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“To Archie’s farm,” she said with more confidence than she felt. She had no idea if they were going in the right direction. Presumably there were a lot more sheep on the island than just Archie’s.
They walked in silence for several minutes, their boots squelching in the half-frozen mud, the deep, startlingly blue sky giving way to thick, billowing clouds. The wind coming off the sea was absolutely frigid, going right through Laurel’s respectable three-season parka that had served her well for a dozen winters in York. She dug her hands deeper into its pockets and hunched her shoulders against the wind.
“Where is this place?” Zac demanded after they’d been walking for the better part of a quarter an hour and no homey farmhouse, or building of any description, had come into view.
“He said across the paddock…” Assuming they’d been walking across the right paddock and Laurel had no idea if they had. The whole island was a blooming paddock, covered in tufty grass and sheep. How was she supposed to know which one he meant?
Zac scowled and kept walking, faster now, as if he wanted to lose her behind. With the mud sucking around her boots every time she moved, Laurel struggled to keep up, glancing askance at the sheep who stared back rather balefully.
She was not scared of a stupid sheep, she told herself as she walked even faster. She was just a tiny bit wary. They were bigger than they’d first seemed.
*
Finally, after what felt like an age, a low, rambling, whitewashed building with a slate roof came into view, seeming alarmingly far away, but at least visible.
“I think that’s it,” Laurel said, panting to keep up with Zac. He had much longer legs, and he was a lot younger than her. He grunted in reply.
Another ten minutes and they were finally there, approaching a muddy courtyard where an even muddier and ancient Land Rover was parked. Smoke curled from a chimney above, the only sign of life, at least until three springer spaniels tore out of nowhere, barking madly as they circled Laurel and Zac, forcing them to huddle together uncertainly.
Laurel wasn’t really a dog person. She loved cats, but dogs, like sheep, made her a bit nervous, especially ones that were barking and baring their teeth, looking as if they were sizing her up for a meal.
Zac didn’t seem to be much of a dog person either, judging by the way he was suddenly superglued to her side, after trying to lose her for the last twenty minutes.
“Aon, Dha, Tri,” Archie called as he strode out of the house, dressed in what looked like the same thing as yesterday. “Heel.”
Amazingly, the three dogs obeyed him, dropping back and trotting meekly to his side with no more than a single snap of his fingers.
“They wouldn’t have hurt you,” he said with a craggy smile. “They were just doing what they always do—rounding you up like sheep.”
“Good to know,” Laurel said when she’d found her voice.
“Everything all right at Bayview, then?”
“Actually…no. The Rayburn’s playing up, and there doesn’t seem to be any heat anywhere, and I was wondering about firewood?” Laurel smiled at him hopefully, conscious of how much she was asking. Fix my life, basically. Please.
“There’s nae firewood because Eilidh’s in Spain all winter,” Archie said. “Did you fiddle with the Rayburn?”
A phrase which made Laurel want to blush or burst out laughing. “I tried.”
“Right. Come in, then.” He beckoned to them both as he turned back to the farmhouse door. “I was just having my morning brew, and I’m not going to miss that.”
Laurel ducked her head under the low stone lintel as she stepped into the cluttered kitchen of Archie’s farmhouse, blinking in the dim light. The place was…a mess.
But it was a cosy, comfortable mess, at least in a way, with laundry drying everywhere, and piles of newspapers stacked in a wicker basket, and plants growing in a tangled riot on a wide windowsill over the sink. Three dog beds jostled for space under a Welsh dresser crammed with bits of china and stacks of post, and the three dogs—Aon, Dha, and Tri—flung themselves into a bed each with doggy groans.
“Fancy a cuppa?” Archie asked, turning to Laurel. He’d stripped off his coat, plus fours, and boots and was dressed in a forest green jumper that looked to be more holes than wool and a pair of baggy, faded jeans.
Without all his crazy farmer kit, Laurel realised he wasn’t quite as old and barmy as she’d thought. He had a lean, muscular body, undoubtedly honed by endless hours working on the farm, and a full head of light brown hair streaked with grey at the temples. Closer to fifty, then, she supposed. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for his response, and she realised she was staring.
“Yes, yes,” she stammered. “Thank you, that’s very kind. Zac?”
Zac was looking around with a kind of baleful curiosity. The cluttered, cosy kitchen was a far cry from Abby’s sleek and chic apartment, where chrome, glass, and leather all featured in equal measure, and clutter seemed to be a bad word. In this kitchen, every possible surface was covered—with post, with washing, with dishes.
“Um. Okay,” he said,
and then, after a pause, “thanks.”
Archie took an enormous brown teapot from a shelf above the absolutely massive Aga that took up most of one wall and plonked it down on the centre of the table, sweeping aside a tottering stack of paperwork first. “Cake?” he asked, and startled, Laurel said.
