A/N: Can I just say how absolutely blown away I am by the response to this story? You guys are amazing! I can honestly say I never expected to receive so many comments, favourites, and follows after just one tiny little chapter. WOW! Thank you so much!

Now here's the second chapter! Enjoy! :)


Emma wakes briefly, if one can even call it waking, it's not full awareness by any means. She doesn't even open her eyes; it's just a snippet of consciousness, a fleeting moment in which she is surrounded by the warmth of her mother's arms, flowery perfume and the press of lips to her forehead. It comes and goes in a heartbeat, and soon she's slipping back into the comforting embrace of somnolence.

True wakefulness comes to her much later, slowly, in stages as if ascending an invisible staircase, each step rousing a new sense.

Sound greets her first, the faint tune of Journey's Don't Stop Believin' drifting from somewhere in the house (her father always did have a thing for 80's pop), the feel of plush blankets and a warm breeze next. The air is filled with the scent of saturated earth, rainfall and growth and new beginnings, permeated by the delicious alchemy of percolating coffee, an aroma so intoxicating that she can practically taste it against her tongue.

Finally Emma opens her eyes, squinting against the bright light shining through the open window. The day appears sunny and warm, and she stretches languidly, revelling in the fact that she has absolutely nothing on her agenda. She'd forgotten what it was like to wake up out here in the country, to fresh air and the sounds of nature and farm life. It's a halcyon paradise and she feels more rested than she has in years.

Neal and the fight and the breakup rush to the forefront of her mind but she pushes them back, stomping down hard on all the feelings of anger and sadness and regret, the thoughts of 'why me?' and 'what did I do wrong?', refusing to let him ruin such a beautiful day.

Creaking, the bedroom door is nudged open by the broad nose of an aging Labrador-Retriever. The big black dog stands there with just his head peaking through the opening, tongue lolling, goofy grin on his face.

"Come here, Duke!" she calls, sitting up in bed to prepare for the impending onslaught of slobbery kisses.

Duke obeys immediately, bounding across the room and leaping onto the bed, barrelling head-first into her chest, proceeding to immediately lick her entire face with his tongue. After several seconds and a couple unfortunate French kisses, she pushes him away, scratching behind his ear with her nails.

"Yuck, ugh gross, that's enough you doofus!"

Duke barks happily and Emma laughs.

"Yes I missed you too," she tells him. "You must be getting slow in your old age; you didn't even hear me come home last night, did you?"

The dog snuffles through the blankets, pawing at her hip and she gives him a solid pat on the head.

"What do you say old man? Should we go get some breakfast?"

Duke perks up and hops off the bed, whining excitedly. If dogs could talk, she's pretty sure this guy would.

Following Duke into the kitchen, she finds her father frying bacon on the stove, humming along with the radio. The clock on the microwave reads quarter to noon and she stands on her toes, grabbing a mug from the cupboard.

"Morning, dad," she greets, turning down the volume on the stereo as she pours coffee.

Duke sits proudly at her father's feet and head butts him in the thigh.

"Ah good boy Duke!" her father praises the dog, tossing him a small nibble of bacon. "Finally got lazybones here out of bed."

"Hey! I think I deserve to sleep in after the day I had!" The words come out harsher than intended, snappy and defensive, and she instantly wishes she could take them back.

David hands her a plate of pancakes and piles a generous helping of bacon on the side.

"I was only kidding, peanut."

The nickname warms her heart and Emma sighs. "I know, I'm sorry."

Ruffling her hair, he echoes her sigh.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She appreciates the offer, she really does, but she's not going to take him up on it, not today, and definitely not tomorrow. Maybe in a week, when she's had time to settle, to breathe, to distance herself from the ugly reality of it all, but today she's going to do what she does best and avoid the hell out of it.

"Not yet," she says with a sense of finality that leaves little room for discussion.

Her father accepts her avoidance readily (far more so than she suspects her mother will) and takes a seat at the table with her. Duke nudges his way past the chairs to lie beneath the table at their feet, a furry footrest for her bare toes.

Pouring an obscene amount of syrup over her pancakes, she digs in, savouring the way light and fluffy melds with sticky sweet. She's always been god-awful at cooking, her attempts at pancakes more closely resembling lumpy rubber than anything remotely edible.

"This is amazing, dad," she compliments through a mouthful of bacon.

"Only the best for my little princess"

23 years old and he still calls her by the same silly endearments as he did when she was a just a small girl of 3. It's sweet and charming and suddenly she feels absolutely terrible for only visiting a handful of time in the last 5 years. She's got to be the worst daughter ever.

Studying him while she eats, she notices that age has definitely taken its toll on his features in her absence. His blonde hair is heavily peppered with grey at the temples and has noticeably receded. Wrinkles, deep lines and creases, mark the plains of his face, evidence of hearty laughter and full smiles, over half a century of hard work and good life. He's softer now too (she'd noticed last night when she hugged him), still muscular but not nearly to the extent she remembers. She supposes that's to be expected with age. It also makes sense if he isn't working the farm as much these days.

Sipping at her coffee (flavoured with a spoonful of cocoa and a sprinkle of cinnamon) she curls her bare toes into the warmth of Duke's fur, rubbing his belly with her feet.

"When did you decide to hire full-time help?" she asks, nodding in the direction of the barn.

They've always had one or two seasonal staff in the busy summer months, when tourism picks up and the cabins on the other side of the property are rented out to guests interested in fishing and camping and trail rides, wanting to learn all about life in the country, away from the plush comforts and easy conveniences of the city.

They've never had hired help the rest of the year though; her father had always been the one to care for the property, mucking out stalls and giving riding lessons to kids from the nearby town, while her mother worked at the elementary school, teaching years 4 through 6; the town so small, (a population of only 742), that grades are combined because there just aren't enough students to bother separating them (and paying extra staff).

"We hired Killian back in March. Last winter was the worst we've seen in years and with that ice-storm, the clean up was just too much to handle on my own." He wipes at his mouth with a napkin after he finishes his last sip of coffee. "I'm hardly a spring chicken any more Emma, figured it was about time to cut back on my responsibilities. I still teach the lessons and take care of the business and financial aspects, but Killian does most of the manual labour these days."

"How is he with the horses? Emma asks as she swipes her finger through the pool of syrup on her otherwise empty plate, bringing to her lips and savouring the flavour of real home-made maple syrup (so much better than the processed stuff sold in big chain stores).

"He's great. The horses love him; even Leroy, that cantankerous old pony of yours."

Emma laughs, disbelieving. Leroy aka Grumpy, was the stout little grey pony she learned to ride on as a child.

"Seriously? Grumpy? We're talking about the same pony right? The little shit who dumped me on my ass more times than I can count? The one that we can't even use for pony rides because we'd never have a repeat customer if we sent every kid back to their parents crying?"

David laughs. "One and the same; follows Killian around like a lost little foal."

"I think I'm going to have to see this to believe it!"

Standing, Emma gathers the dishes. Her father cooked, cleaning up is the least she can do.

"Even Duke likes him," her father insists, "and you know how he usually is with men."

Duke has always been what they liked to call a one-man-dog; unerringly loyal to her father, but extremely wary around all other men, preferring to growl quietly from a distance. Women have never been a problem, Duke has loved each and every one he met, but men have always been another story altogether.

She fills the sink with hot water and dish soap (vanilla and orange pekoe, Granny's signature blend).

"Who is this guy? Cesar Millan? Some dog and pony whisperer?"

Grabbing a towel from the oven, David moves to stand next to her, chortling as he dries the frying pan.

"Nah, he's just good people; quiet, honest, hardworking. Your mother has always maintained that animals have a sixth sense about that sort of thing and I have to say I agree with her."

Emma has to admit that she agrees as well. Perhaps she should have taken Duke's complete and total animosity toward Neal (even back in high school) as a sign. It's too late for that now though. Oh well, you live and learn.

Cleaning the kitchen of a late breakfast's clutter doesn't take long with her father's help, and when they're done, she turns to him, twirling the dishtowel between her hands.

"What are you up to today?" she asks him, not really wanting to be alone with her thoughts, wanting the distraction of company (specifically someone she knows won't press her to talk). She could call up Ruby or even Belle, both long-time friends, but she knows they won't be free until after work. Both had chosen to stay in the small town after high school; Ruby had opened up her own dog grooming shop right next door to Granny's (Ruby's Grandmother by blood, not just in name), and Belle, the bookworm that she was, had fallen into the logical occupation of librarian.

"Got plans to run into town," David tells her apologetically, as if he instinctually knows she was hoping to spend more time with him. "Truck needs a tune up and the bills won't pay themselves."

Actually they probably would if her father would take a step into the twenty-first century and learn how to use online banking (she doesn't expect that to happen any time soon though).

"You're welcome to come with me if you..."

She's fairly certain the look on her face must be reluctant and more than a little repulsed.

"Or not," he chuckles. "Killian said he was going to head out for a ride after lunch to check the property for storm damage. I doubt he'd mind the company if you wanted to go with him."

It's not a terrible suggestion; a nice long ride might be just what she needs to clear her head, and she should probably apologize again to the poor guy for disturbing his sleep.

"I might do that. Gonna grab a quick shower first though; want to wash the stench of city and fast food from my hair." (And Neal), she adds silently. "I'll see you and Mom tonight for dinner?"

Nodding, David heads to the mudroom, pulling on his boots and a light windbreaker. "Was thinking of grabbing Granny's; any requests?"

Despite the fact that she's just eaten and her stomach is still full of pancakes and bacon, her mouth waters and she almost wishes she didn't have to wait until later.

"Grilled cheese!" Emma all but demands. "And fries. Hot cocoa too. Oh, pick up one of her frozen lasagnas for tomorrow. And definitely some of those pecan butter tarts. She still makes them right?"

David jots each request down on a piece of paper, his smile steadily growing wider. "So I guess I'll just inform her that we intend to eat her out of house and home?"

"Sounds like a plan."

Food from Granny's Diner had been a regular occurrence growing up and it's something she has missed dearly these last 5 years being away from home.

"Have a good day, kiddo," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Another childish nickname; it's something that should probably bother her, but instead they just make her feel loved (like she belongs).

"You too, Dad."

She hears the old diesel truck rumble to life as she turns the knob, starting the shower in the bathroom, glad that the guestroom has an en suite of its own. The bathroom is stocked with shampoo and conditioner (her mother is like a boy scout; always prepared), which is good because they definitely weren't on her short list of important items to grab when she was hastily packing yesterday morning. It's likely she'd forgotten a number of things, but she can't bring herself to care (items can be replaced and she's never really been the sentimental sort anyway).

Finishing in the shower quickly, she towels off and twists her hair into a messy braid before tugging on jeans and a thin sweater. She finds a pair of her old cowboy boots in the closet and steps into them, thankful that her parents kept them around.

Duke follows her out the door, bounding off in the opposite direction when Emma walks across the yard. She makes her way into the barn but it's empty (Killian must still be eating lunch).

She looks around, impressed. Hard worker is right. The stables are immaculate; organized and well swept, not a stray bit of hay or shavings in sight. Even the stubborn cobwebs that forever seem to cling to the rafters have been cleared away. She peaks into several stalls; water buckets scrubbed clean, hay stacked neatly beneath them. The latches on each door are different than she remembers; sturdy wrought iron that looks recently replaced. Even the feed and tack rooms are tidy and swept.

Trailing her fingers along a window ledge, they come away dust free. This new guy is good, really good; she can see why her father likes him. The barn is cleaner than her apartment had ever been.

"Inspecting my work, love?"

Emma jumps, startled, holding her hand over her thundering heart as she turns to face Killian.

"Jesus! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" she scolds lightly.

"Thought perhaps I'd return the favour," Killian says with a teasing grin. "After all, you nearly gave me one last night when you stumbled into my apartment, blundering about in the dark, breaking things."

"I'm pretty sure I already apologized for that," she retorts, frustrated for a reason she cannot name. Something about the smug grin on his face just makes her itch to punch him.

"You did," he admits, scratching behind his ear. "Just wasn't quite sure you could recall it. You were pretty out of it." He pauses and his voice softens, filled with empathy and understanding. "Long day, I take it?"

"That's putting it lightly. Things weren't exactly going my way."

She lapses into silence, consumed by her thoughts for a moment before shaking her head. She can't seriously be considering spilling all her dark, dirty secrets to this man, this perfect stranger who she knows next to nothing about, can she?

Of course not.

She just got caught up for a second; distracted by kind blue eyes and that mesmerizing accent. She's heard the saying before, that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and she finds it ridiculously cheesy, but she thinks that maybe there's some truth to it, because for the briefest of seconds, she can see much of the same pain that she feels, reflected back at her through his eyes.

Or maybe he really is a freaking animal whisperer, and she's fallen under some hinky voodoo spell.

The thought is enough to send a burst of laughter passed her lips, and he looks at her again like there's nothing he wants more in this world than to know all of her secrets.

It's unnerving.

So she huffs and glares pointedly at him. "Seriously, quit looking at me like that!"

And the arrogant smile is back. "Like what, love?"

Flustered, she decides to drop the matter entirely and change course.

"My dad said you were planning to ride out and check the fence line for damage. Do you want some company or not?"

She came out here to go for a ride and she not going to let him stop her.

"Aye, I would love some."

And just like that an easy silence settles over them and he follows her out to one of the large fields where the horses graze, lingering a step behind her, like a shadow she can't (and if she's honest, doesn't really want to) shake.

They pick the two horses standing closest to the gate (the mares in this paddock are all well trained and used frequently for lessons and trail rides), a bright red roan named Ariel and a sooty black named Pocahontas.

Her mother definitely has a thing for fairytales and Disney princesses. (It's a little weird.)

Killian takes the dark mare and latches the gate as Emma leads Ariel back toward the barn.

Catching sight of Duke across the yard, Emma whistles for him, laughing as he comes running, proudly carrying a large stick in his mouth.

And he runs right past her...

To Killian.

Sonofabitch. Her dad was right.

Duke hands the stick to Killian and sits proudly at his feet, tail wagging excitedly against the ground as Killian rubs the top of his head.

"Traitor!" Emma calls to the dog in what she hopes is a joking manner.

Killian bends and whispers something to Duke, handing him the stick and immediately Duke turns on his haunches and lopes lazily to Emma's side.

Un-fucking-believable.

She's got freaking Cesar Millan (version two-point-oh - the Irish edition) living on her farm and befriending her supposed man-hater of a dog. Just when she thought life couldn't get any weirder.

Taking the proffered stick, she chucks it down the driveway for Duke to fetch before leading the horse into the barn. Killian joins her with the other mare seconds later.

"What did you say to him?" Emma asks, curious.

"I told him that playing favourites wasn't nice, and that he ought to bring the stick to you before you got jealous and decided to deprive me of the pleasure of your company."

His eyes sparkle mischievously and she smiles facetiously as she elbows him not so gently in the ribs. He sucks in a breath, looking wounded, but it's definitely all an act.

"Seriously though, what did you say?"

"A magician never reveals his secrets."

She punches him lightly this time, square in the shoulder.

"All right, all right, fine. All I said was 'Give the stick to Emma' and he did," Killian chuckles at her disbelieving look. "He may have a head hard as rock, but he's quite the intelligent beast."

Emma sighs. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised he chose you over me. You've probably spent more time with him in the last month than I have in 5 years. I should just be glad he doesn't hate me."

Killian bumps his shoulder against hers softly and gives her a reassuring look. "I'm no expert, but I'm fairly certain dogs don't hold grudges, love, and they definitely don't experience time the same way we do. Whatever has kept you from him the last 5 years, I very much doubt that Duke cares. I imagine he's just happy to see you."

The smile she gives him is small and wobbly, like a newborn foal learning to stand on unsteady legs, but she's pretty sure it's the most authentic one to have touched her lips in weeks. Whoever this man is, whatever his story, he seems to understand her, and she thinks that maybe, just maybe, they could be friends.