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“Yes,” I answered Lucien, and with a smile, I took Evan’s hand in mine. “Yes. We’d like that very much.”
EPILOGUE
6 MONTHS LATER
“That Christmas punch at lunchtime must have been stronger than I thought,” announced Freddie, trailing after me into the kitchen. “Because I swear I drove past four cows that looked exactly like alpacas on the way up your farm track. What the fuck are you doing with four alpacas?”
Chuckling, I reached for two mugs. Freddie settled into his usual chair, and I popped the cork on our annual bottle of fizz. “They were going spare and needed a good home. How could I say no?”
“I always knew you were a big softie.” He laughed with delight as Ludwig, my four-month-old cockerpoo, scrambled into his lap. "And what about this little fellow?” he cooed, tickling him under the chin. “Is this the new big bad replacement guard dog?”
“I’ll have you know that he barked very sternly at the milk tanker this morning.”
Freddie didn’t need me to explain that the dog then rolled over and allowed the driver to rub his belly for a good ten minutes.
We lost Zeus in the Autumn, leaving muddy paw prints all over my heart. After a struggle to rise from the middle of our bed one morning, I hand-fed him a rasher of the crispiest, most perfect bacon, and he washed it down with a lukewarm cup of tea. Then, cradling him in my arms, we undertook a slow promenade of the farmyard, wishing the herd, the chickens, and finally Watermelons a very good morning. After which he rested his tired grey head down on my lover’s feet for a nap and never lifted it again. Together, Evan and I buried him in a shady spot not far from Watermelons’s favourite oak. The little wooden cross was the first thing I saw when I pulled apart the curtains each morning and the last thing at night before I drew them closed. When the window was open, Evan swore he could still smell his farts on the evening breeze.
“Ludwig has the makings of another excellent guard dog,” I insisted, with a swig of champagne. “And Evan is threatening him with puppy training classes, so he learns his place in the family hierarchy.”
“Talking of whom,” Freddie asked, “where is love’s young dream? Have you got him outside, shovelling cow shit?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “If you’re referring to the lovely Mr Christopher E. Richardson, then he’s still at work, performing very delicate surgery and saving lives.”
Eyes travelling around my kitchen, Freddie smirked. “If he ever gets bored of surgery, he could always try his hand at interior decorating. He’s done wonders here; I hardly recognise the place.”
That made two of us. And not before time. I now had a stunning view across rolling pastures, changing not only throughout the year but throughout the day too. The freshly painted kitchen was much more welcoming, not a ceramic flying bird in sight. Fibre had become an integral part of my diet, and I’d discovered the point of courgettes.
My phone pinged. “Speak of the devil.”
I’m just finishing writing up the last operation of the day, and then I’m coming over to the farm. To fuck you.
“What does he have to say for himself?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I answered airily, finding Ludwig’s antics suddenly very distracting. “Just that he’ll be heading for home any minute.” I shrugged carelessly. “I’ll probably be halfway through milking by the time he gets here. If it’s not too late or he’s not too tired, he sometimes pops into the milking parlour to keep me company.”
Freddie drank up and got to his feet. “I’ll say my goodbyes then.”
We embraced happily. These days, I saw him a lot more than once a year. Him, Lucien, and the rest of the gang were good people.
“You’re leaving me with a rather delicious image, I must say,” Freddie added naughtily, stood on the doorstep. “I suspect he does a little more than keep you company. I can just imagine you out in the milking parlour, all sweaty and rugged, bending that uptight surgeon of yours over one of the milk churns. Please tell me that’s what you do.”
I blushed, something I did more and more these days, especially when Evan was involved. “Um…yeah…something like that.”
Evan let himself into the milking parlour still dressed in his suit, straight from the hospital. One minute, I was on my own, taking the first tranche of cows off the milking clusters and attaching another group. The next he was there, seated on an upturned zinc churn, watching me. Against the harsh industrial steel units and bright strip lights, he was an incongruous presence, yet all kinds of hot at the same time.
Milking had to be timed to perfection, so I didn’t stop. Milk them too soon and the yields were down; too late and the yield spilled over into the grass. Not wanting to disrupt my girls’ rhythm, I carried on.
I worked up a rhythm myself, encouraging a procession of cows from the holding pens to the milkers, then down the exit alley. I was milking solo; Bill was using the empty barn to clean down and freshen up the feed and straw. Mindlessly, I prepped and latched six cows at a time, then prepped another six and so on, in a cycle lasting anywhere between two to three hours, depending on whether they all chose to play ball.
As I worked, Evan’s savage stare tracked me around the parlour. The hiss and clang of the pumping, the background chuntering of the herd and my constant activity meant we’d not yet exchanged a word. Regardless, the heat of his green-eyed gaze soaked through my shirt. His legs inched further apart as he sprawled on the hard metal churn, far more at home than anyone in a smart suit had a right. He’d loosened his tie; shadows at his undone collar hinted at the dark mat of hair underneath.
I’m coming over to the farm. To fuck you. No ambiguity there. Precise and to the point, neither a question nor an order. A statement of fact. And as far as I was concerned, they were the fucking sexiest sentences in the world.
Honest labour worked up a decent sweat, but today, it oozed from every pore, pooling under my arms in a never-ending stream, spiralling down my spine like a lover’s finger. Pausing briefly between batches of cows, I shrugged out of my shirt, using it as a face cloth before casting it aside. The next time I dared glance at my man on the upturned churn, his suit jacket had disappeared. Crisp cotton sleeves sat just below his elbows, neatly rolled up. He’d found a short length of zinc piping—an old-fashioned churn connector—and tossed it slowly from hand to hand as if trying to find a use for it. My heart rate kicked up a notch.
The milking cycle continued unabated. I sluiced and prepped and slapped rumps. Pens clanked open and shut. My girls lowed muted grumblings to each other as they shambled through the line, cloven hooves thudded on concrete floors, stringy tails swished from side to side. The air hung heavy with static. A strip light flickered, almost as if a storm threatened.
My eyes landed on the crotch of his suit trousers, taut across widespread thighs. The set of his stubbled jaw as he toyed with the infernal pipe. Him openly adjusting himself. I sucked in the familiar scent of cow shit mixed with the milky, earthy rawness of my livestock and carried on. Warmth clawed at my throat; why was it so damned hot in here this afternoon? Beads of sweat blurred my vision. The pipe. What did he have planned? What the fuck did he have planned?
