AllFreeNovel
Share Us
So, sit back, grab your kindle, your fan, some ice, and a friend, and enjoy.
A Whole Llama Drama
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR CLAIRE HASTINGS
Chapter One
AIMEE
I hear the crunch of the gravel long before I can tell who is making their way up the long drive toward the barn. Not that I bother looking up to check. There aren’t that many people who come back to the processing barn, especially when it isn’t shearing season.
Glancing up from the equipment I’m cleaning, I squint, trying to make sure that I’m not seeing things. The bright sunlight outside contrasting with the dimness inside can sometimes make it hard to see at first. But not this time. That is indeed the county sheriff, guiding a large white four-legged creature toward me. But not just any creature.
A llama.
“Sheriff Smythe, to what do we owe the honor?” I ask, stepping outside to greet the man.
“One of your…creatures…got out. I brought him back.”
“He doesn’t belong to us.”
“How do you even know? You have so many around here, one could easily be missing without your knowledge.”
I sigh heavily. George Smythe had been sheriff in our small, rural Georgia county for more than thirty years. Not to mention, he grew up on a farm just a few miles away from where we are standing. Most of the county is crop farmers rather than livestock, but still, one would think the sheriff would know better by now. Especially since he’s poker buddies with my father. Apparently not. That, or he just doesn’t give a shit. Which I figure is probably more likely.
Forcing a smile, I steel myself, choosing to ignore his insinuation of my ignorance. But there is a lot more to it than that. Just where do I start?
“First off, sheriff, what you are holding there is a llama. We raise alpacas,” I calmly explain. “Second, all three hundred eighty-two of our alpacas are tagged so that if they were to get lost, they are easily identifiable as belonging to Knitty Gritty Fleece Farm.”
Sheriff Smythe rolls his eyes, not even bothering to try and hide it. He knows this. The Knitty Gritty Fleece Farm has been around since the 1950s, supplying alpaca wool and yarn not only to local Georgia vendors, but all over the country. We’re known for our quality wool, as well as the unique colors that my mother and I use to dye it. With sixty-five acres at our disposal, we have plenty of room for the animals to graze and wander, plus space for the facilities needed to process and dye the wool.
“That is a llama,” I continue, “and you know damn well who it belongs to.”
I’m starting to lose my patience. I have so much to do today—things that have to be done so I can enjoy the big night out that I have planned. A big night out that has nothing to do with the farm or my family, but absolutely includes one very, very sexy man. One that my parents know nothing about.
“Aimee,” the sheriff says, his voice more than a little annoyed. “Someone broke into Lynch County Baptist last night, filling it with sand, inflatable palm trees, beach balls, tiki torches, beach chairs, you name it. Sure, they put a tarp down, but there is still sand everywhere, and Reverend Marx is pissed. I have to deal with that, plus whatever it is that old lady Fraser has called dispatch about six times, insisting she will only speak to me. I do not have time for this, or the little spat between your father and Roy Sharpe. Now, I’m leaving this thing here, and you can figure out what to do with it. It’s no longer my problem.”
Dropping the end of the rope that was tied around the llama’s neck, Sheriff Smythe tips his hat at me, turns on his heel, and walks away. Unsure of what else to do, I look at the fluffy white creature in front of me and shake my head.
“George,” my father says, walking out from one of the large pastures next to the processing barn.
“Bob,” the sheriff returns, passing him on the way to his truck.
I shake my head again, not understanding how the sheriff could just walk away like this. Yes, the man had a lot on his plate. But dumping the Sharpes’ llama on my plate isn’t fair. I have my own shit to deal with. Not to mention, Sheriff Smythe knows just how pissed my father is going to be when he sees this. He hates Roy Sharpe something fierce, and the sheriff knows it. Hell, everyone knows it. Bob Silver and Roy Sharpe are a modern version of the Hatfields and the McCoys. Okay, maybe they aren’t that bad, but there is bad blood there, nonetheless. Not that anyone really remembers why anymore.
“What the hell is that thing doing here?” my father asks, pointing at the llama.
“I believe his name is Chris.”
“Who the hell names a llama?”
“Sixten,” I reply, more out of habit than anything.
We’ve had some version of this conversation more times than I can count. I already know what response is coming next.
“And what the hell kind of name is Sixten? Sixten Sharpe, it sounds like what time the train leaves.”
I give my father a look, one that attempts to tell him to be nice. The man knows damn well that the son of his former best friend was named after his maternal grandfather, and that it’s a Swedish name meaning “victory stone.” Of course, at six feet, four inches tall and made of solid muscle from helping his father run Local Legend-Dairy Farm, Sixten Sharpe lives up to the name.
