roof trusses and planning applications. Perhaps he should just tell the architect to put everything on hold for a while...but then again, he still had to survive, and his savings weren’t going to last forever.
He saw Jim off then turned to the woodstove. “Come on, Max,” he said. “Let’s go and get you cleaned up.”
It was much later, as he sat in the garden watching the sun slowly disappear, that Chrissie’s face slid into his mind.
She had been so angry with him, standing stalwart with her dogs at her feet, blue eyes blazing. And then she’d surprised him by revealing a different side to her nature, when they had hauled at the trapped sheep together, side by side, their fingers locked into its oily wool. Her sheer determination had freed it. There was no doubt in Will’s mind about that.
Yet her face had been a picture when she’d ended up sprawled on top of him, bright red with embarrassment. Funny, really, when she came across so tough and strong-minded. Perhaps some of that self-assurance was an act.
Who was he to judge her if it was? He had acted a part every day in his job, putting on a front for his clients, judges, juries...the whole world, if he was honest with himself. Maybe that was what most people did. Maybe, underneath, everyone was vulnerable. Some just hid it better than others.
The relief Chrissie had shown when the tough little ewe eventually ran off up the hill with a series of stiff-legged jumps had been no act—he was sure of that. Her face had crumpled with emotion...until she’d turned to look at him. And the way she’d just walked off with her dogs down the steep hillside, her head held high... He had never met any woman like her.
Anyway, he had certainly learned his lesson. If he saw her again—especially if he was walking Max—then he’d know to steer well clear.
* * *
CHRISSIE WAS CONSUMED with anger as she headed homeward with Tess and Fly at her heels. Will Devlin, whoever he was, had ruined her day. Not just because he’d let his dog terrify the sheep, but because he’d made her feel like a fool when they’d pulled the ewe out of the crevice and she’d fallen on him. No one ever made Chrissie Marsh look foolish.
Her whole day had been wasted and it was all his fault. What kind of idiot let a dog like that loose on the fell, anyway, especially at lambing time? Well, if there was any damage then he would be paying for it; she hadn’t been joking about that.
The ewe that had fallen was quite likely to lamb too early after all that stress. It was hard enough for the lambs to survive up here as it was; premature labor would mean Chrissie would have to keep mother and lamb—hopefully not lambs—on the lowlands for longer. Well, at least lambing time was imminent so they couldn’t be very premature, but shock could have unpredictable effects, even resulting in lambs being stillborn.
And she hadn’t yet ruled out the possibility of finding more damaged sheep. Anything could have happened to them when they ran away from the dog. In normal circumstances, fell sheep were sure-footed and knew their territory far too well to get into difficulties, but today had been something else—something she really could have done without.
Homeowner or not, Will Devlin and his fancy clothes had no place up in these hills. He must have bought a holiday cottage somewhere around here. In the village, probably.
It was Tess who noticed it first. She stopped, head up to sniff the air, whining into the relentless wind that bent the stunted trees and bushes toward the ground. Chrissie followed her gaze with a prickle of apprehension. “What is it, girl?
The black-and-white collie raced off toward a rocky outcrop, closely followed by Fly. Chrissie headed off after them, using her crook to stop her from slipping on the sharp scree. Her heart fell when she peered over the ominous drop. A white shape lay on the rocks far below.
On a normal day the ewe could have easily traversed the dangerous surface. Today, though, in an obvious panic and separated from the flock, she must have lost her footing on the patch of unstable scree and slipped over the edge...falling to her doom.
Although she was used to the harsh ways of nature, where death often seemed to loom around every corner, losing one of her flock so needlessly—so wastefully—filled Chrissie with rage at the man who had unwittingly caused it. He was so ignorant. She could only hope that this sheep’s death had been quick and painless. And it was dead, she was sure of it. The ewe’s legs were twisted into peculiar shapes and it stared up at her through vacant eyes.
A rush of tears overwhelmed her, cutting through the anger. What if it was still holding on—and suffering? She had to be sure.
Telling the dogs to “lie” and “stay,” Chrissie carefully negotiated the rocky ledge and found a place near one end where it sloped off more gradually, allowing her to climb down and inch across to where the sheep was lying. Its body was still warm and soft to the touch, but its eyes were glazing over and it gazed right past her, into eternity.
“Poor lamb,” she murmured, stroking the rough hair on the ewe’s black-and-white face, recognizing its distinctive markings at once. This would have been the sheep’s first lambing and now it would never happen, all because of a misfit from the city and his stupid dog. Tourists like him should be banned from everywhere but the villages that depended on them for their livelihood.
With a sharp whistle to Tess and Fly, Chrissie headed homeward. There was nothing else to do here.
* * *
THE YARD AT High Bracken was quiet. As quiet as the poor dead sheep, thought Chrissie with a knot in her stomach. Despondency flooded her veins. She certainly hadn’t expected the gather to end like this. Tess and Fly looked eagerly up at her, whining softly.
“Okay,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault. Come on, I’ll give you a feed.”
As she made for the barn, a frantic barking broke the tranquility, reminding her about the new dog, Floss. She opened the small door set into one of the two big barn doors and stepped inside, breathing in the sweet fragrance of hay. Here on the fells they still made small bales of traditional meadow hay—and always would do, as far as she was concerned. Sheep did best on meadow hay, and small bales were easy to handle.
“Hey, girl,” she called softly as the nervous young dog wriggled and squirmed on the end of her chain. Chrissie intended to bring her into the kitchen tonight, where the other dogs slept, but for now she was safest tied in the barn. She leaned down to rub the pup’s ears before unclipping her chain. The little black, white and tan Welsh collie raced around her.
Chrissie laughed, her unsuccessful day temporarily forgotten as Floss rolled over onto her back. “I hope you’re going to settle down a bit, or I’ll never be able to train you,” she said, scratching Floss’s tummy. She liked to spend time with new trainees, get them to trust her before proper training sessions began.
Tess and Fly flopped down in the hay, noses on their paws as they waited patiently, watching their mistress’s every move. “You were young once,” she told them. When she stood, Floss leaped up at her and she lowered her palm in a signal to sit.
“Down,” she said firmly. The little dog wagged her plumed tail and when she repeated the command, Floss did as she was bid.
“Well someone has certainly taught you something.” Chrissie reached into the feed bin for the bag of dog food. Tess and Fly jumped up and stood by their bowls, while Floss held back submissively.
The shadows were
