Chapter Two
Nate
Little Willow Farm was really quite nice, Nate realised, as the farmhand that Ivor had commandeered led them up to the site. It was welcoming and homey, with well-tended flower beds and wooden signposts that pointed to ‘Little Willow Petting Zoo’, ‘Little Willow Windmill’ and ‘The Secret Lake’, although how a lake could be secret in a landscape with no hills, Nate failed to grasp. The name served a purpose though. It was cute.
The plant machinery was already up at the site and the breeze was full of buttercups and summer. His students were milling around and once again, no one had taken the initiative to even bring up the plans on any of their devices, and Nate knew they had the site maps because he had personally emailed them out. He had also uploaded them onto the Archaeology Department app that he’d remodelled from one of Lucia’s digs in an attempt to drag the department into the twenty-first century.
Instead of scouting the fields, they were milling around like sheep. Waiting.
Ivor could deal with them, give them a pep talk, inspire them, promise them a life of discovering gold hoards or ancient Roman relics. Which, by the way, were very few and far between. Very. Nate would give them the cold, hard realities of working on a dig site.
There wouldn’t be an awful lot for them to do today, but it would be good for the students to be there from the start, to see the entire process.
Bypassing Ivor holding court, Nate grabbed his plans from the masters student that he’d dumped them with earlier, and headed over to the men laughing by the plant machinery.
One of them was obviously in the middle of a story and Nate slowed his steps so as not to arrive mid-punch line.
‘You know what Rebecca’s like, there was nothing left of him once she’d finished.’ They roared with laughter. Nate stopped a couple of feet away.
‘I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of your Rebecca. She’s a force to be reckoned with, Jack.’ The older man’s accent was round and thick.
‘No, neither would I.’ Jack laughed, turning to Nate and pulling his threadbare t-shirt straight. ‘You must be that fancy professor Laurel keeps banging on about. I’m Jack, Laurel’s big brother.’ His smile was warm and disarming, hand shoved out expectantly.
He didn’t have the same glossy hair as Laurel. In fact, unless he was told, Nate wouldn’t have put them as siblings. He grasped Jack’s hand and gave it a hearty shake.
‘No, I wish, I’m only a doctor. Nate Daley, nice to meet you.’
‘You too,’ Jack said. ‘You’ve seen Laurel, yeah?’ Nate nodded. ‘She’s so excited you’re here, thinks it’s “her time” or something like that.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jack pushed a hand through his hair and surveyed the field before speaking.
‘She’s got a degree, like you,’ he said.
Well, not quite like Nate, because he had a Masters and PhD, not just a degree, but he wasn’t about to correct Jack.
‘And she’s always wanted to dig stuff up, so there we are.’
‘Ah, right.’ Nate made a mental note to involve Laurel, if only to see if he could figure out why she was so, well, her.
‘You got the plans? I’ve finished lambing for the day, so I’ll hang around and help if you like,’ Jack said. It wasn’t so much a question, more a ‘I’ll stay here to make sure you don’t ruin my farm’.
‘Yeah, okay, that would be great.’
It would also be great to have someone around who wasn’t early twenties, i.e., his students. Yeah, he got on well with them, but still. They were young, and mildly annoying, especially in large numbers. The more buffers he could have around him the better and anyway, Jack seemed like a nice guy.
Nate could tell by the way that Jack surveyed the land, brushed his hand through the hedgerow, smoothed the collecting mud by the gate with his foot, that this was his life, this was his heart (apart from Rebecca?), this was Jack’s archaeology and Nate respected that.
Jack was so different to Laurel, so at ease with where he was and what he was doing. Laurel was combative and prickly, as if everyone was challenging her. But either way, he was here to do a job and so what if she looked at him like he was the devil incarnate.
He was here to find the Anglo-Saxon hoard of the century.
Nate recognised his own crumpled plans in the hands of an older man.
‘Ah, that’s going to be tricky, what with the furrow,’ the older man said. Nate opened his mouth to comment that it wasn’t tricky at all, the terrain was smooth, but Jack nudged him and shook his head slightly.
‘I see what you mean, Harold,’ Jack sighed and looked at the plans pensively. ‘You’re right, very tricky.’
Okay, Nate would let this play out, but he was getting these trenches dug today, even if he had to drive that digger himself. Or go to the local B it was the open, warm smile and glint in his eye when he said her name, the unabashed vulnerability. Nate felt happy jealousy curl in his stomach.
‘What the fuck?’ Jack stopped mid-stride, his face frozen in a comical grimace.
Nate followed his gaze, and said a silent thanks to everything that was holy, because there was proper, prissy, strait-laced Laurel Fletcher, in her sundress and welly boots, literally shovelling shit. She had a large bucket with her, and she was working methodically, clearing up after what must have been quite a herd of cows, judging by the sweat shining on her forehead.
‘Laurel, what’re you doing?’ Jack laughed at her. She whipped her head up furiously, strands of wavy brown hair flying in the light breeze.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m—’ she hesitated and looked around, ‘fucking doing,’ she hissed. ‘I’m cleaning up the yard after our twat of a little brother walked the cows through here for milking this morning.’
Laurel
Laurel leaned on the shovel, cocked her hip out and narrowed her eyes at Jack because it was his fault for not being there to milk the cows.
Okay, he was lambing, but still.
‘Sorry for swearing,’ she said to Nate, because how unprofessional. He shrugged, trying to keep the amusement off his face, but he couldn’t help the small twist of his lips.
Screw him. So she worked on a farm, and yeah, sometimes she had to shovel shit. What of it? She raised an eyebrow at Nate defiantly.
‘So you are,’ Jack said, trying not to laugh. Laurel glared at him.
‘Yes, I fucking am, because one—’ She tucked the shovel in her elbow so she could count on her fingers. ‘None of the farmhands that I employ,’ Laurel ignored Jack’s eye roll, ‘are anywhere to be found. Two, Robin has disappeared off the face of the earth, again, despite asking him on numerous occasions to clean this up. Three, Dad is probably day drinking with old man Hibbert by now, and four...’ Laurel skittered off.
She didn’t really want to blame Jack, he worked harder on this farm than anyone else (physically at least), and besides, it wasn’t really his fault.
‘Yeah?’ Jack said, lifting his brows challengingly, smile dying.
Today had been shit; a hellishly busy morning just so she could spend the afternoon on site, which didn’t even happen all thanks to the arrival of Nate Daley. Now, here she was, shovelling shit in front of him. Nate studied the horizon, mouth twisting and jaw working to hold in a smile. Laurel scowled at his stupidly perfect profile. Had his nose always been that straight?
‘Well, you’re hanging out with your new best friend, so who am I to interrupt you with, you know, actual work that’s getting done?’ Laurel finished off strong.
Jack and Nate exchanged an over-dramatic ‘who me’ glance before Jack fell about laughing and Nate finally released that smile that she remembered so well. Urgh.
‘Oh, screw the both of you,’ Laurel snapped, turning sharply.
The slightly too big wellies caught on the edge of the spade and oh shit, she was flailing and falling. The spade hit the ground with a clang and caught on her foot. She was going down and it was all Laurel could do not to put her hand in the bucket of shit she’d been scraping up, and she managed to twist her body to land on her bum.
Which squelched noisily into a massive pile of cow manure. She sat there, dazed, embarrassed, with an extremely warm arse. With Nate Daley puce and looking at her like he might explode from holding in a laugh.
Jack, on the other hand, was doubled over and roaring with laughter. He laughed just like their father, bellowing across the whole yard. If she was in a better mood, Laurel would have thought how nice it was to hear him laugh, that he should laugh more.
But not today, thank you very much, and not while she was sitting in a pile of cow poo.
‘Jack!’ She shouted, trying to lever herself up like a crab so she wasn’t rolling in shit.
‘Can I help?’ Nate asked, a grin splitting his face as he leaned down to offer his hand to her. Laurel quickly assessed her situation. Jack was no help, he would continue to belly laugh until she rolled out of the muck, thus smearing it further over her dress.
‘Fine,’ she ground out, reaching for his hand.
Nate’s warm, solid hand gripped her clammy one tightly and she cringed because yes, as well as sitting in shit, she had sweaty hands. He gave her a tug, and dragged her upright with a sucking noise as her rear came free from the warm gunky mess.
‘There,’ he said quietly.
She was a smidge too close to Nate Daley for comfort.
It was not fair that he smelled of hurricanes and danger, and she smelled like a farmyard. Had he grown, or had he always been this tall? Perhaps he’d got broader? He was certainly bigger. He tilted his head at her questioningly.
‘Right, well, thanks.’ Laurel took a step back and tried to twist to assess the damage. She’d lost more clothes than she would like to admit to cow manure. The dry cleaner was going to have their work cut out with this one. A non-committal noise came from Nate’s throat as Jack finally pulled himself together.
‘You can have some of Rebecca’s clothes, Laurel,’ he said.
‘No, I’ve got clothes.’ She shot an accusative look at Nate, because they were the clothes that she’d brought to change into for the dig: denim shorts and a tank top. Completely inappropriate for the office.
‘Can you?’ Laurel motioned helplessly to the half-cleared yard. ‘And please, please tell Robin to go around the back to the milking shed. It’s quicker and he just...’ She wiped her forearm across her sweaty forehead and half turned her back on Nate, speaking quietly. ‘He just pisses me off and won’t listen to me.’ She hated her thin and weedy voice.
It was true. Even though Laurel had practically raised the little shitbag after their mother had died, she was the last person on earth Robin would listen to.
‘Yeah, I’ll talk to him,’ Jack said.
Laurel drooped. She was absolutely done with today, and she knew her older brother could see.
‘Why don’t you go and get changed, and then go home,’ Jack said gently as Nate picked up the shovel.
‘Jack, I—’
‘And before you say you can’t,’ he interrupted. ‘You absolutely can. As Managing Partner of this farm, I have decreed the rest of the day as “Laurel’s Day Off”.’
Jack wasn’t really Managing Partner at all, he was Head of Farming and partner in the limited company. They were two separate things, but Laurel had given up telling him.
‘Okay, fine. I’ve got nothing else to do anyway. I’m like a spare wheel this afternoon,’ Laurel moaned.
God, she was pitiful today. Nate Daley had completely thrown her off her well-constructed path and it had turned her into some pathetic, whiny thing that she didn’t recognise. What she needed was a large glass of white wine and to wallow in a veritable waterfall of rice pudding.
‘Hey.’ Jack put his arm over her shoulder, and Nate looked anywhere but at them. ‘You alright?’
Laurel nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m fine, Jack. I’m just having a moment.’
‘That’s alright, you’re allowed to have a moment. You’re not superwoman, yeah?’ Laurel nodded again and tucked her head against her brother. ‘I’ll get this shit sorted and I’ll mind the farm. I have been doing it since I was sixteen.’
And there it was.
The subtle dig that he knew better than her, that he could run the farm single-handedly and didn’t need her at all. That he didn’t approve of all the changes she’d made by diversifying and ensuring that they actually had a business, rather than yet another failing family farm that cost more than it made. He even still called it Fletcher’s Farm when it had been rebranded as Little Willow Farm for about five years now.
Laurel sighed. There was a sliver of her that hated what she’d done, prostituting her generations old family home with petting zoos and cafes and a windmill with a flower arch for wedding photographs. But if that’s what it took so they still had their home, then that’s what Laurel would do.
That’s what she’d promised her mother she would do, and she would sacrifice her own hopes and dreams to do it.
‘Look after the boys, Laurel,’ her mother had said, lying there, pale and thin. ‘Look after them.’
And she was doing her best.
Nate
Jack showed Nate to the bunkhouse after finding a farmhand, who had been hiding from Laurel, to sort the car park. Nate didn’t blame him.
He was right. This ‘bunkhouse’ was not going to be the nicest place to live for the next few weeks. Or it could be months, depending. There was no timescale on things like this. Well, unless the university recalled him.
Nate had given the double room to a couple of postgrads who were thinking of moving in together (right, have fun with that), and the tiny apartment (which was essentially a bedroom and kitchen diner area connected to the main kitchen area) went to a couple who actually did live together. As the only senior member of staff, he could have demanded it, but it seemed a bit unfair. Especially when there were bunk beds available.
He’d always wanted bunk beds as a kid, but being an only child, had no one to share them with. Bunk beds at thirty-four? Sharing with a group of undergrads? No thanks. He’d have to rethink staying on the weekends.
The group of friends that he’d clung onto since university were scattered. Jess and Owen only lived about an hour and a half away, but he couldn’t impose on them every weekend. Paul was in France on a dig, so his house was free, but he shared with three people Nate didn’t know, so that wouldn’t work if he wanted his own space. That would be just swapping one shared place for another.
That left Alex. Now, Alex was great, his best friend since early undergraduate days, but Alex was... well, Alex. He was flighty, impulsive and (okay, he would say it) immature. Nate had grown up over the last ten years, carved out an academic career where he could still use his field skills but didn’t have to be traipsing the globe, unless he wanted to. What he wanted in life had changed.
But Alex? Alex hadn’t changed. Alex was living in a one bedroomed apartment in Oxford (which was fine, obviously), but he still behaved like he was twenty-two, and he really wasn’t.
He had a good job at the British Archaeological Society, but Alex always seemed to want what everyone else had. He’d even asked Nate if it was okay if he asked Lucia out after they’d been broken up a year or so. Go for it pal, Nate had said. It really hadn’t bothered him, he was done. Lucia’s lustre had lost its shine, and anyway her and Alex were more suited anyway.
But still, come on man.
It wasn’t that Alex was in desperate, world-changing love with Lucia, it was that she was everything that he wanted to be, and perhaps some of her shine would rub off on him.
So no, he couldn’t be bothered with playing obscure Yes records until two in the morning, going to shitty gigs of ‘the next best thing’, and hanging out with Alex’s friends who were all ten years younger than them.
No thanks. The shared bunkhouse it was. It wouldn’t be that bad, would it? Perhaps a hotel on weekends.
Jack leaned in the doorway, assessing Nate.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Fancy a beer later?’
‘Yeah, okay. Is there a pub near?’ Nate asked, hands in his pockets.
‘About ten minutes’ walk or so. Meet at six?’
‘Sure.’
Jack knocked twice on the door frame, pushed off and disappeared into the farm.
Nate folded his clothes and hung up his shirts in the communal wardrobe area. It was nice enough, he supposed. It was clean, well-stocked with bare essentials and modern appliances, and had a cosy, rustic feel which tied in well with the rest of the farm.
And it was nice of them to let the dig use it at cost price or whatever. Nice of Laurel to let them have it, because as Jack had said, it was she who drove the commercial side of things.
He changed quickly into his dig jeans and a t-shirt and headed back out to the site. The trenches should be well under way by now and he needed to organise the students into teams and give them The Talk.
Ivor had done the exciting ‘a find can change the course of history’ talk, but Nate needed to make sure that they were doing proper archaeology; not contaminating the site with modern stuff, and not breaking finds with their grubby hands.
Nate retraced the well-worn track around the milking barn and down to the car park where a farm hand was dutifully clearing. It was busy now and Nate could see why. Little Willow Farm was beautiful and calm in the sun. Perfect for families, perfect for walks, just perfect.
He was halfway across the yard when Laurel stepped out of the admin building. She’d changed out of her knee length button-up dress into cut off jean shorts, a tank top and walking boots. Office Laurel was attractive, with full lips, lashes that dusted her cheeks and eyes that nearly saw your secrets, but Relaxed Laurel was something else. She was carefree, unburdened and, well, friendly. Office Laurel hadn’t been friendly, at least not to him, but Relaxed Laurel looked like she could melt your troubles if she smiled at you.
Nate stumbled. His eyes had been on her.
‘Oh, hey.’ Laurel adjusted the bag on her shoulder awkwardly.
‘Hey, uh.’ Why was he self-conscious? Why were words difficult? ‘Thanks for the bunkhouse, it’s great,’ he said.
‘Yeah, that’s okay,’ she said, taking in his clothes.
‘I’m going up to the site,’ he said, as if he needed to explain to her. She nodded, looking at him as if expecting him to say more.
Nate drew in a breath. This wasn’t Relaxed Laurel. This was Dig Laurel. She was wearing dig clothes.
That’s why she had nothing to do, she’d been expecting to be up at the site this afternoon.
‘Do you want to come up?’ he asked. ‘To the dig, I mean.’
Laurel’s eyes hardened and the muscle in her jaw worked.
‘No. That’s your thing, your job, isn’t it?’
It wasn’t really a question.
‘Yeah, but it’s your farm, you can come up if you want.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and searched the horizon to avoid her eyes.
Laurel sniffed and raised that eyebrow.
‘You’re always welcome.’ Nate tested a small smile on her. ‘Jack said you—’
‘Jack said what?’ Laurel interrupted.
‘Just that you were interested, so I thought maybe, if you wanted to come up, you could.’
She took everything he said as a challenge.
‘We’ll see.’ She gave him a tight smile. ‘Okay, well, see you.’
‘Yeah, bye.’ He watched Laurel walk to her car before realising that he was staring at her legs, again. The last thing he wanted was to be caught looking at Laurel Fletcher’s legs.
As Nate headed up to the dig site, following the gravelled path past the pens of baby lambs, rabbits and tortoises (ah, the petting zoo), he tried to pinpoint what he had done to offend her.
It must be something from their time at university. Surely it couldn’t have been just today? Laurel had turned daisy-white when she’d seen him, turned her back and then bloomed into a beautiful crimson tulip when she’d finally faced him again. It must have been something from before, and something bad enough for Laurel to still remember it all these years later.
Laurel was attractive, there was absolutely no denying that. For Christ’s sake, he’d stumbled when he’d seen her.
There had been no one, really, since Lucia. Sure, there had been women, but no one that he wanted to introduce to his friends, and certainly no one he wanted to take home to his mother. No one that sparked anything in him. No one who had intrigued him.
But Laurel certainly did. Perhaps when he cracked her open, he’d find that she wasn’t as interesting as she seemed.
He’d find out Laurel’s deal from Jack tonight.