“He helps me sleep,” I say, shaking some of the rain out of my hair. “And he barks at the renovation workers when they try to come into the library. I like that.”
Becket grins at that, giving the dog a scratch behind the ears. “So to what do I owe the pleasure of the visit then? If it’s not to return this wayward mutt?”
I sit down on one of the pews and smile up at him. “I was out and about and I wanted to see you.”
I can tell this last part pleases him, but he works to hide it. Instead, he teases, “Playing hooky, are we?”
“Something like that,” I say. “Have you ever been to the Kernstow Farm?”
He takes a seat in the pew in front of me, still scratching at Sir James’s ears as he thinks on it. “Maybe? It’s north of Thorncombe, right?”
“Right.”
He thinks for a moment later an
