“Fine. Tell me what to do.” I move closer to the horse, expecting him to dance away from me. He doesn’t. He just turns his head to the side and watches me like he’s bored. Big “Bored” Dick. It strikes me as funny so I can’t stop smiling. This is utter madness. Ireland has made me certifiable.

“Take my hand. Pull yourself up.”

I laugh. “You’re insane. I’m not a gymnast.”

“Fine. Have it your way.” He throws his right leg over the front of the horse and then slides off, down the side of him, landing right next to me. A whiff of his laundry hits me, making me want to breathe more of him in. Something about the fresh air and the scent of him … yum-Eee. He hands me the reins. “Hold him for me, would ye?”

Before I can answer, he’s gone. I hold the well-worn leather in my hand as he jogs over to his porch, takes a chair from it, and jogs back, placing it on the ground next to me. He takes the reins and puts them back over the horse’s head, grabs some of its mane, leaps up onto its back so his stomach is on it cross-wise, and then he sits up while bringing his right leg over to side astride. No wonder I didn’t see him get up before. It happened in two seconds with not even a grunt on his part. Maybe he’s a gymnast.

“Wow. You’re like … a circus guy.”

“Use the chair.”

“What?” I look over at it suspiciously.

“Put the chair here behind my leg and stand on it so you can get on.”

I pick the furniture up and start walking closer. “Is Big Dick going to be okay with that?”

“Sure. He’s used to it.”

I wonder how many other girls have ridden Donal's Big Dick. It makes me giggle in my head to think of it like that. I think that’s what gives me the courage to actually do as he instructed. I’ll show those chicks that I can hang with this horsey stuff. This giant, warhorse stuff.

I’m able to get enough height that I can put one leg over the back of the horse, but he’s way higher than I am and I look like I’m doing a stand-up split.

“Grab my hand,” Donal says, holding it out.

I do and then he leverages me up with the muscles in his arm and back. For a second I think I’m going to fall, but I grab onto his waist and struggle hard enough that I finally get my butt evenly on the horse’s back. Big Dick is very warm. He smells nice too. Now I know what I was smelling on Donal's shirt.

When I look down, I feel like I’m looking out my apartment window. The ground is way too far away. I cling to Donal like lint on wool.

“Try not to tense up. The ride will be nicer if you’re relaxed.”

“Will Big Dick throw me off?”

Donal makes a clucking sound and the horse begins to walk. I squeeze Donal harder. My butt muscles clench up so much, I’m instantly two inches taller.

“No. Never. These horses were bred by the travellers. They’re trained to babysit the children.”

“What?” I straighten my back, not sure I’m hearing him correctly with my face pressed into his shoulders. I rest my chin on his back and angle my face up. The breeze blows on my heated skin and pushes my loose hairs away. It feels amazing, and for the first time all morning, I don’t feel sick. My butt muscles relax just a tad.

“They pull wagons all day, and in the evening when it’s time to prepare food and then bed down, the children play on, around, and under the horses. The horses are expected to remain calm and not hurt them. They are the babysitters while the adults take care of the chores.”

I’m not sure I believe him, but it sure sounds romantic. “So why do you have one? Do you have kids that need horse babysitting?”

“No. But I like to try the old ways of farming from time to time and Big Dick’s a fair hand at that.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he’s ace at pulling a plow.”

I laugh. Then I realize he’s not kidding and stop. “You actually use an old-school plow out here?” I twist my head around and take in all the acreage. I’m no expert, but that sounds like a helluva long day.

“Sometimes. Not often.” Donal sounds proud and matter-of-fact about it. I’m glad my laughing at the idea didn’t make him defensive. I love a man who has this kind of confidence. I don’t see it often. It makes me want to know him better.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to grill him some more, but the scenery that’s unfolding takes my breath away. There are green hills as far as the eye can see, and a low, stone wall meanders over the side and top of one until it disappears into the distance.

“Is this all yours?”

“Aye,” he says softly. “Been in the family for centuries. ’Twas me father’s before mine and his father’s before that, and so on.”

“Are those your sheep?” I ask, pointing to some white dots on one of the hills. Big Dick’s slow plodding rhythm is easy to match with the movement of my hips. It would be a lot easier, though, if he wasn’t as wide as the Bambino — I feel like I’m doing a split up here — but I can’t say I find it uncomfortable. It’s actually pretty nice seeing everything from up here with Donal's giant warm body in front of mine. I try not to wiggle with pleasure against him.

“Aye. I was just about to check on them before you arrived.”

“Don’t let me get in your way. Just do your thing. I’ll sit up here and admire the view.”

We continue on in silence until we get to the sheep. Normally I’d feel compelled to fill that void with words, but here in this place, it just seems wrong. I love the sound of Ireland at rest. Is that weird? Yeah, for me it is. Definitely. Maybe I have a fever.

When we’re close enough to the sheep to spit on them, I realize two things: first, there are some gnarly looking sheep vajay-jays hanging out, just like Erin said. Ew on that. And … there are babies! Fuzzy ones! One of them is super tiny, too!

“Oh my god!” I squeal. “Babies! Baby lambs!”

He turns his head to try and look at me. He’s smiling in a bemused kind of way. “You like lambs?”

“They’re so fluffy,” I say, all starry-eyed. “What’s not to love?” I look up at his impossibly green eyes, a shade exactly the same as the grass surrounding us, and fall a little in lust.

“Aye,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine. “We’re of a like mind.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ERIN

I GLANCE IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR and see Ridlee mounting…Is that a chair? Okay, whatever. I really have to get my bag from the B&B. I have a horrible feeling that I left it on the kitchen table, possibly open. I’d been looking through the before and after photos of the pub and got distracted. I know how small these small towns can be and everybody wants to know everybody else's business.

I wouldn’t put it past Mrs. O’Grady to go through my shit. Then it’ll be round the town in no time that I am the owner of a newly renovated pub in Boston and not — as I mean to make any interested parties believe — the unfortunate heiress to a piece of shit bar in Boston that is hemorrhaging money. If Padraig Flanagan gets wind of that little fact, my great plan will be well and truly scuppered.

I park the car a smidge too close to the front lawn, murdering a gnome holding a fishing pole. Quickly, I bury the gnome behind a large, leafy bush and run inside.

“Helloooo?” No sign of old Ma O’Grady, thankfully. My bag is on the table, just as I left it, the photos peeking out from the unzipped opening. Relief floods through me and I vow to be more careful. I shake off the idea that I’m being too paranoid by not trusting this nice little old lady. I know that in small towns in the west of Ireland gossiping is a bone fide past-time, enjoyed by all. To be fair, that’s probably true of the entire country. I also know that what Ma O’Grady doesn’t know about the inhabitants of this town and the next one over too, is nobody’s business.