Shadow On The Fells

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.