His Cinderella Heiress

The twinkle deepened.

‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, indeed. I’ll not compare you to a bull.’

And he chuckled.

If she could, she’d have closed her eyes and drummed her heels. Instead, she had to manage a weak smile. She had to wait. She was totally in this man’s hands and she didn’t like it one bit.

It was her own fault. She’d put herself in a position of dependence and she depended on nobody.

Except this man.

‘So what do they call you?’ He was manoeuvring the planks, checking the ground under them, setting them up so each had a small amount of rock underneath to make them secure. He was working as if he had all the time in the world. As if she did.

She didn’t. She was late.

She was late and covered in bog.

‘What would who call me?’ she snapped.

‘Your Mam and Daddy?’

As if. ‘Jo,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘Just Jo?’

‘Just Jo.’ She glared.

‘Then I’m Finn,’ he said, ignoring her glare. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Just Jo.’ He straightened, putting his weight on the planks, seeing how far they sank. He was acting as if he pulled people out of bogs all the time.

No. He pulled bulls out of bogs, she thought, and that was what she felt like. A stupid, bog-stuck bovine.

‘You’re Australian?’

‘Yes,’ she said through gritted teeth, and he nodded as if Australians stuck in bogs were something he might have expected.

‘Just admiring the view, were we?’ The laughter was still in his voice, an undercurrent to his rich Irish brogue, and it was a huge effort to stop her teeth from grinding in frustration. Except they were too busy chattering.

‘I’m admiring the frogs,’ she managed. ‘There are frogs in here. All sorts.’

He smiled, still testing the planks, but his smile said he approved of her attempt to join him in humour.

‘Fond of frogs?’

‘I’ve counted eight since I’ve been stuck.’

He grinned. ‘I’m thinking that’s better than counting sheep. If you’d nodded off I might not have seen you from the road.’ He stood back, surveyed her, surveyed his planks and then put a boot on each end of the first plank and started walking. The end of the planks were a foot from her. He went about two-thirds along, then stopped and crouched. And held out his hands.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Put your hands in mine. Hold fast. Then don’t struggle, just let yourself relax and let me pull.’

‘I can...’

‘You can’t do anything,’ he told her. ‘If you struggle you’ll make things harder. You can wiggle your toes if you like; that’ll help with the suction, but don’t try and pull out. If you were Horace I’d be putting a chain under you but Horace isn’t good at following orders. If you stay limp like a good girl, we’ll have you out of here in no time.’

Like a good girl. The patronising toerag...

He was saving her. What was she doing resenting it? Anger was totally inappropriate. But then, she had been stuck for almost an hour, growing more and more furious with herself. She’d also been more than a little bit frightened by the time he’d arrived. And cold. Reaction was setting in and she was fighting really hard to hold her temper in check.

‘Where’s a good wall to kick when you need it?’ Finn asked and she blinked.

‘Pardon?’

‘I’d be furious too, if I were you. The worst thing in the world is to want to kick and all you have to kick is yourself.’

She blinked. Laughter and empathy too? ‘S...sorry.’

‘That’s okay. Horace gets tetchy when he gets stuck, so I’d imagine you’re the same. Hands—put ’em in mine and hold.’

‘They’re covered in mud. You won’t be able to hold me.’

‘Try me,’ he said and held out his hands and waited for her to put hers in his.

It felt wrong. To hold this guy’s hands and let her pull... Jo Conaill spent her life avoiding dependence on anyone or anything.

What choice did she have? She put out her hands and held.

His hands were broad and toughened from manual work. She’d guessed he was a farmer, and his hands said she was right. He manoeuvred his fingers to gain maximum hold and she could feel the strength of him. But he was wincing.

‘You’re icy. How long have you been here?’

‘About an hour.’

‘Is that right?’ He was shifting his grip, trying for maximum hold. ‘Am I the first to come along? Is this road so deserted, then?’

‘You’re not a local?’

‘I’m not.’ He was starting to take her weight, sitting back on his heels and leaning backward. Edging back as the planks started to tilt.

The temptation to struggle was almost irresistible but she knew it wouldn’t help. She forced herself to stay limp.

Channel Horace, she told herself.

‘Good girl,’ Finn said approvingly and she thought: What—did the guy have the capacity to read minds?

He wasn’t pulling hard. He was simply letting his weight tug her forward, shifting only to ease the balance of the planks. But his hold was implacable, a steady, relentless pull, and finally she felt the squelch as the mud eased its grip. She felt her feet start to lift. At last.

He still wasn’t moving fast. His tug was slow and steady, an inch at a time. He was acting as if he had all the time in the world.

‘So I’m not a local,’ he said idly, as if they were engaged in casual chat, not part of a chain where half the chain was stuck in mud. ‘But I’m closer to home than you are.’