by James, Ella
It didn’t take me long to poke around the house and confirm my suspicions. The gorgeous woman I lashed out at is the grown up version of the girl with the devastated eyes and dirty face. I found her name on the backside of a faded-looking apple magnet on the ’fridge, scrawled in sloppy kid print.
Maybe that makes sense, because when I first stepped into this place, it felt familiar, and I’m pretty sure the missing girl’s grandmother was the one who let me help her knead the bread dough that time.
I step back into the house now, leaning back against the door for just a second before stripping off my shirt and shoes. I’m such a fucking moron. Chill-bumps pop up all over my body as I walk into the bedroom and lie face-down on the bed. Her bed.
I cover my head with a pillow and roll onto my side, curling my arms up to my chest. My neck and face feel hot. My eyes throb slightly from behind. I draw a deep breath in and hold it.
I can figure this shit out. I can. I rub my watery eyes. I just need to move. I think of running in the rain, but I don’t know if I can. Everything’s so fucking soggy.
I roll out of bed and do some jumping jacks. A hundred. Then three hundred sit-ups. Two hundred push-ups. I remember a few yoga poses, so I try those. Not enough. I need to get my heart rate a lot higher to feel relief.
I run around the house for half an hour, feeling like a fucking nut, before I sink into the tub again, rubbing at the film of dissolved pill residue around it.
Fuck.
I lean my head back, exhale slowly.
My arms are underwater. I lift my hands up through the bubbles and squint at my fingertips. Water ripples all around them. I close my fists, draw them back under.
I can run after the rain stops.
I kill some hours playing real card solitaire, sitting on a wooden stool under the awning over the back porch. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks behind the house should be a soothing one, but it makes me feel jumpy. Almost fearful.
Back inside, I pull on a shirt and force myself to eat some eggs. When it’s five, I slide my phone into my pocket, grab an umbrella, and make my way down to the pub.
* * *
“What can I get you?” The old man behind the counter has to raise his voice so I can hear above the rain that’s pelting the tin roof. He’s smiling, though, as if I’m not the only asshole in the bar, the one who made him set his book down and put on his apron.
“Rusty Nail?” It’s posed as a question because I don’t know how familiar he is with mainstream drinks.
He gives me a small smile.
“Heavy on the scotch. Please.”
“One Rusty Nail coming right up.”
As he sticks an orange peel in the glass, a swell of noise punches in from behind us—low voices and a brief soundbite of driving rain. A few seconds later, all the other barstools fill up. Dude beside me takes his hat off, giving me a nod before he turns back to the guy beside him.
“Need more hands on deck,” he’s saying. “Cannot patch the roof and mend the fence and clear the road and fill the buckets at the church all with the same four or six hands.”
The other chuckles. “Don’t forget the good doctress.”
“The clinic’s leaking, too, but I heard she’s out at the Patches. Sheep up there around the gulches as they do.”
Their odd English accents are so thick I’m several seconds behind, translating in my head.
“Tireless, Finley.”
My chest flares at the sound of her name. “Finley?”
They turn to me.
“I’m…uh, I think I’m renting her house?”
Their lined faces bend in confusion.
“Staying there,” I correct. “At her grandmother’s house.” The older one’s eyebrows jut up. “Oh. And so you are.”
“Is it leaking as well?” the younger asks, shaking his head.
“Nah. It’s been okay.” My stomach tightens as I fish for information. “Is she—did I hear you say Finley is the doctor?”
The man beside me pushes wet curls out of his face. “She does many jobs. Shepherd. Nurse. Although with the good doctor in Cape Town, I suppose she’s naturally his stand-in.” He smiles. “And the livestock doctor. Too many caps, that one. She’s got sheep stranded up the slopes. Probably a need for her here, or there will be fore the weather’s blown by. Quite a shame no shepherd’s as good as she is.”
Something rises in my chest—a kind of brightness.
“She needs help? Another shepherd?”
He nods. “Two others help at times, but they’re both occupied. One ill.”
I frown. “Does she have dogs?”
Several men look up at me.
“You know…herding dogs?”
“She did,” one says, “but Heath passed on. No more to be trained.”
I nod, and toss back half my glass. Then, with the sting of whiskey still filling my throat, I say, “I’ve done some shepherding before.”
Chapter Six
Finley
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
I shut my eyes and inhale slowly. When I open them again, the view is still as bleak. I’m standing on one of the higher slopes out near the Patches, looking down the valley where we grow our food, where we corral the cattle. My view is framed by the hood of my rain coat, striped by gulches shining in the moonlight. Gulches growing wider as the rain pours. It’s quite dark out, so the sheep scattered about the slopes below me are pale dots—scattered dots, because the herd has splintered…twice.
Patch Valley didn’t have so many gulches prior to this past spring. Joe White used to take a group to work on erosion in the valleys, but he hurt his leg slipping on Upper Lane after a hail storm this past winter, and most of his former crew are feeling their years. I suppose it’s time for someone else to take over stacking stones and sand bags.
For now, I’ve got to get these sheep into a herd again and drive them down the slopes onto the flat land at the bottom of the valley.
Took me the better part of an hour to walk the road from the village, on the island’s northwest tip, over the Hillpiece and past Runaway Beach. The road petered out near the flat plane of the Patches, by the sea; from there I climbed the lower slopes to reach my charges.
First, I tried to lure them down along one of the wider gulches. I rattled a bucket of feed, calling like always. But it was raining too hard; got the feed soggy so it didn’t rattle—and anyway, my wee fluffins wanted nothing to do with the gulch.
I miss Heathcliff, my canine companion. He would have them down the slope in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
I count heads and decide I’ll start with the two small groups off to my right—closest to the Patches, and the ocean beyond. I’ll walk the path I’m on and cut down around the outside of them. Then I’ll drive them east, toward the next small group. After that, I’ll climb up to where the gulch is narrower, drop back down, and herd that new group toward the next. I groan, realizing I’ll be doing this all night if no one comes to help.
I asked Mayor Acton for help over the radio an hour ago, and he said he would send someone. Then my radio broke. Perhaps I’ll have help, perhaps I won’t. No more time to wait, though.
I kick the mud off my boots and glance back up above me at my pack, wrapped in a tarp and wedged under a rock up near the Triplets—three large boulders that serve as an island landmark. Then I start down the boot-worn path, moving carefully, my heels dug in to keep from slipping.
I’m farther downslope, picking my way over small rocks and using larger ones for balance, when I see something moving in the Patches, out beyond the scattered herd. I track the figure for a moment. Definitely human. Rather than drive the sheep solo, I turn my flashlight on and off a few times and perch on a rock to wait for help.
I watch as my companion flashes his or her light, too. When he or she is close enough—it’s a “he,” I’m fairly certain—I analyze the person’s gait to try to discern who.
Mike Green is long-legged, and wide up t
op. He’s fifteen, but the nicest boy. He’ll make a good shepherd one day. Or I suppose it could be Benny Smith. He’s a bit of a chair-dweller, but occasionally he’ll help if prodded. Mayor Acton is his uncle, so perhaps he was shook out of his chair.
I watch my helpmate hike until he reaches a stone-scattered ridge, disappears beneath an overhanging rock, and emerges on its other side, perhaps two meters over. When I realize who it is, I nearly faint dead away.
The Carnegie stops a few yards downhill, shielding his forehead with his large hand, so I can only see the lower half of his face: pale against the darkness, hard jaw dripping. He moves his hand, revealing wet-lashed eyes and stubble-covered cheeks, wide-boned above his hard-cut jaw. He looks like a sculpture—Michelangelo’s fine marblework.
I look him up and down, stricken by his perfection—physically. Then I look into his somber eyes and give a sharp laugh. “How did you get lost up here?”
“What?”
“The village is that way.” I point back across the valley where the Patches lie.
“I’m here to help you with the herding. Mac sent me.”
I can’t help but guffaw. “Did he find you at the pub? How many empties were beside him?”
His mouth tightens. “I know how to drive a herd.”
“And I’m a Red Sox catcher.”
“I do.” He seems serious.
“Do you then?” I scoff. “With a nice doggie? What was it, a camp for foolish wealthy?”
His eyes widen, just a bit. I watch his gaze dip to his boots before it rises back to mine. “Listen—” His full lips twist, pensive. “I wanted to say I’m sorry for last night.”
“You mean when you acted like a pig that’s escaped the fences?”
His head bows a little lower. I can see his shoulders rise and fall. “Yeah.”
“What?” I cup my hand around my ear. “Can’t hear over the rain.”
He looks up and says, “Yes.” His voice is low and hard.
I watch as he adjusts the poncho over his head, shifts his broad shoulders, curls one of his fists. When I felt I’ve held him prostrate long enough to suit, I dismiss him with a wave. “You can go back to the village now.”
His eyes flash, but the fire doesn’t burn. “You need help.”
“What I need is for a ship to come and carry you away.”
His lips press into a thin line, and then he nods once, barely. “I acted badly and I’m sorry. It was…inexcusable.”
“And yet you’re here, seeking…forgiveness?”
“I heard you needed help.”
“Quite a riot that you think that’s what you’re offering.”
His mouth tightens, and I feel the buoyancy of my own mean spirit. “Do you have a crook, then?”
His eyes roam the soaked grass around us. “I don’t, but I can find one.”
“Try that, then. I’ll wait.” I sit back on the rock, tucking my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. I’ve been wet for so long; my skin feels plastic-y and strange. Despite my jacket hood, rain leaks in and trickles down my scalp. There’s nothing worse than being cold and wet.
Scratch that—there is: it’s being cold and wet and stuck on a mountainside with someone you abhor.
The Carnegie roams the path that runs horizontally across the slope, and I laugh. He’ll never find a stick up here. When he walks back toward me some five minutes later, I’m grinning in the dark. Until he holds out a crook.
“What is that?”
He grins, looking quite pleased with himself.
I stand. “Very well then. Let’s see you use it.”
“You want to help me gather, moving down into the valley?”
“I’ll let you work solo a bit. Then I’ll come in from the far side, there by the brush.” I point to a fluffy smattering of bushes on the far side of the splintered herd, a bit downslope. While he’s working, I’ll hike up and grab my pack, move past the Triplets, and descend.
His dark brows do something funny—a twist between puzzled and amused. “Okay, boss.”
He turns away from me, and I sit back on my rock. He’s shed his poncho, for reasons I can’t fathom. In the rain, his long-sleeved shirt clings to his muscled back and shoulders. I tell myself it’s okay that my eyes are clinging, too. I’m not admiring him—only his form.
He circles out around the first cluster of sheep—ten or eleven white spots, maybe thirty meters downslope—the way a good dog would.
So he does know a bit about it.
Still, I don’t think my lambs will move for him. Not for a stranger. They’ll spook up the slope, or down at best.
A moment later, I watch, slack-jawed, as he herds them in a straight line across a smattering of boulders, over a dozen or so meters, driving toward the next cluster of sheep.
I clench my jaw and give a shake of my head. Lucky break there. He won’t be able to move this larger group. No chance of that.
The Carnegie’s a good stretch away now. I can hear his low voice, but I can’t make out his words, although the rain has quieted down a bit. I watch in shock as he gathers the two small groups together. They move as one great splotch of white down the dark hillside.
What’s he saying to them?
I get to my feet, and I want to move closer. I want to see what he’s doing. What is it about him? Is it posture? Something about his footing? Was his mother part border collie? Makes fine sense, given he’s a son of a bitch.
I’m holding my breath as he gets the sheep to move along beside him, gaping as he moves them down the slope a bit to where the gulch narrows. The way it stripes the landscape, he can’t get them down into the valley without crossing it.
Let’s see him try this! He steps out ahead of them, and then starts walking backward through the water. He doesn’t stumble or slip once, and soon he’s standing in the middle of the flowing gulch.
The flock won’t follow. My fluffins will cross gulches when it’s not raining, but when the runoff flows this swiftly, they won’t move, even for me. They won’t move unless there’s two with crooks, coming at them from both directions.
Except…they do. My lead ram, Dumbledore, follows the Carnegie like a puppy. For a long moment, he’s the only one swimming toward Declan. Seconds later, the rest follow, turning the gulch white in the moonlight, spilling up around the Carnegie into a spread of slanted pasture not fifteen meters from the final cluster.
What is this?
My head spins as he neatly gathers the flock and drives them down the slope-side in a wearing pattern, moving side-to-side behind them, making a soft sound that, from here, sounds like a throaty hum.
Mike and Benny can just barely move this flock, and that’s with me assisting and no rain at all. The Carnegie herded them as well as I would have. I scowl at the splotch of white spreading over the dark grass. Maybe better.
I shake my head, hands on my hips. Of course he’s good at this. He’s likely good at everything, which is why he’s not Declan but the Carnegie—a wicked, arrogant pig of a man.
I start up the slope to where my forgotten pack sits. By the time I’ve got it strapped to my back, the Overlord of Ewe has got the flock grazing a patch of grass deep in the valley. Streams of runoff from the slopes pool at the valley’s center, then flow toward the Patches; beyond there, the gulches drain into the sea.
Operation Ewe must have taken fewer than forty minutes, and he never had to ask for my help.
I make my way down the hillside slowly, watching him move among the herd. He’s a dark blot gliding through a sea of fluffy pale, blurred by the rain that won’t stop falling. As I near him and see his large form more clearly, I’m surprised at how sparse and lithe his movements are.
Who is he?
A git. A self-enamored plonker of the highest order. Some people like to preen at all times. My mum used to call these people “showboats.” That’s what he is—a showboat. Quite a handsome showboat, I admit as I close the distance between us. He looks even better
with his hair slicked back, pasted darkly to his forehead and his temples. Again, I think of pirates.
When I’m near enough for him to touch, he reaches for me, palm out, as if going for a handshake.
I draw my hand away, making my point. I’m burning to ask what trick he used, where he learned it. Instead, with just the briefest glance at him, I say, “You’re free to go back to the village now.”
Chapter Seven
Declan
Her head is down, so I can’t see her face, and she can’t see the grin I’m trying to hide.
“What did you think?” My mouth bends into a smirk as her eyes swing back to mine.
“Of what?” Oh, but she’s frosty. So nonchalant.
I hold my crook up, wiggling my eyebrows. “My skill with the crook, of course.”
Her poker face is on point. “It’s quite lucky that you found that crook. Not so many trees up there.”
I snort. “Not good at being wrong, huh?”
“What?”
“You thought I was full of shit.”
“I simply didn’t want to see your face again.”
I bark a laugh.
“In any event, your work is done.” She waves out toward the ocean, gleaming beyond the patchwork expanse of fields and pastures. I realize what she’s really gesturing to is the road that runs along the cliffs, bridging the Patches and the village. Then she waves over her shoulder at me and starts up the hillside.
I give her a minute before following.
I was right—exertion helps. Being in this valley, in a stream-striped bowl of grass between the foothills—that helps, too. The fog at my feet, the mist on my skin—I feel…relief.
But I know it’s temporary. I can’t leave here, not until I get something worked out with her. Clonidine, if nothing else. I don’t want to offer her much in the way of why, but somehow I’ve got to win her over.
