,” he said. “If you hire me, I promise, I’ll explain it all to you.”

Though Rachel wasn’t sure she ought to believe him, there was something about this man that intrigued her. Yet, for all she knew, he could be a consummate liar… or a con man… or maybe a serial killer. “Hang on,” she said.

Rachel ran up the steps of the feed store and poked her head inside. “Harley, Sam, come out here. I need you.”

“Finally giving up on those feed bags?” Harley asked.

“No. I need you to be a witness.” The two men followed her back outside. Rachel pointed to the man standing behind her truck. “Tell them your name,” she called.

“Dermot Quinn.”

Frowning, she turned back to Harley and Sam. “See this guy? He’s coming to work on my farm. If I turn up the victim of some horrible crime, this is the guy to look for.” She glanced back at Dermot. “Where are you from again?”

“Seattle,” he said.

“Do you have any identification with you?” Harley asked.

Dermot pulled his wallet from his back pocket and took out his driver’s license, then handed it to Rachel. “It’s all there. I can give you references if you like. People who’ll vouch for my character.” He withdrew a business card and held it out to her. “Here. You can call my office.”

Harley looked over Rachel’s shoulder at the identification. “Looks legit to me. But I’d make him sleep in the barn.”

“He looks trustworthy to me,” Sam said. “And he’s a nice lookin’ guy, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” He wagged his finger at Dermot. “Behave yourself, mister, and we won’t have a problem. Get out of hand and old Eddie is likely to shoot you in the ass.”

Dermot smiled. “I’ll be the model of propriety.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Harley muttered, “but anyone who can use big words like that is probably no one to worry about.”

The two farmers wandered back inside. “Who is Eddie?” Dermot asked.

“My uncle. He lives on the farm, too. He’s not as bad as everyone says he is. He’s just a bit… grumpy. It would be best to avoid him.” Rachel rubbed her palms together. “I guess you have a job,” she said.

“Then, I guess I’d better finish loading this feed,” Dermot replied.

THE RIDE TO THE FARM offered Dermot a chance to find out a little more about his beautiful new boss. Her widowed father had died the previous year and she’d come home three months before his death to help care for him. She had two older brothers and an older sister and had worked as an artist in Chicago.

When she pulled off the road and into a driveway, Dermot’s attention turned to his new home. Clover Meadow Farm was right out of the movies with its red barn, fieldstone silo and white clapboard house. The old Victorian sat back from the road, surrounded by a grove of tall maple trees. A smaller stone house stood behind it, a ramshackle porch running the length of the facade.

An old man sat on the porch of the stone house, his wrinkled brow furrowed, his dark eyes observant. A small black goat sat on his lap, also watching warily.

“This is it,” Rachel said as she hopped out of the truck.

Dermot grabbed his bag from the back of the pickup before following her across the yard. He felt something tug on his leg and glanced down to find the little goat nibbling at the bottom of his jeans.

He stepped away, but the goat was undeterred. “Hey, cut that out.”

“Benny, shoo,” Rachel said. She looked at the old man on the porch. “Do not let that goat in the house again, you hear me?”

The old man slowly stood. “I hear you. Who is this?”

“Uncle Eddie, this is Dermot Quinn. I just hired him to help out on the farm. He’s got six weeks with nothing to do. I figure we can get him to help us finish some of the repair work around here.”

The frown on the old man’s face grew deeper. “Dermot Quinn? What kind of name is that?”