Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [11]
It struck Asha how her tiny community was somewhat similar to B.A.’s island in Scotland. Her oldest sister owned the small island in the Hebrides, which had a population of less than three hundred. The Windmill was similarly isolated, and people who worked and lived here were just as eccentric, wanting a place in the world where things were slower. That was why she fought her father’s recent pressure for her to sell.
Asha wasn’t getting rich. She’d returned to take over running the businesses three years ago, just after her mother’s death. She needed a purpose in life. She’d envied B.A.’s Falgannon, and sensed The Windmill could provide her with the same satisfaction. As long as everyone was paid and she was able to maintain the complex in the same style, Asha was happy here.
Jago’s comment interrupted her reverie. “It’s also a little odd to find a Scot running the place.”
Asha pushed her empty pie plate aside. “Though my mum was a Scot, she was raised in Kentucky from the time she was nine-years-old. I grew up on both sides of the pond. One of the bones of contention in my parents’ marriage and then divorce was that she never felt comfortable in Britain. She’d always want to come back here. The Windmill holds many wonderful recollections for me . . . it’s a storehouse of memories for many people, which is why I’d like to see it continue. In some ways, we’re in a time capsule. When I-64 took away the traffic, everything stood still. We’ve remained in a time warp, stuck in the 1960s around here with a passion.”
“You dumplings need anything?” Netta had come to remove their empty dishes.
Jago shook his head. “The meal was delicious. I look forward to being well-fed while I’m staying here.”
Netta stood patiently waiting for more information. When Asha rolled her eyes, Miss Gossip of the Year finally caved in. “Fudge, you ruin all the fun, Asha. I’ll just have to needle it out of you later.”
Jago watched Netta vanish into the kitchen, then remarked, “She’s a character.”
“All at The Windmill are.” Asha shifted in the booth, leaned her back against the wall and stretched out her legs along the seat. “So, what are you doing in my little nowhere burgh? With that accent you’re on the wrong side of the pond.”
“Speaking of accents—burgh?” he teased, “You can take the lass out of Scotland, but you can’t take the Scot out of the lass.”
She stuck out the tip of her tongue at him. “Och, roots run deep. Why the thistle is our national flower; they often go down thirty feet. So, what drew you to my burgh?” she asked again.
“I’m a developer. I’m in the area to scout around.” He watched her intently, obviously waiting to see her reaction to that pronouncement.
Asha just stared, unblinking. Oh, bugger. Sexy lips or no, she’d just got the kicker of a feeling Jago Fitzgerald was the front man for Trident Ventures, the big money people trying to buy the horse farm and The Windmill. There’d already been two offers and counter-offers; however, Trident was pressuring her father to include The Windmill as part of the package. Mac didn’t like her living in Kentucky, wanted her closer, so he used the offer as a lever to get Asha to return to England to live. She’d flatly refused. The businesses were hers, and there wasn’t anything Mac could do to force her to sell. Evidently, Trident had decided to send their rep to negotiate face-to-face.
“Never trust a pretty man,” she muttered under her breath.
Jago leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “Beg pardon?”
She blinked innocently as though she hadn’t spoken. “Scout? For what?”
“As you said, this wide spot in the road is