He’s a danger to everything she holds dear

With his unruly dog, big-city airs, and obvious ignorance of the Lake District and its traditions, Will Devlin is Chrissie Marsh’s worst nightmare. There’s nothing the shepherdess loves more than the land she lives and works on, and nothing she hates more than the tourists who threaten it. Except Will isn’t a tourist; he’s her new neighbor. And he intends to turn her hallowed fells into a playground for people on holiday. But when he keeps showing up at her farm to offer—and ask for—help, she realizes she’ll need to put a stop to her own feelings before she can even try to stop him.

Chrissie watched helplessly as sheep disappeared in every direction.

She whistled to her collies, but she would have needed half a dozen dogs to keep the terrified sheep together.

“Max!” cried the man. “Max! Bad dog. Come here.”

The big dog ignored him, but he managed to grab hold of its collar. For a moment, they struggled, and then the man staggered forward. If the situation hadn’t been so desperate, Chrissie would have laughed as he sprawled to the ground.

She whistled to Tess and Fly, and they raced over. The sheep had calmed somewhat, but at best she’d be spending the rest of the afternoon gathering them. At worst…well…she didn’t want to think about that just yet.

“Good dogs. Stay.” The man was on his feet now, his leather shoes much the worse for wear and his suit pants ripped at the knees.

“You,” she said in a cold, flat voice. “You should get back to the city…and take your idiot dog with you. I’d have been well within my rights to shoot it, you know.”

He held her gaze with his piercing eyes. “But you haven’t got a gun.”

“Then I’ll start carrying one.”

Dear Reader,

This is the fourth and last book in my Creatures Great and Small series. I do hope you enjoy it. Any thoughts, comments or questions you may have about Shadow on the Fells or any of the other books in the series would be very welcome. I really do appreciate feedback from my readers, for without you I would have no reason to write.

You can contact me at info@holmescalesridingcentre.co.uk or through Facebook.

All very best wishes and happy reading,

Eleanor

Shadow on the Fells

Eleanor Jones

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELEANOR JONES was brought up on a farm in the north of England and learned to love animals and the countryside from an early age. She has ridden all her life, and after marrying her husband at just eighteen years old and having two wonderful children, they set up a riding center together. This is still thriving over thirty years later, doing hacks, treks and lessons for all ages and experiences. Her daughter competes at the national level, and she is now a partner in the business and brings her adorable three-year-old son to work with her every day. Eleanor’s son is also married with two children, and they live nearby. Eleanor has been writing for what feels like her whole life. Her early handwritten novels still grace a dusty shelf in the back of a cupboard somewhere, but she was first published over fifteen years ago, when she wrote teenage pony mysteries.

I would like to dedicate this book to my grandchildren, Dan, Emma and little Ollie

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CHRISSIE STRODE OUT across the rough, damp earth, well-worn wooden crook in hand, reveling in the signs of spring. Green shoots broke through the parched brown of tufty winter grass, bringing new life to the fell; the sound of birdsong, different now, bright with hope and promise, filled her ears with nature’s own sweet music as they sang to the end of the cold, hard winter. And it had been hard this year, up here on the fell. She’d lost a dozen sheep to the snow and ice, only finding their sad, frozen bodies after the thaw.

Closing her fingers more firmly around the knotted wood, taking comfort from its familiarity, just as her father must have when he walked the fells with the help of the same curved crook, she stopped to take stock.

Today wasn’t about death; that chapter was closed, until next year at least. Today she was embracing new life, for lambing time was imminent and she needed to gather the ewes and take them to lower ground. There was a time when four or five shepherds, each with at least two dogs, would meet to gather up their sheep, bringing them down all together, as a team, but right now it was just her sheep on this part of the fell.

With a low whistle to her dogs, Tess and Fly, Chrissie gazed up into the wide gray sky that never failed to soothe her soul. She watched the tumultuous clouds slide away, revealing the clearest, palest blue that seemed to stretch into eternity. For twenty-eight years she’d gazed up into that same sky, here in Little Dale, following the traditions set by her parents and their parents before them, caring for the sheep way up in the bleak and beautiful Lakeland fells. It was a tough, harsh and lonely life, but one she wouldn’t swap for anything.

The border collies, one black-and-white and the other a distinctive blue merle, sank to the ground, heads on paws and keen eyes alert for their mistress’s every gesture, waiting patiently as she looked back down the steep slope toward the huddle of buildings that nestled in the crook of the land.

High Bracken, the place where she had lived alone with her dogs for almost seven years since her parents were killed in a car crash. It had happened on the first holiday they had taken for as long as she could remember. She had been only nineteen then, and already dedicated to the land and the sheep, so it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to carry on the traditions she had been learning for her entire life.

After the accident, her mother’s sister, Hilda, had arrived to help her niece organize both the funeral and her future. She’d been horrified when Chrissie revealed that she intended to live in her family home all alone and carry on working with the sheep; Hilda’s pleas for Chrissie to pursue a more “suitable” career had been a waste of time then—and still were—but Aunt Hilda kept turning up unannounced every few months to stay a while and nag Chrissie to change her job.

Her aunt had left Little Dale that very morning, in fact, which was why Chrissie was so late. If she hadn’t had to run her aunt to the station then she’d have had all the sheep safely down the fell and nearer to the farm by now.

Hilda had left, of course, with yet another well-meaning lecture.

“It’s not natural for a young woman to live like this,” she’d grumbled over breakfast. “You’ll never meet a husband nor have any children if you don’t shape up. You need to stretch your horizons, get out more...do something more feminine.”

“But I’m always busy and I do get out,” Chrissie had retorted. “I’m involved with Little Dale’s young farmers group, I’m on a couple of committees, I meet lots of people through my dog training and I even competed in some sheepdog trials this year.”

“Exactly,” her aunt had snorted. “That’s what I mean—it’s all about sheep farming and dogs and the land. Most of the farmers around here are already married and the single ones aren’t worth having. You’ll never meet anyone in Little Dale.”

Chrissie’s insistence that she didn’t need a husband and was perfectly happy on her own fell on deaf ears, but she’d been moved by the brief hug her aunt had given her at the station before heading back home to her comfortable cottage by the sea. Hilda had seemed satisfied that she’d at least tried to do the responsible thing for her poor dead sister. And Chrissie had to admit that High Bracken always felt empty after Hilda had gone.

A smile warmed Chrissie’s heart as she thought about Hilda. It was comforting to know that she still had at least one relative who cared, even if her aunt did try and persuade her to give up the way of life she loved.

Then again, perhaps Hilda was right. Perhaps Chrissie was becoming a bit reclusive. There was a time when she’d dated a bit and gone to the movies with friends, but that had gradually slipped away as everyone she knew got married and settled down. Maybe she should make a bit more effort to be sociable before she ended up being pigeonholed as a batty old lady.

She’d go down to the pub in the village tonight, she decided, to have a meal and catch up with her friends; at least it would be something. It was hard to be social, though, when everyday life took such effort. There was always so much to do with the sheep and the dogs that there never seemed to be enough hours in the day.

Just yesterday she’d taken on yet another young dog to train—stupid, really, when lambing time was nearly here, but she needed the money. Although she loved the farm, it was barely paying its way. Remembering the nervous young black-and-tan Welsh collie, Floss, who had arrived last night, Chrissie put her half-hearted idea of socializing on hold. She needed to spend time with the new arrival and begin the process of bonding. Her dogs were trained through love and trust, not fear and force, which was so often the way.

She shook Aunt Hilda’s words out of her mind. Chrissie didn’t usually have such thoughts; she had everything she wanted right here. Yet she couldn’t help but notice that the landscape she loved so much was changing. And she didn’t welcome change.

As she headed even higher up the fell, Chrissie spotted movement at Craig Side, the small farm that was her nearest neighbor. There were two four-by-fours in the yard, she noted, as well as a large truck with something on the back. Tiny figures moved around it.

That was a surprise; the place had been empty and up for sale for almost a year, ever since James and Doreen Allen retired, sold Chrissie most of their sheep and moved down South to live with their son and his wife. When Andy Montgomery, Chrissie’s vet, had stopped by last week, he’d told her that it had finally been sold and there was a rumor that the new owner might be converting the farm into holiday rentals. But Chrissie hadn’t expected anything to happen so soon.

Yet another farm, then, lost forever. In Chrissie’s opinion, there were far too many farms going the same way, turning their backs on tradition and transforming the fells into a playground for tourists. But what else to do when they could no longer make a living? James and Doreen had lived and worked there with the sheep for decades, but when their son had opted for an easier life there was no way they could afford to keep the farm.

Still, her sense of unease grew. Tourists messed with the way of things, coming up here to upset the sheep with their stupid dogs and lack of knowledge of the land and its traditions...and now it seemed they were about to infiltrate her personal space. She had always assumed that way up here they were far too isolated to have to worry about holiday rentals in the vicinity. Apparently, she’d been wrong. Though hikers crossed her land occasionally, it was nothing compared to the chaos people could create if they had accommodation right up on the fells.

Of course, that barn roof had almost caved in, she told herself, clinging to a tentacle of hope. Perhaps they were just fixing the place up.

With a heavy sigh, she turned her mind to the job at hand, heading on up the steep, rugged slope with the dogs at her side. Totally focused and eager to get to work, they sniffed the wind, tails wagging in anticipation.

The black-and-white-faced fell sheep moved closer together as they noticed the distant approach of the woman and dogs. Hefted here by their mothers and their mothers before them from time immemorial, it was ingrained into their makeup that this part of the fell was their space, their land. They knew every inch of land here, and totally aware of the invisible boundaries of their territory, they rarely moved away from it. If forced to leave, the fell sheep would overcome almost any obstacle to return to their “place,” taking down drystone walls as they clambered over them in their quest to come home.

Chrissie knew the sheep well, each face familiar to her. They were hardy, tough and wild, easily scared but fiercely protective of their lambs. She respected that, and so did the dogs.

Not wanting to panic the animals, Chrissie stopped for a moment, letting them settle before beginning the outrun—the wide sweep around the flock. Then she raised her hand for Tess’s attention. “Come bye,” she called. “Come bye.” She gave Tess the signal to run wide of the flock, clockwise. Fly trembled for action, waiting for her cue as her partner ran, low and silent, urging the sheep to move closer together.

“Away...away out,” Chrissie called to Fly, and the eager dog ran wide of the flock counterclockwise. The dogs disappeared, eaten up by the vast space of the fell, and then gradually they came back into view behind a dozen or so outlying sheep who were trotting quickly, heads up and eyes wide with apprehension as the collies herded them toward the flock.

“Easy,” yelled Chrissie. “Slow down.”

A long, low blast on her whistle and both dogs dropped to the ground, allowing the sheep time to huddle together before they began the task of moving the flock steadily down the hillside.

Both Tess and Fly were used to the procedure, barely needing a command from Chrissie as they worked together, reading the reactions of the sheep and going wide or moving closer as the white mass trickled down the steep slopes, jumping over craggy outcrops and negotiating sharp drops and ravines.

They were almost home when it happened, in sight of the open gate that led to the lower, fenced-in land where the ewes would stay for the lambing.

For a fleeting second Chrissie thought it was a crazy sheep racing toward the flock. Then with a sinking heart, she realized that it was a big, cream-colored dog, almost as fluffy as the sheep. That was where the likeness ended, though. The dog was big and fast; it looked fierce as it raced madly toward them, intent on trouble. Its pink tongue waved from the side of its mouth and its ridiculous ears flapped against its head. Tess and Fly stopped in their tracks, looking anxiously at their mistress.

“Lie down,” she shouted, and they dropped to the ground as one, whining their objection to the unwanted intruder and the interruption of their routine.

The sheep began to panic. They were accustomed to the quiet way the border collies worked and respected their boundaries. This was something different. Huddling close together, they started to run back up the fell, but they were too late; the big dog leaped into their midst, barking loudly and scattering them as they fled for the safety of the higher slopes.

Chrissie screamed at the dog. “Get away! Get out of here!” But the wind took her voice as the dog wreaked havoc with the flock before chasing after one small ewe that had split off from the rest.

Chrissie saw them heading for where the rough grass gave way to rocky scree just above an outcrop. She started to run, but she was too far away...

It was just as the ewe disappeared over the ledge that Chrissie saw the man.

CHAPTER TWO

PARKING UP IN FRONT of the gray stone farmhouse he now called home, Will Devlin grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat and climbed out of his newly acquired Range Rover. The satisfaction he felt as he took in his surroundings was shaken as a heavy banging floated over from the barn. So the men he’d hired must be here to fix the roof, he realized, and suddenly he wished he’d left it a bit longer before getting the builders in.

He’d only just moved into the farmhouse a few days ago and found himself enjoying the isolation of the place so much that he hated the idea of it being infiltrated by hammering and loud voices and music. This morning, when he went to the bank in town, all he’d been able to think about was getting back to the peace and silence of his new home. Strange, really, when just six months ago he’d reveled in the busy buzz of the city.

When a tall, gray-haired man approached, his hand extended, Will took it briefly.

“Jim Wentworth,” said the man. “I’ll be supervising the work here. You must be Mr. Devlin. All we can do at the moment, of course, is redo the roof before it falls in, but I have the plans with me, and I wondered if you wanted to look them over before we put them before the local council. Roger Simmons, your architect, asked me to bring them along. He says he’ll drop by later today to see if you have any comments.

Will’s response was immediate. The whole idea of workmen buzzing and banging about the place depressed him. “I can’t right now,” he said, turning abruptly away. “Maybe later.”

Will hurried into the house, breathing in the silence as he closed the old oak door behind him. But that only made him feel stifled. He’d go for a walk up the fell, he decided. That should clear his head.

The farmhouse backed onto a small garden, fragrant with wildflowers, and beyond that was the vast space of the open fell. Well out of sight of the builders, thought Will thankfully as he headed out through the back door, not bothering to get changed. He stopped for a moment to take in the scenery that never failed to move him, breathing in the cool, fresh air and willing nature’s yawning silence and the sweet scents of spring to refresh his zest for life.

Why had he left it this long to return to the Lake District hills? He had come here on holiday just once, with his parents when he was small, but its beauty and isolation had lingered in the back of his mind all this time, reemerging when his life became too much for him to bear. Yesterday had been his birthday—thirty-five years—but he felt as if he’d lived forever. And he had, if you counted all the drama he’d been involved with in the past ten years.

Calling for Max, the big daft labradoodle he’d bought on a whim when he decided to move here, he went through the rickety garden gate. The dog bounded ecstatically around him as he headed up toward the open fell, enjoying the clear air and drinking up the silence. Already he had hope that the beauty and tranquility of this place might heal his hardened soul and gradually eradicate all the cruelty and brutality that had consumed his life.

At twenty-five, a young and ambitious lawyer, he’d been honored to be offered a job with Marcus Finch. After he won his first big case, his reputation had spread. At first he had basked in the glory, pleased to be termed a hotshot defense lawyer who could get anyone acquitted if he put his mind to it. Playing with words like a cat with a mouse had been his forte.

Eventually, though, his mind had become clouded by the violence and inhumanity of the cases he was being asked to take on: murder, extortion and meaningless depravity. It had all come to a head when he was in the middle of a particularly gruesome and high-profile case. Will had looked at the man he was being paid a fortune to defend and realized with sudden clarity just how badly his ambitions had been compromised. He had come into law to defend the innocent and ended up doing the exact opposite; his client didn’t deserve to walk free. And with that thought, he had just walked away, out into the fresh, clear beauty of the autumn afternoon.

He’d never gone back, despite the threats and pleas of his superiors. “At least finish this case,” Roy Wallis, the senior partner, had begged him, but Will had turned a deaf ear. He was done. Done with listening to lies and defending those who didn’t deserve it. Done with the darker side of mankind. And that was when he had remembered the holiday all those years ago and realized that the silence of the Lakeland hills might still the buzzing in his head.

The private doctor he’d been persuaded to see had diagnosed a breakdown caused by mental exhaustion, but Will had known that wasn’t true. He was just sickened by humanity; that was the truth of it. When he’d handed in his notice at Marcus Finch, Roy had pleaded with him to reconsider, offering paid leave, but Will had been adamant. He needed more than just time to breathe; he needed a whole new life. And so he’d come back here to Little Dale, and found to his relief that it had hardly changed since he was a boy.

He’d been drawn to the window of the real estate office as he strolled along the street on that first day here, reliving his childhood memories. The picture had seemed to jump right out at him and he’d stopped to read the advertisement. Craig Side, a whitewashed farmhouse with gray stone outbuildings set way up the fell, with fifty acres of land and rights to graze the fell for as far as a man could see. Isolated, totally peaceful and everything he wanted.

Will Devlin wasn’t usually one to act on a whim. He thought things through, planned his every move...but not this time. He’d booked a viewing that very afternoon and made an offer right away, his head brimming with plans. The barn and outbuildings would make ideal holiday rentals. Money was no problem for now, but it wouldn’t last forever and if he never went back to law then he’d need some kind of income. And he wasn’t going back to law. Ever.

Within six weeks he had finalized the purchase and hired an architect to start drawing up plans. Only when he moved into the farmhouse had he realized he might have jumped into things too quickly. He should have waited awhile, taken time to appreciate the peace and solitude before putting his business plans into action.

Excited by the prospect of a walk, Max leaped up at his master in his usual unruly manner, appearing to smile as his pink tongue lolled from the side of his mouth, exposing sharp white fangs. The dog’s attitude was what had drawn Will to him in the first place. Max loved everyone and everything, albeit a little too enthusiastically at times.

“Come on, boy,” Will said, increasing his pace. He regretted not changing into more suitable footwear; the dampness on the vegetation was beginning to soak through his smart leather shoes. No matter, he decided. He wasn’t going back now, and there was no one here to notice, anyway. He’d just throw the shoes away if they got too badly damaged.

For the next fifteen minutes, Will climbed the steep slope, hearing only the heavy sound of his breathing. He stopped for a moment to rest his aching legs, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.

“Max,” he called. “Here, boy...come here.” The big dog raced up to him, collapsing onto a patch of rough grass. Will smiled, pleased that, for once, the dog had done his bidding. “Why, you’re no fitter than me, boy,” he teased.

He could see the low huddle of buildings at Craig Side way below him now, surrounded by the bright green of the home fields. Farther down, at the base of the valley, the lake sparkled in the spring sunshine as if ten thousand diamonds had been scattered on its surface.

Cool air filled his nostrils and he took a gulp of it, savoring the silence even as he realized that it wasn’t silent at all, not really. In the city there was always sound, sound that you no longer noticed after a while, the busy, constant hum of traffic, the honking of a hundred angry horns, the buzz of human voices. And here there was sound in the silence, too, different kinds of sounds: the scream of a buzzard, the song of the wind as it whispered and wailed, and the bleating of the rough fell sheep that wandered the steep slopes in their constant quest for food.

He could see a flock of them on the hillside, trickling downward with two dogs to guide them. He stopped to watch, intrigued by the way the dogs worked as a team, dropping to the ground and then creeping forward again before rushing to turn the flock if they headed in the wrong direction. It was all overseen by the shepherd, who gave low whistles and shouted commands in a loud, clear voice that carried across the distance in the thin air.

Calling to Max, who was now intent on digging beneath a rock, Will headed closer, watching the sheep and dogs, and ignoring the dull ache in his calves and the discomfort of his damp feet. He realized, suddenly, that the shepherd was a woman, a tall, straight-backed woman who strode confidently across the rough and rocky ground, a long crook in her hand. She wore blue skinny jeans and sturdy brown boots, and a thick blond braid hung almost to her waist. There was something about her that moved him. He supposed it was the timelessness of the way she strode the earth, commanding the dogs with confidence and certainty just as her ancestors must have done before her.

Ahead, the ground fell away, dipping steeply. As he headed down the slope, Will lost sight of the woman with her dogs and sheep. With a lurch of disappointment, he turned back to call Max again, surprised by his own eagerness to watch her work the dogs some more. Come to think of it, he hadn’t felt much eagerness or excitement about anything of late, not even buying and then moving into Craig Side; that had just felt like a necessity. The communication between the woman and her collies was something else, though, something he had never experienced before. Strangely, it humbled him.

Another yell at Max, and the dog finally gave up his frantic digging and raced to catch up, so excited by the unfamiliar scents and sounds that, all reason lost, he bounded right past Will and down the slope, leaping over the stream in the bottom of the shallow ravine.

“Max! Come here!” he called, his voice echoing. The big dog paused and looked back at him, wagging his plumed tail as if about to obey...until a high-pitched whistle sounded and the sheep let out several bleats. Then, totally ignoring his master’s urgent commands, Max took off up the slope on the other side and disappeared from view.

Will’s heart sank when he heard the woman’s angry cries. He started to run, ignoring the burning in his lungs and the ache in his calves.

“Stupid dog,” he groaned, unable to hear anything but the rasping of his own breath as he headed for the patch of clear sky at the top of the steep incline.

She was standing farther up the hillside, bright blue eyes blazing against her lightly tanned skin, two bright spots of angry color in her cheeks. “Get out of it!” she yelled, madly waving her crook. “Get away!”

Following her gaze, Will saw Max leaping toward the sheep, oblivious to everything else, barking with excitement as they started to scatter. The woman gave a long, low whistle and her two sheepdogs sank to the ground in total obedience, staring up at her with adoration. Will felt like a fool, totally out of his depth and unsure of what to do. He wasn’t used to feeling inadequate—angry, perhaps, and sickened by life, but in control...always in control.

“Max, come here,” he tried to yell, but the words couldn’t seem to get past his throat. Taking a gulp of air, he tried again as the sheep began to flee in a dozen directions. “Max, here! Now!”

CHAPTER THREE

BEFORE THE CRAZY dog appeared, Chrissie had been feeling good, gazing fondly down on High Bracken, glad to be almost home with the gathering done for another year.

An unexpected rush of nostalgia had brought tears to her eyes as she remembered all the times she’d herded the sheep with her dad. He used to point out things of interest as they traversed the huge expanse of steep fellside: a dog fox observing their progress, a peregrine falcon swooping down to grab a smaller bird in its lethal talons and then dropping to the ground to boldly pluck its catch.

This was a place where only the strong survived, and she had to be strong, too—that was what her father had always taught her, and she still tried so hard to follow his advice.

An outlying sheep took her attention then, bringing her train of thought back to the job at hand; it was moving farther away from the flock, intent on escape. She whistled sharply to Fly. The dog caught her eye, eager to follow her command.

“Come way out,” she called with a sweep of her arm, and the small blue-gray and black dog was on it, calmly persuading the reluctant ewe to return to the flock with the patience and expertise that had made him a champion at the sheepdog trials last year.

It was as she’d turned her attention back to the main flock that the fluffy, cream-colored creature had burst into view, leaping up over the edge of the shallow ravine and racing toward them. For a fleeting second she’d thought it was a wayward sheep...and now she saw how wrong she’d been.

“No! Get away!” Chrissie screamed again, waving her crook madly as the big crazy dog continued to leap and bound amid her animals. One sheep had already disappeared from view, but she had to get things under control with the flock before she could check on it.

Tess and Fly sped at the dangerous usurper, but Chrissie stopped them with a low whistle; the last thing she wanted was for her dogs to go haywire, too. That would really freak the sheep out. But it made no difference. The collies raced around the scattering sheep, trying to keep them contained, but the sheeps’ survival instincts had kicked in and they fled in panic, their pregnant bellies swaying.

The fluffy cream dog, on the other hand, was in his element, running this way and that, barking madly. She yelled at it, screaming into the wind to no avail.

That was when she saw the man.

A hot flood of anger consumed her as he hurried over, a tall, dark-haired stranger dressed in city clothes. He was obviously responsible for this disaster. His face was bright red from climbing the hill and his breath came in loud gasps.

“Get your dog away from my sheep!” Chrissie yelled. “Now.”

With a brief glance in her direction, the man carried on in a shambling run toward the flock, spooking them almost as much as his dog. Chrissie watched helplessly as sheep disappeared in every direction. She whistled madly to her collies, but she would have needed half a dozen dogs to keep the terrified creatures together.

“Max!” cried the man. “Max! Bad dog. Come here.”

The dog ignored him, but as it ran by he managed to grab hold of its collar. For a moment, they struggled. The dog bucked against his confinement and the man staggered forward. If they hadn’t been in such a desperate situation, Chrissie would have laughed as he sprawled to the ground, still holding on to the broad leather collar.

But despondency instantly replaced the momentary flicker of humor. She whistled to Tess and Fly to come back, and they raced over immediately, dropping down in front of her, pink tongues hanging from the sides of their mouths and their bright eyes eager for their mistress’s next command. With the cream-colored dog in the man’s grasp, the sheep had calmed somewhat, but at best she would be spending the rest of the afternoon gathering the ones that had scattered. At worst...well, she didn’t want to think about that just yet.

“Good dogs. Stay,” she told her collies, turning to stare angrily at the man who had caused such chaos. He was on his feet now, looking awkward, his shiny leather shoes much the worse for wear and his stupid suit pants ripped at the knees.

“You,” she said in a cold, flat voice, eyeing him up and down with disdain. “You should get back to the city where you belong and take your idiot dog with you. If any of these sheep are harmed then you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. I’d have been well within my rights to shoot it, you know.”

At that, the man’s demeanor changed and he stood tall, holding her gaze with piercing, pale eyes. “But you haven’t got a gun,” he pointed out in a clear, cultured voice.

Undeterred, Chrissie tossed her head, blue eyes sparkling as they boldly met his. “Then I will start carrying one,” she said. “For the next time that wild, untrained dog of yours terrifies my sheep. And if I lose any lambs from this, you will be paying for them, too.”

* * *

FOR A MOMENT, Will was speechless. A crazy urge to laugh made his lips twitch as it occurred to him what his colleagues would think if they could see him now. Will Devlin, stuck for words for what felt like the first time in his life, his opponent a simple country shepherdess with no apparent culture but a very fierce temper.

When he made the decision to move to the country, he’d imagined it would be quiet and relaxing, a peaceful place with room to breathe. He definitely hadn’t expected to get told off like a schoolboy on his first outing.

Two bright spots of color burned in the woman’s cheeks as she noticed his smile. “You may think this is funny,” she said, refusing to be daunted by his efforts at trying to appear imposing. “But the sheep are now way too spooked to get down the fell today. I’ll have to wait until they’ve settled down again, and that’s at least a whole day wasted. Anyway...” She lifted her chin, pushing back the stray wisps of blond hair that had escaped from her braid to curl around her cheek. “What makes you think you have the right to look down on me when you are walking the fells dressed like that?”

“But I don’t look down on you...” Will objected. “At least—”

“Oh, yes, you do,” she cut in. “I can see it in your face. You think I’m just a simple country bumpkin. Well, let me tell you now, Mr. Whoever-you-are—you may be some kind of hotshot in the city but it counts for nothing here.”

Will glanced at his ruined leather shoes and torn, mud-splattered trousers, feeling suddenly ridiculous. “I...I was in a rush,” he muttered, still hanging on to Max’s collar. “And it’s Mr. Devlin, by the way. Will. Of course I’ll pay for any problems I’ve caused. I do have the right to walk these fells, though, whatever I’m wearing. You can’t stop me.”

“What rights?” snorted the shepherdess. “Being a tourist doesn’t give you the right to ruin my day and injure my sheep.”

Determined to stand his ground, Will tried his well-practiced courtroom stare again. She just stared back, flicking her heavy braid back over her shoulder.

“I have grazing rights,” he said.

“Grazing rights don’t come with holiday cottages, you know,” she retorted, turning away with her dogs at her heels. “Anyway, I have enough to do without standing around talking to you. You’d better just hope that the sheep are all okay and go buy yourself a lead for that crazy dog. My name is Chrissie Marsh and I live at High Bracken, just down the fell from here. In case you end up owing me for lost sheep.”

He watched her walk over to the ledge where the ewe had disappeared. She was tall and almost stately, walking the hills with proud strides and her crook in her hand. Her dogs followed, totally obedient, while Max strained and pulled at him, eager to run off. For the first time in his adult life, Will Devlin felt out of his depth.

In another way, though, he felt somehow free, as if all the layers of artificiality that had been such a big part of his life for so long had been torn away. Another urge to laugh hit him as he took in his situation: his totally unsuitable clothes and his silly dog. A hotshot from the city, she’d called him, and she hadn’t been too far off with that. Well, he was certainly no hotshot now. Out here in the wilds of the Lake District a silver tongue and a steely gaze counted for nothing.

* * *

AWARE THAT WILL DEVLIN was watching her as she headed toward the place where the ewe had disappeared, Chrissie held her head high, determined not to let him sense her discomfort. There was no way she was letting him see that he’d bugged her. She wasn’t used to folks like him; he didn’t belong up here, with his posh voice and fancy clothes. This was her place, her land and her way of life.

Resisting the impulse to look back and see if he was still there, she peered over the ledge. To her dismay, the little ewe was on her back, trapped in a crevice upside down with her black legs in the air. Panic hit like a sledgehammer; there was no way Chrissie could get it out unaided.

She didn’t want to ask the man to help, but there was no other way. In desperation, she turned to see him heading off down the hillside, hobbling slightly and still hanging grimly to the dog’s collar.

“Excuse me,” she called. “Please...I need help here.”

* * *

WILL STOPPED WHEN he heard the woman’s cry. She was standing in the spot where the sheep had disappeared over the ledge. He gritted his teeth; he could really do without this. Her braid had come loose, and her long fair hair was streaming around her shoulders. She caught it up impatiently.

“Please,” she repeated, her desperate voice carrying across the distance. “It’s the least you can do.”

With a heavy sigh he retraced his steps. His knee smarted and throbbed, and his calf muscles ached relentlessly. Max pulled at him and he gave his collar a yank. “And what am I supposed to do with the dog while I help you with whatever it is you want?”

In response, Chrissie pulled a long piece of orange baler twine from her pocket. “First lesson,” she said. “Always carry some of this with you—you never know when it might come in handy. My sheep is stuck down here and I need you to help me get it out.”

Shaking his head, Will tied the twine to Max’s collar and fastened the end around a stubby, windblown bush before peering over the drop. She was right; he was duty bound to help her, even though the thought of wrangling a sheep was definitely not at the top of his to-do list.

Chrissie climbed down next to the sheep and began hauling at it.

“We need to call for help,” he suggested.

“You are the help,” she snapped. “What I need is for you to get down here and undo some of the damage you and your stupid dog have caused.”

Reluctantly, Will did as he was told, scrambling awkwardly down the rocky outcrop to grab hold of the oily wool on the ewe’s back. It was thicker than he expected, and kind of sticky.

“Just pull,” she said.

They tugged with all their strength, shoulder to shoulder, and suddenly the ewe came free. She leaped up, knocking them both over before heading off across the fell to find her companions. Will lay winded for a second with Chrissie sprawled over him. She wriggled to free herself, pushing against his chest, her face a fiery red.

“Well, at least the sheep seems okay,” he remarked, lips twitching.

“She’ll probably lose her lambs, though,” she remarked coldly, sitting up and struggling onto her feet. He stayed on the ground, contemplating.

“You are very pessimistic,” he said. “It’s not a good trait, you know. Positive thinking can move mountains.”

Chrissie brushed herself down. “You need more than positive thinking to survive up here. I’m telling you the ewe will probably lamb too soon—and you’ll have to pay for it. Plus probably others that I haven’t even found yet.”

Will sat up. “Ah, but how are you going to catch all these ailing and injured sheep that you haven’t even found yet? And if you can’t find them, how will you prove their problems were mine and Max’s doing?”

“Well I can’t, can I? Not right now, at least. But I’ll be keeping a closer eye on the ones that got loose because of you. Tomorrow I have to do the gather all over again, and they will come in with the rest of the flock...as long as there isn’t a tourist with a crazy dog around.”

Clambering to his feet, Will gave a short, sharp salute. “Well, you don’t need to worry on that score...ma’am. Max will definitely be locked away tomorrow, and as I’m not a tourist, there will probably be none of those around to bother you, either.”

Chrissie bristled, obviously displeased with his mocking tone. Without another word, she whistled for her collies and the dogs leaped up at once, happy to be doing something. Max yipped after them as they moved off down the steep slope.

Now Will was the one to bristle. He did have rights to this land. He didn’t have to suffer her disrespect. She was fifty yards away from him, but he called out anyway, his voice cutting easily through the clear, thin air.

“For your information, I’m a property owner. I live here, too. For now, at least.”

Chrissie stopped in surprise, looking back to where he still stood on the rocky outcrop, hanging on to his dog as it leaped against the restraint of the orange baler twine. Her curiosity was so obvious that it made him feel a bit better about the way she seemed determined to make him feel out of place and unwelcome here. Who was she to judge him, anyway? He had as much right on this fell as she did. If she thought he was going to fill her in on the details of the property he had bought, she was about to be disappointed.

For a moment she just stared at him, an unspoken question in her eyes. He returned her gaze with a half smile on his lips, refusing to be drawn in, and eventually, with a curt nod, Chrissie turned abruptly away.

CHAPTER FOUR

WILL STEPPED THROUGH the back door of the shabby white farmhouse at Craig Side with a heavy sigh of relief and, to his surprise, a sense of homecoming. The walk up the fell with Max had been meant to clear his head, invigorate his senses and push back the dark thoughts that the builders’ presence had brought on. Great idea that had been; his clothes and shoes were ruined, his whole body felt battered and bruised, and he ached all over.

“It’s all your fault, Max,” he complained to the muddy dog, who had sprawled in front of the stove the second they got in.

Max half raised his head in response, thumping his bedraggled tail on the floor.

“And you need a bath,” added Will, wishing the farmhouse boasted a shower. The thought of standing under a hot shower was so appealing, and a bath just wasn’t the same. His upmarket bachelor apartment in Manchester had a power shower, so the pressure was always good, and the first thing he did when he came home from work in the evening was to strip off his clothes and stand underneath it for at least fifteen minutes, allowing the force of the scalding-hot water to wash away the trials of the day.

Perhaps he should get a shower fitted here right away. He had big plans for the place eventually, but it would be some time before they were put into action and he didn’t think he could stand only having a bath to wash in for the next year or so. The holiday rentals were his first priority, of course...which reminded him about the builder wanting him to look at the plans his architect had drawn up.

Just as the thought came into his head, the banging that had made him go out in the first place started up again. So the builders were still here. He groaned. Well, might as well get it over with.

Will stepped outside again and waved at Jim, calling him over.

“Hi, Jim, come in,” he said brightly, opening the door wider. The tall gray-haired man he’d met earlier stepped inside, looking around intently.

“So, I guess you’ll be wanting to do this place up next, when the holiday cottages are done,” he remarked. “Will you be living here, then?”

Will nodded. “That’s the plan. I could probably do with putting in a shower right away, though.”

Jim took in his muddy shins and tattered clothes and seemed to be suppressing a smirk. “There’s no water pressure, that’s the problem. Having your own supply is great, but it can be a bit unpredictable. I’ll get the plumber to have a look, if you like.”

“Great,” said Will, part of him wishing he’d never said anything in the first place, as much as he craved a shower right now. He already regretted starting on his building plans so soon.

After the gruesome child-murder trial that had been the final straw for him, he had put in his offer on Craig Side and filled his mind and imagination with ideas of what to do with it right away, anything to drown out the details of that case. He’d even had Roger Simmons, his architect, check out the property to brainstorm before the deal was properly finalized.

Now that he was actually living here, though, Will realized he didn’t want to share it with anyone...not even the workmen. What he needed to recover from his breakdown was peace and quiet, not the stress and tumult of a huge project. But what was done was done, and he had to deal with it.

Jim laid the plans out on the kitchen table. “Have a good walk?” he asked.

Will thought about his clash with the woman on the fell. “I wouldn’t exactly put it like that,” he replied with frown. “In fact, you may have noticed that I look as if I have been dragged through a rather thick thorn hedge backward.”

Jim raised his wild, gray eyebrows. “Well, I did wonder...”

“I upset some sheep on the fell,” Will explained. “Or, at least, Max did...”

Jim glanced at the mud-splattered labradoodle, unable to contain a smile. “And I’ll hazard a guess that, as she is your nearest neighbor, the sheep were rough fells and they belonged to Chrissie Marsh.”

Will shrugged. “I wouldn’t have a clue what the sheep were, but the shepherdess—can you call them that these days or are they all just shepherds?—was definitely Chrissie Marsh.”

Jim grinned slowly. “If you’ve upset her sheep then I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.”

“It will take more than a disgruntled sheepherder to upset me.” Will thought of all the hardened criminals he’d mingled with in the past ten years. “Unless she has a violent husband...”

“Oh, no,” Jim said. “Chrissie is a loner. She loves her sheep and her dogs, and she doesn’t suffer fools gladly. She’s never been married.” He went back to the plans. “Now, what about this entrance hall? Roger wondered if you wanted a central entrance—you know, like a foyer, and then have apartments inside the barn rather than build individual cottages in the farmyard.”

Will shook his head, cupping his chin between thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. “No, I’m beginning to think that perhaps they need to be...authentic. You know, traditional, just like they were in the past.”

“What...no showers or microwaves? Electricity?”

“It’s just a thought. Roughing it is all the rage these days. City dwellers love the idea of going back to nature and experiencing how things used to be.”

Jim rolled up the plans, securing them with an elastic band. “It sounds as if you need to have a meeting with Roger, then. He wanted you to look these over because he was hoping to get them ready for next month’s planning meeting, but it seems like it’s going to take a bit longer than that. I’ll drop these off at his house on my way home and tell him to give you a call.”

Will nodded. “Thanks. My first thoughts were to have apartments, but to be honest since coming here I’ve been realizing how strong the traditions are. I mean, take Chrissie, for instance. I reckon shepherds just like her have been walking these fells with their dogs in the same way for hundreds of years.”

“Thousands, more likely,” Jim remarked. “Maybe you have something there, then, but I am no architect—or expert on what folks want, for that matter. You need to talk to people who know about stuff like that. Anyway, I’ll see what I can do about your shower. Oh, and I’m afraid the roof trusses in the barn are rotten, six of them, at least. It would be a big mistake not to replace them.”

“Just order what you need,” Will said. Suddenly, he felt stifled. He had come here to relax, not open himself up to a whole new set of problems like rotten 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 lengthening by the time Chrissie finished feeding the dogs and turned to her other animals.

With Floss on a long piece of twine, she fed and locked away the chickens and the Indian Runner ducks that she used in the sheepdogs’ early training. It was too early yet to test out Floss’s natural herding instincts, so she kept the young dog close and gave the command to sit on a regular basis.

The two shorthorn cows she kept for her own milk lowed hungrily, and she fed them before milking them in the old traditional way, enjoying the warm feel of their teats and the rhythmic sound of the milk squirting into a stainless steel bucket.

People around here thought she was as mad as a box of frogs to bother milking twice a day. “You could buy your milk from the shop,” Andy, her vet, had reminded her for the thousandth time just the other day. “It would be a darn sight cheaper and a lot less hassle.” Her response had been just to smile and shrug. The truth was she enjoyed it. The age-old task helped her relax.

And after her bad experience with the city dweller and his dog, she definitely needed to relax.

Remembering the poor, broken sheep, a flood of emotion overtook her. If Will Devlin thought he was getting away scot-free, then he could think again. Nothing could bring back the ewe or her unborn lamb, but he could pay for it. That was the least he could do.

Tomorrow, she decided, she’d get an early start and make the gather again. Once the flock was safely down on the lower pasture adjacent to the farm, she’d try to find out where the man was from. She stood, lifting the pail of milk and covering it with a cloth. In fact, she would write out a proper invoice as soon as she went inside. Perhaps she should take it with her in the morning, in case she saw him on the fell again, though surely he had learned his lesson there. Someone in the village must know where he was staying.

No matter what, she was determined to find him and make him pay.

CHAPTER FIVE

WILL DEVLIN ROLLED OVER in bed, breaking into a sweat as he woke in the darkness, horrible images flooding his mind. He sat up, flinging back his blankets. Would he never get a good night’s sleep again?

There was something heavy on his legs, pinning them down, and he made out Max’s pale shape in a beam of silvery moonlight. The big dog raised his head and flopped around, spread-eagling himself happily.

If anyone had told Will a year ago that he would be living alone in the country and sharing his bed with a dog, he’d have said it was impossible...and yet now here he was. Max slid off his legs and jumped onto the floor, instantly full of life. He was used to his master’s nighttime ramblings; sometimes they even went out for a walk in the darkness.

Tonight, though, Will felt too maudlin for a walk. Pulling on his dressing gown, he ran downstairs with Max at his heels, poured himself a stiff whisky and sat down beside the stove in the kitchen.

Had he been right to come here? Or was life in the Lake District just a crazy notion that he’d tire of soon? Remembering his disaster the previous day with the woman and her sheep, he realized he had an awful lot to learn if he was going to stay around here.

Max sat on his haunches, watching Will’s every move, his tail waving.

“Perhaps I should get you some proper training, Max,” Will said thoughtfully. “Assuming you’re even trainable...”

Max just looked at him, his brown eyes glowing with trust and happiness. That might have been what had drawn him to the pup in the first place, thought Will—the joyous innocence in his eyes. Innocence had kind of faded from Will’s life of late.

On the other hand, it had been Max’s innocence that caused the chaos on the fell today. Though Will doubted Chrissie would call the big dog “innocent” after what she thought he’d done to her sheep.

Taking another sip of his whisky, he pictured the straight-backed woman with her long blond braid. Chrissie. She didn’t really look like a Chrissie—more a Lorna or an Alice. A smile curled up inside him, warming the cold, hard place in his heart...

He shook his head. What did her name matter? In fact, the last woman he’d dated had been called Summer, and there wasn’t much about her that reminded him of the season—unless you counted how short-lived the relationship was. The shepherdess was no Summer, either. More of a Winter, he thought with a smirk. Remembering her honey-colored skin, though, he changed his mind to Autumn, with its golden tints and beautiful browns.

Summer had soon stopped getting in touch when he’d told her he’d given up his job and was moving to the country. He’d been put off at first, but now he was glad; he needed to be alone, for the time being, and he couldn’t see a future with her anyway.

Sighing, he dropped his empty glass into the sink and headed back up the narrow staircase. Tomorrow, he guessed, the architect would be on the phone. Will was so exhausted that it crossed his mind to put the whole project on hold, completely rethink the decisions he’d made recently.

He stood at the bedroom window, staring out at the formidable dark mass of the fell etched against the pale moonlit sky. This place held his future, he was sure of it. Fading dreams tumbled back into his consciousness, taking form again, meaning something. No, he couldn’t stop now. He needed this. Maybe he would have to rethink some of his plans so they would fit in with the environment here, but he wasn’t going to give up on the one thing that had carried him through these past dark weeks. Somehow he was going to make this work...no matter what the locals thought.

* * *

THE MORNING DAWNED bright and sunny, one of those early spring days when the whole world felt as if it was filled with promise. Is filled with promise, he corrected himself, feeling a resurgence of last night’s positive thinking. He glanced at the clock as he flung open the small window and leaned out to gulp in the sweet, clean air. There was a fog down in the valley, obliterating the rest of the view. Thick and white, it made the fells seem even more majestic as they loomed toward the clear blue sky.

“We are kings in our castle, Max,” Will said. “And when we are here, no one can touch us.”

Max just wagged his tail and twirled in a circle, impatient to go outside. Will smiled, feeling more lighthearted than he had in a long while. “Well, I’m a king... You’re probably more a court jester.”

He needed to get his head straight before meeting with his architect, so Will grabbed a piece of buttered toast and headed for the back door, remembering to take Max’s long leash from the hook. “No sheepherding for you today, young man,” he said, clipping the leash onto the dog’s collar.

The fog was lifting now, evaporating into nothingness to reveal the silver, sparkling lake and gray stone buildings way, way down in the valley. Will went through the gate that led onto the fell, noticing the patches of fresh white snowdrops coming up at the edges of the garden. They must have been there yesterday, announcing the arrival of spring, but he’d missed them. Funny how every day he seemed to see a new thing. It felt as if he’d just removed a blindfold that he’d been wearing for years, and now nature’s beauty was being revealed to him little by little.

Max pulled on the leash as they headed up the steep slope behind the house. He had decided not to go the same way as yesterday, just in case Chrissie—or Autumn, as he’d started thinking of her—was bringing the sheep down again. Today he wore sturdy boots, blue Wrangler jeans and a thick cream-colored sweater. Today, he was prepared; if he did come across her, she could keep her smiles to herself. He was dressed right and his dog was under control.

Will climbed for twenty minutes or so, not following a path but just aiming for the skyline and avoiding loose rocks and boulders.

He heard the high-pitched, ear-splitting sound from what felt like miles away, a piercing whistle that filled the clear air. Max stopped, whining in excitement, and Will took a firm hold of his leash. “Not today, boy,” he ordered, squinting into the distance.

No sign of her, thank God. The fellside was so vast that surely he couldn’t come across her by accident again. He continued on, his breath burning in his chest as the air got thinner.

* * *

CHRISSIE WAS PLEASED with herself. She’d been up before dawn to let Floss out, feed the animals and milk her two cows before grabbing her crook and calling to Tess and Fly. Perhaps today they could actually get the job done.

The heavy mist in the bottom of the valley made everything seem eerie and strange; Chrissie was used to mornings like this, but they never failed to move her soul. Taking a deep breath, she set out with long, easy strides, turning her face toward the pale early morning sun that cast its spell on the world.

By eight she was almost there, on the smoothest slope where the sheep liked to graze. To her relief she saw them at once, heads down and nibbling the sparse foliage. They looked up as one when she came into view, startled but not yet spooked by the woman and her dogs.

Today, she would have to take special care. Fell sheep were feral, they’d been badly frightened yesterday and their instinct to survive was strong. They moved closer together, herding up to face danger as a group, and she slowed her steps, motioning to Fly to go wide of the flock.

The sharp blue-and-white collie lowered herself to the ground, slinking around the back of the sheep that were starting to move down the slope. Tess waited, nose on paws, keen eyes and ears alert for her command.

Her moment came when a small ewe moved out from the flock. With one low whistle from Chrissie, Tess was straight on the sheep’s tail. Before she got close enough to truly spook it, Tess hung back, gently persuading the sheep to close in with the others. Chrissie felt a warm rush of pride at the way her dogs worked, hardly needing a command from her, and her confidence grew. Perhaps she’d actually manage to get these sheep down today.

For the next twenty minutes, they trotted almost amicably, content to be coaxed down the steep slope by the two easygoing dogs. And then the little ewe decided to make a break for freedom again and Chrissie let out a piercing whistle to warn Tess. Within minutes, the sheepdog had regained control and the flock streamed obediently toward the gate into the low pasture.

The sky was darkening, and Chrissie was relieved that they had almost reached the fields. Gray clouds descended, casting out the sun and obliterating the patches of clear blue. A slow, steady drizzle of rain enveloped the fell. Glad of the waxed-canvas jacket she wore, Chrissie pulled up her hood and kept on moving.

Rain was almost an everyday occurrence in the North of England and she gave it as little thought as the sheep, whose thick, oily fleeces glistened with raindrops. Still, poor visibility and high winds were risks up here and she was happy she hadn’t faced any more complications with the gather today.

The man appeared suddenly, as he had yesterday, and Chrissie suppressed a curse. At least today he had his crazy dog under control, she noted, and he was better dressed for the territory...except that maybe he should have thought to wear a coat.

She waved, signaling for him to stay back. He hesitated. His dark hair had curled in the rain and his sweater looked heavy and damp. He still hadn’t gotten it right, then, she thought, trying not to smile. What did he think he was doing hanging around these fells? She felt in her pocket for the bill; at least now she could give it to him.

“Meet me at the bottom,” she called, and he stopped in surprise. She pointed to the open gate that led to the fields by the farm. “Down there.”

He frowned, puzzled, but he began moving in that direction, hanging determinedly on to the leash as his dog strained against him, desperate for another bit of fun.

With a collie at either side running to and fro, and Chrissie behind the flock waving her crook, the sheep streamed through the gate. She pushed it shut with satisfaction, almost forgetting about Will. His deep voice behind her made her jump. “Why did you ask me to follow you down here...? Is it just so that you can give me another ticking off?”

“Ticking off?” she repeated, unable to stop her wide smile. “What kind of person says that? Reading the riot act, going mad, even telling off. Ticking off sounds, well, kind of private school, I guess. Posh. Come to think of it, you do sound a bit posh.”

Will nodded briefly. “And you sound very Northern. Anyway, why did you ask me to follow you? I know, don’t tell me—it was my good looks you couldn’t resist.”

A flicker of heat in Chrissie’s cheeks revealed her embarrassment; she wasn’t used to eloquent men out-talking her. In fact, talking to anyone was not her forte. She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket. “You owe me this...for the ewe.”

He frowned, his silvery blue eyes darkening. “But it ran off...we both saw it. I helped you, and it was fine.”

“Not that one.”

“There was another?”

She looked anywhere but into his piercing gaze. “One fell down a cliff face...it’s dead and so is its lamb.”

He stepped forward and took hold of her arm, but she pulled it away. “I’m so sorry.”

Chrissie met his eyes for a second, lifting her chin. “Sheep die up here. It happens. But you have to pay for this one.”

Will studied the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “That much?”

“That much,” she repeated decisively.

He stared at her a moment longer then sighed. “I presume this is where you live,” he said. “High Bracken, you called it? I’ll bring you a check. You do take checks, I suppose?”

Chrissie glared at him. “Yes, can you believe it? I actually have a bank, in fact.” Suddenly she smiled again, a tiny smile that just turned up the corners of her mouth. “I even have the internet...and I can work it.”

It was his turn to appear uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean...”

“Yes, you did,” she said. “You think I’m some kind of country bumpkin with no brains. Well, I am a country girl and I’m proud of it, but I do have brains. It was either sheep farming or training to be a vet, and I chose sheep farming. I’ve never regretted it. I’ll be around the farm tomorrow if you want to drop the check off. The vet’s coming.”

She turned away with her dogs at her heels, but spun back to face him a second later. “Oh, and you certainly look a bit more in keeping with your surroundings today, but a coat is always a good idea around here.”

She strode off without another word. There was something so arrogant about the man, with his high-handed manner and his posh accent, and yet, standing there in his wet sweater, he also seemed kind of vulnerable. Bottom line: he was just another tourist and the sooner he headed back to his city life, the better.

She remembered what he’d said about owning property, but it had to be a just vacation home. Men like Will Devlin didn’t live around here; they just arrived with their families and interfered with the way of things before scuttling back to the city.

Did he have a family? she wondered. Did she really care? The answer that jumped into her head was not the one she wanted. For some bizarre reason, she was interested in the man who kept appearing on the fell as if from nowhere. Perhaps he was a ghost, she mused sardonically as she made her way down to the farm. Well, I’ll find out tomorrow, she thought. Because ghosts can’t write checks.

* * *

WHEN CHRISSIE REACHED High Bracken, the sheep safely enclosed in the low meadows, she made straight for the new arrival, Floss. The nervous little dog was excited to see her, and Chrissie played with her for a few minutes before leading her to the house.

The way Floss stayed close behind her told her that perhaps she would be one of the easier ones to train. That belief was strengthened when Chrissie stopped to gaze across the valley toward Craig Side and Floss sat obediently down beside her.

There were workmen in the yard again, she noted, tiny figures in the distance. Perhaps they were just repairing the roof. Andy had been pretty sure about the holiday rentals, though.

She imagined clusters of bright-coated tourists wandering across her land, letting their pet dogs chase the sheep and leaving gates open. They seemed to think they owned the Lake District just because it was a national park.

She’d go to the council offices in Kendal this week, she decided, to find out what was going on. One thing was for sure: if there was a planning application going in, then she’d be fighting it. She’d write a letter of protest and get signatures, and she could have a meeting with the local council to state her objections.

With a fresh boost of determination she pulled herself away from the view of Craig Side. What were her objections, though? I don’t like having tourists too close to my farm? The shops, hotels and holiday cottages around here—her neighbors—depended on tourists. But encouraging them to stay as far up the fell as Craig Side could cause all sorts of problems—as she’d witnessed firsthand with Will Devlin’s crazy dog. She could form her objection around that: tourists needed to be based closer to town, or in other nearby villages.

Smiling, she remembered that when tourists used to come tramping through Billy Parker’s yard at High Ridge, he would turn the garden hose on them. True, that was probably taking it a bit too far, but the thought still amused her. She’d been half in love with Billy when she was sixteen, and his impetuous behavior had drawn her to him even then. He was happily married now with two young children, but they had always remained friends...

“Come on, girl,” she said to Floss, heading back toward the house. She was eager for a late lunch and a cup of tea. “One thing is for sure. Whoever has bought Craig Side is in for a fight if they’re hoping to bring tourists all the way up here.”

CHAPTER SIX

AS WILL MADE his way home with Max still straining on the leash, he felt a flicker of irritation at the way Chrissie made him feel so small.

Even when he’d walked away from his career he had felt principled, never awkward or uncomfortable. He’d become totally sickened by the way the law worked, the way that clever words could help guilty men and women walk free when the whole world knew they didn’t deserve to. And the worst part was that very often they were his words. That was what had truly finished him. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done as a lawyer, and he’d made the right decision by walking away.

Chrissie’s face slid into his mind, a strong face that didn’t need makeup to enhance it. There was something about her whole demeanor that drew him in, something starkly beautiful about the proud way she held her head and the spark in her blue eyes.

He had come to the fells for peace and quiet, a chance to take stock and sort out the good from the bad, but already he was inviting chaos into his life at every turn. What he needed to do, he decided, was avoid Chrissie at all costs. He didn’t want any more antagonism in his life, and sparks seemed to fly whenever they met, sparks that emphasized his confusion.

He realized that Autumn was too warm and mellow a name for the fierce, independent shepherdess. Winter, he decided, smiling at the thought.

Back at Craig Side there were men up on the roof. He could see them clearly from the fell, little ants busily working. He’d come here for solitude, but solitude seemed to be evading him—even when he sought it out on the wild slopes. Part of it was his own fault, of course; he had called the workmen in and he had let Max chase the stupid sheep. Still, he needed to talk to Jim and Roger Simmons soon. Though, right now, getting out of his soggy sweater and warming up were his first priorities.

Will had just managed to pull the demon sweater over his head and stuff it in the laundry basket when he heard a knock on the kitchen door. He ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would think he’d gone out. No such luck.

“Sorry to intrude, but we really do need you to look at these plans again.” Jim Wentworth poked his gray head around the corner just as Will ducked out of sight. “But if you’re busy...”

“No, it’s fine,” Will said awkwardly, emerging from the laundry room. “I got a bit wet, that’s all.”

“I saw you coming down the fell.” Jim smiled. “You did look a bit sodden. To be honest, it’s always a good idea—”

“To wear a coat when you live around here,” Will finished for him. “Autumn—I mean, Chrissie Marsh—said just the same thing.”

Jim raised his bushy eyebrows. “You’ve seen her again already, then?”

“Only by accident. You’d think you could never accidentally bump into someone way up here, but I’ve managed to do it twice.”

“With better results than yesterday, I hope.”

Will laughed. “Well, Max didn’t chase her sheep, but she presented me with a bill for one that fell down a cliff yesterday...and she let me know I was wearing the wrong clothes yet again.”

“As I said, Chrissie doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”

“So you think I’m a fool, now?”

When Jim looked at him in dismay, Will placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “Don’t worry. I know that’s not what you meant. Tell you what—give me half an hour to get changed and we’ll go and meet Roger together.”

Jim nodded. “He said he was working at home all day. I’ll give him a ring so he knows to expect us.”

As he ran up the stairs to get changed, Will realized just how much more lighthearted he felt already, and all because his sense of purpose was filtering back. He could feel it, the drive inside him that made life worthwhile. Chrissie Marsh might have made him feel out of place and out of his comfort zone, but he wasn’t one to give in easily. At least that was one good thing to come out of being a lawyer.

It was a culture shock, that was all. For years he’d been revered and admired; no one messed with Will Devlin unless they wanted a lawsuit on their hands, a lawsuit that they would definitely lose. He just had to adjust to the principles of life here. They were different than in the city, more basic and more honest. Better...? he asked himself. The answer came at once. Yes. Well, at least he definitely hoped so. All he had to do was keep well away from the shepherdess and he’d be fine. After he gave her a check, of course; he’d go there first thing tomorrow and get it done with.

His cell phone buzzed as he ran down the stairs. Roy Wallis? What the heck did he want? Ice seeped through his veins, weighing down his heart once more. Would they never let go of him? Putting the phone to his ear, he pulled on his professionalism like an invisible skin. “Roy! How are you? To what do I owe this honor?”

“Fine, and how are you?” replied the head of Marcus Finch and lawyer extraordinaire. “Feeling better, I hope.”

“Getting my head straight, if that’s what you mean,” Will said cautiously.

“I won’t mince words. I have a case for you, an important case.”

“Well, give it to someone else because I am no longer a part of Marcus Finch.”

“Look, Will...” Roy hesitated, piquing Will’s interest. Roy Wallis never showed his unease.

“Look at what?”

“Ezra McBride has insisted that you handle it, and I think you know what that means.”

Will stayed silent, digesting the information. His palms were sweaty. “I guess it means a heap of money for the company.”

“It also means the loss of a very good client...not to mention the repercussions if he gets convicted.” Roy’s frustration sneaked through his usual steely tone. “Our reputation is at stake here, Will. You can’t deal with these people lightly.”

“Then perhaps the company should change the people it represents,” Will suggested coldly. “Don’t tell me...what is it this time? Murder, perhaps? Extortion? Bribery? Or maybe he just wants to cover up an even worse misdeed, like—”

“No!” Roy was quick to stop his tirade. “You know I can’t mention the details. We need you back, Will. You have responsibilities.”

“My only responsibilities are here,” Will said. “Get some other mug to do your dirty work. I’m too busy.”

He ended the call and had to pause at the bottom of the staircase, trying to still his shaking body. He thought he’d finally got his point across to Marcus Finch, but it seemed they just wouldn’t let him go. It disgusted him, the way they valued winning—and getting paid for it—over the greater good.

You were like that, too, he reminded himself. Getting this or that murderer off when everyone knew they’d done it, and worse, knew that they’d do it all over again...and again...and again as long as they had people like Will to protect them from the law. Well, not anymore.

“You okay?” asked Jim when Will walked into the kitchen. He was waiting by the back door, looking awkward.

“I’m fine...let’s just get this over with.”

“We can leave it for today, if you like.”

“I have nothing else to do.” Will’s voice was cold and cutting.

“You’re a bit pale, that’s all.”

Will took a breath. He wasn’t in court now and never would be again. “Sorry, I really am as keen as you are to get these plans sorted. I just had a difficult telephone conversation, that’s all.”

“Perhaps you should leave your phone behind, then,” suggested Jim.

The idea alone left Will reeling. “But what if...”

“What if nothing. If someone wants to speak to you badly enough, they’ll get hold of you later.”

Feeling anxiety and freedom all rolled into one, Will dropped his phone on the table in triumph and reached for his jacket.

“Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

* * *

WILL HAD ONLY spoken to Roger Simmons on the phone up until now, and the architect proved to be totally different than he’d expected. Average height with a middle-aged paunch, graying hair and kind blue eyes, he was the epitome of grandfatherhood.

Will had hired him for his reputation, and in his world that meant expensive suits and lean bodies achieved through hours in the gym—men and women who were trying to make a statement to the world. This man’s statement, it seemed, was in his work, not his appearance. He was what he was, and Will could tell it by the firm, honest grip of his handshake.

“Now,” Roger said, ushering him to a seat at the table and laying out some large sheets of paper. “Jim here tells me we have crossed wires regarding this development.”

Will leaned forward, poring over the precisely drawn plans. “Since I first spoke to you, I guess I’ve had a change of heart. Instead of the rather grand communal idea, I thought that maybe we should keep it more traditional.”

“He wants to give visitors the opportunity to live as people used to do,” Jim added. “Cut out a lot of the amenities.”

“And you think it will work?” Roger asked, frowning.

Will shrugged. “Well, it seems to be fashionable in places like London and Manchester nowadays. You know, to get away from the pressures of business and modern living, return to your roots and see how things used to be. It will have to be cleverly done, of course, to make the visitors feel that they’re stepping back in time without it being too uncomfortable. I thought we could get quite a few cottages in there and make it like a real community, so that they can socialize if they want but have their own space, as well.”

Roger tapped his pencil against his chin. “Mmm...that will take some working out. And do you intend to live on-site, too?”

Will hesitated. “I had intended to, but...”

“Well then, why don’t we put the farmhouse plans aside for now and focus on the outbuildings first? You may end up wanting to move somewhere more private.”

“That makes sense,” Will said. “I’m enjoying the solitude at Craig Side and I don’t want to lose that. I’ll look forward to seeing your ideas.”

Roger nodded, smiling. “I really think I understand where you’re coming from now. I’ll have some plans for you very soon.”

Will stood and shook Roger’s hand. The architect had a firm grip.

“You do realize you’ll get some opposition from the locals?”

Will frowned. “But why? The new plans are going to be very traditional. Why would anyone object?”

“You obviously don’t know much about the folks around here,” Jim remarked. “They don’t like tourists wandering about, upsetting the sheep, leaving gates open and messing up the land.”

“Well, there aren’t that many people around here to object, anyway,” Will said. He might not be a defense lawyer anymore, but that didn’t mean he had to give up his skills of persuasion. “We can overcome anything they have to say, I’m sure. In my experience, there is always a way.”

Roger appeared doubtful. “It’s not quite as easy as that,” he said. “And I wouldn’t underestimate our local council, but we’ll just have to do our best with that. Anyway, I’ll be in touch in the next couple days and we’ll take it from there.”

Roger left, and Will walked Jim to his car.

“Do you think we’ll have objections from the locals?” he asked the builder.

“Probably,” Jim said. “People around here object to everything.”

Back at Craig Side, Will ate a late lunch beside the stove. For the first time in what felt like ages, he felt a flicker of enthusiasm for the future, followed almost immediately by regret that he might have to leave this place he had become so attached to. The builders’ presence was irritating enough, but it was temporary; what would a property constantly full of tourists do to him?

It was kind of weird that he—who not so long ago thrived on the hubbub of city life—now felt threatened by the idea of sharing his space with just a few tourists.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the silence. It was total and welcome, calming his troubled mind. Later, he supposed, picking up the crumpled invoice from where he had thrown it earlier, he would have to go up to High Bracken and drop off a check. And this time, after the trip he’d made to the men’s outfitters in town, at least he would be dressed right. Hopefully he could act right, too; no one had made him feel as awkward as Chrissie Marsh since he’d become a lawyer.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FLOSS GAZED UP at Chrissie, eyes alight with interest, and she gave the little collie the command to sit and stay.

“Clever girl,” Chrissie said as Floss obeyed. “Perhaps we should do the duck test.”

When she went around the back of the house to the small, walled paddock just beyond the barn, Floss followed, padding quietly along behind her like a dog twice her age. She was eager to learn and keen to please, Chrissie noted—all the attributes of a promising sheepdog. The duck test would show how much natural ability she had. Collies were bred with an inherent instinct to herd, but it came easier to some than to others.

The Runner ducks were already out, moving around the paddock like a group of slope-backed soldiers with their heads held high. When they saw Chrissie and the dog, they huddled closer together, moving as one with the weird gait that gave them their name.

“Time to earn your keep, boys,” Chrissie called, firmly holding the baler twine that was attached to Floss’s collar. The pup whined with excitement, and Chrissie pulled sharply on the twine. “Lie down, Floss.”

Floss faltered, agitated by the strange creatures and impatient to run to them.

“Lie down,” Chrissie repeated, lowering her arm with her palm outstretched.

When Floss sank down obediently, still quivering, Chrissie smiled. “Good girl.” She stroked the backs of the dog’s ears.

After fifteen minutes of making Floss lie and wait, watching the strange little group of drakes and generally beginning to get used to them, Chrissie took the plunge and turned the dog loose to see what she would do.

“Lie down,” she called, and Floss did so immediately, eyes bright as she glanced across at her trainer before turning her attention back to the flock of Runner ducks.

“Come by,” Chrissie ordered and the dog reacted at once, skirting the flock slowly and cautiously and soon moving them around the paddock with an inherent skill.

“Good girl!” Chrissie let out a sharp, two-tone whistle and patted her knee. “Come here.”

Floss ran toward her, and when she reached Chrissie she rolled onto her back to get her tummy scratched. Chrissie laughed, sinking down onto her knees to do just that.

“Good, good girl,” she cried. “Your owner has certainly made a good start with you.”

The Runner ducks, well used to the routine of being herded around by young sheepdogs, began quacking in alarm. That’s odd, thought Chrissie, and she looked up to see them running to the corner of the paddock. Suddenly, she became aware of a figure peering over the wall.

“What are you doing?” Will asked, and her heart sank. She really didn’t have time for his stupid questions right now.

* * *

WILL SET OFF up the steep slope behind Craig Side with Max, as always now on a long leash. He had considered leaving the unruly labradoodle at home, but responsibility won out. He may have chosen the wrong dog for sheep country, but he was stuck with him now...and very fond of him.

Not having owned a dog before, Will had never really appreciated their innocent and unquestioning company. He needed that right now; it gave him comfort to know that there was always someone to listen to his woes without judgment, someone who was always there to welcome him home with no ulterior motives.

Besides, if Will didn’t take Max for a walk, who knew what kind of havoc he’d wreak in the house or the yard? At least Will could keep an eye on him this way, and maybe exercise would mellow him out.

Will walked in silence, listening to the world around him as he and the big dog climbed up the slope. For Max, every rabbit hole was exciting, every fluttering bird and moving creature something to chase.

“No!” Will shouted when Max pulled at his leash, trying to race off after yet another litter of baby rabbits. When the tiny creatures ran in panic toward their burrow, Will felt a strange and slightly alien lump form in his chest. The tiny rabbits were so scared and vulnerable. How were they going to survive until adulthood?

You, Will Devlin, he told himself, are getting soft.

High Bracken was not very far across the fell from Craig Side, but it took almost half an hour for Will to negotiate the harsh terrain. Max didn’t help, pulling and barking, but eventually they reached the meadow near the farm where she’d handed him the bill for the dead sheep. He could see the flock she’d brought down from the fell to lamb; they seemed calmer now, but they tensed up immediately when they saw Max. Will made a detour along the wall, not wanting to spook them again.

The gray stone house came into view beyond the barn, tucked into the hillside. Would she be in there? Or maybe he’d better check in the barn or the outbuildings—she had mentioned the vet coming.

Deciding he’d try the barn first, Will strode toward it, but he saw her before he even got there. That is, he heard her somewhere near the small paddock that ran alongside the looming structure. He heard another sound, too—a strange one. Did she keep ducks?

Taking a firm hold of Max’s collar and silently pleading with him to stay quiet, Will approached cautiously; the last thing he wanted was to cause any more problems for Chrissie.

For once, overcome by the unfamiliar sound, the labradoodle obliged and Will was able to peer over the drystone wall that surrounded the paddock.

Chrissie stood with her back to him. She was dressed, as usual, in blue jeans, a thick quilted jacket and brown boots; her thick, blond braid hung down almost to her waist.

Will knew he should get her attention to avoid startling her, but he paused, intrigued to hear her giving commands to the pretty little brown-and-white collie that seemed to be taking in her every sound and gesture. Slowly, it approached a flock of funny-looking waddling ducks then started to herd them across the grass. Chrissie gave a sharp whistle and the dog returned to her, flopping onto the ground for a belly rub.

“Good girl,” she cried, and then she noticed him standing there. Her piercing gaze made him feel guilty and self-conscious. How did she manage that? Well, at least she couldn’t laugh at what he was wearing; the country boots, moleskin trousers and tweed jacket had been highly recommended by the men’s outfitters in Kendal.

“What are you doing?” he called, breaking the silence that stretched between them.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she snapped.

He shrugged. “Well, I don’t really know. I thought you trained dogs to herd sheep, not ducks.”

The hint of a smile flitted across her face. “They have to start somewhere, and it gives the ducks a purpose.”

“Shouldn’t they be laying eggs and getting fat enough for dinner?”

“Not these ducks. They’re a bit small to eat and they’re drakes, so they don’t lay eggs. Getting them to help with the dog training means I can justify keeping them.”

“They could just be pets,” Will suggested. “Odd pets, to be sure. What are they, anyway?”

The wind rose, freeing wisps of hair from Chrissie’s braid to frame her face, softening its contours. She pushed it back impatiently, shaking her head. “There is no room for pets on a farm, and all the birds and animals here have to earn their keep. These ducks would have no purpose if they didn’t help with training the young sheepdogs, and in return they are fed and cared for. What can I do for you, anyway? Or is this just a social visit?”

“No... Yes... I mean, I brought your check,” he said, pulling it from his pocket.

As she raised her eyebrows, her hair escaped again. He liked that look. It made her seem softer, though he knew full well that she was as hard as nails.

“I’m surprised you had enough money left after you’ve forked out for that outfit,” she said, looking him up and down. The smile in her eyes belied her stern expression.

Will gazed down in consternation, placing his palms on his chest. Was she just trying to wind him up?

“What’s wrong with it? The store manager said it was about as country as you can get.”

“And it is,” she agreed, walking toward him. “If you’re going to the races, that is. You’d fit right in in the owners’ enclosure. Why don’t you just wear something comfortable? Jeans, boots and a warm jacket is all you need to walk these fells.”

They stood quite close, facing each other with the wall between them. He handed over the check and she inspected it carefully before pushing it into her pocket.

“There’s nothing wrong with it. It certainly won’t bounce.”

“I’d come looking for you if it did,” she said in a tone of voice that made him believe it.

Will turned to head back home without replying, not knowing how to react to her hostility. Three times he’d met her now, and each time had been the same. As soon as he thought she’d softened to him just a little, she had become sarcastic and biting. It was as if she was trying to make him feel like a fool.

And it had worked.

Perhaps she was trying to keep him at bay. But why? Well, she needn’t have bothered. He didn’t want friendship, and he didn’t need a shepherd’s help for his tourism venture, so what was the point?

“Come on, Max,” he said, and the big dog bucked against his collar, taking Will by surprise.

The leash slipped out of his hand, and he tried to catch it but lost his footing and stumbled, struggling back to his feet to see Max racing for the gate into the paddock. He yelled, but the dog ran on, alight with excitement.

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