Red Skye at Night
Page 28
Angus had mixed feelings about the move. We all knew that. But he did it, for his wife. He loved her. He would have done anything for her, even leave his beloved Skye. Ann-Marie had no such misgivings. She’d have lived on the moon if Ritchie was there. Harry was right about that too. The rest of us were just the icing on the cake.
Even so, Ann-Marie and I enjoyed a special bond, or so I like to believe. I don’t think I’m wrong. Our connection was forged as we sat outside Kilmuir that afternoon, sharing confidences about submission. We spoke of it frequently over the next two years, and it has been as much from that wise old lady as from Harry that I learnt to embrace my kink and to understand more about this lifestyle. To glory in it, to savor the sweetness of surrender.
Harry has never let me down. I no longer fear that he might. We had wonderful role models. I’ll miss them so.
Angus passed away in February of this year, aged ninety-seven. He died in his sleep. Ann-Marie woke in the middle of the night and knew he’d gone. She lay beside him until morning. On Angus’ death, the tenancy of Kilmuir skipped a couple of generations and passed to Harry. He has since purchased the land too, so now the croft is ours outright. We intend to be frequent visitors.
Ritchie offered to arrange for his father’s body to be repatriated, so he could be interred in the land he loved. Ann-Marie wouldn’t hear of it.
“I’ve spent all my life beside that man, I’ll no’ be separated now. An’ I’ll no’ be leavin’ my family either. So we stay here, both of us.”
Ritchie was surprised, I think we all were. “But wouldn’t he have wanted to be buried at home. At Kilmuir?”
“Maybe, given the choice. We ne’er spoke of it. We made no plans.”
I recall her eyes softened as she tried to explain.
“I ken he seemed a gruff auld bugger, harsh even. He was far too hard on ye when ye were young. But he was never like that tae me. He gave me what I needed, always. Even when, well, ye ken about that. An’ ye ken how he tried to make matters right again. An’ now, o’er this, he would ha’ done this for me, if I asked him. So I hae nay need tae ask. I know. We’ll be stayin’ here.”
Angus was buried in the graveyard a couple of miles from Ritchie’s home in Winnipeg, the same cemetery where we are now gathered to mourn the passing of Ann-Marie. Her death so soon after his came as no real surprise—neither of them was ever going to outlast the other by much. In Ann-Marie’s case it was a massive stroke. She regained consciousness briefly, her twisted smile of recognition enough for us to know that she saw us there, her entire family clustered around her bed in loving, helpless silence. She slipped from this life surrounded by all the people who mattered to her, to be reunited with her beloved Angus, her dreams intact.
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A Richness of Swallows: Rich Tapestry
Ashe Barker
Excerpt
Prologue
Shit! What was that?
I slam on the brakes, more or less standing the car on its nose. I just hit something, definitely. I saw the silvery blur in my headlamps, caught the rush of movement just before the jolt of impact. Thank God Freya’s immaculate new BMW has a decent set of tires, even if I have just left half the tread on the road. Christ, she only got the thing a couple of weeks ago. She might be my best friend but I can guarantee she’ll never lend me her car again if I’ve managed to bend it.
I peer into the rear-view mirror, expecting to see—what? I’m not sure. I can only make out vague shapes in the blackness. It’s early evening still, but night falls fast in Cumbria in November. The darkness is total.
It was an animal, I’m certain of it, but beyond that I have no idea. Too big for a cat, wrong color for a fox. Dog perhaps? No, not a dog—or if it was it was like none I’ve seen before.
I flirt with the notion of just driving on. It must have been some sort of wild animal, and as long as it’s not in the road causing an obstruction there’s no need to report it. I dismiss that idea as quickly as I dreamed it up. Whatever I hit, I should check. Until I do I can’t be sure it’s not still on the carriageway. At the very least I need to know that the casualty is dead and not suffering at the road side.
I draw in a deep breath to firm up my resolve, then dig in Freya’s glove box for the small torch she usually keeps there. I get out of the car to stand in the middle of the narrow lane looking back the way I came, sweeping the beam of light across the road. The—whatever—shot out of the undergrowth on the left hand side and across the front of my car. I assume it kept on going after I hit it, which would place it somewhere to my left now. I start to retrace my steps. The skid marks on the tarmac show me the point of impact so I concentrate my attention on the long grass and brambles lining the roadside just there. It doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for.
A badger.
Illuminated by my torchlight the creature is the size of a small dog, but there the similarity ends. A short, squat frame, black and white striped muzzle, brownish body, its short legs are endowed with paws designed for digging. They sport the most vicious looking set of claws I’ve ever seen. The animal is lying quite still on its side, maybe four feet from the edge of the road. A trickle of blood is visible on its shiny black nose but that is the only obvious injury. The rest must have been internal.
I feel a pang of guilt as I turn to leave. I wasn’t traveling especially fast, certainly well within the speed limit, and in reality I know there was nothing I could have done to avoid the badger. But still, a life lost for no good reason. It saddens me.
I’ve taken no more than two steps when I hear it. A low sound, a grunt, then breathing. Labored, desperate breathing, the animal is fighting for every gulp of oxygen. But fighting it is. It’s not dead.
I turn back, crouch at the edge of the road to get a better look. I can see the badger’s flanks moving now, where I’m sure they weren’t before. Perhaps it was stunned for a few minutes. Whatever, it’s definitely alive, and injured.
This is a problem, and one I hadn’t really anticipated. I was sure I’d killed it. Now, I’ve no idea what to do to help the poor creature. I could have left it if it was dead. I’d have been sorry, but I would have done it. Not now. I’m responsible, sort of. I shuffle a bit closer, and can see that although the animal is breathing, and making sounds, it appears to be unconscious. Its eyes are closed—it seems unaware that I’m here.
I reach out, tentative, cautious. These things have a nasty bite, or so I’ve heard. Somehow this chap doesn’t look to be in any state to take a lump out of me though. Not today.
I lay my hand on the badger’s heaving side. I can feel the flutter of a heartbeat, and the tortured movement of its chest as it battles for breath. I don’t think this struggle will go on for long, but even so I can’t just leave it to its fate, however inevitable.
A vet, that’s what’s needed. Trouble is, I’ve never owned so much as a hamster so I’ve never required the services of a vet. I don’t have one on my speed dial, and I’ve no idea where the closest surgery might be located. There must be one somewhere near here. For heaven’s sake, Cumbria is full of animals, you can’t move for sheep half the year. There must be an army of vets, stethoscopes poised, syringes at the ready. It’s just that I can’t call one to mind.
I consider my options. Ulverston, perhaps. Barrow certainly, though that’s over ten miles away. How would I even get the poor thing there? I wonder if a vet would come out here. Probably, but by the time anyone arrives the badger will be past helping I suspect.
Then it hits me. The zoo. I’m only a couple of miles from Dalton, site of the Lake District Wildlife Park. They deal more in giraffe and rhinoceros if memory serves. And tigers. But surely the principles are the same. Any vet who can deal with lions and tigers can surely handle a little badger.
I glance at my watch. It’s already after six in the evening—the zoo will be closed by now. Even so, there must be staff there. They wouldn’t just leave all those
valuable animals to their own devices. What if one gets ill? There must be a vet there, or at least a veterinary nurse.
My course decided, now it’s down to logistics. The only possible method of transport is Freya’s back seat, which means I need to heave the poor badger out of the hedgerow and somehow manage to carry it to the car. Touching its side to check if it was alive was one thing, the prospect of actually picking it up quite another.
Still, needs must. I remember that Freya has a car blanket in the boot so I go to fetch that. The badger sounds to be getting worse when I return with the tartan rug, and again I’m tempted to just let nature take its course. After a few seconds the sound settles down again. Seems I’m still committed.
No point drawing this out. I assume my most determined attitude and toss the blanket over the injured animal. I scramble into the brambles, wishing I was more appropriately dressed for this sort of activity. I was on my way back from a job interview, just part-time work to help out with my college fees, when the badger with a death wish crossed my path. I’m wearing my—well, Freya’s—best business style suit and spiky heels. I managed to look the part earlier at Kirkby-in Furness community library, but I feel somewhat overdressed now. Short on options I grit my teeth and get on with it.
I lean across to tuck the ends down over the far side of the creature, ensuring those fearsome looking claws are completely contained. Then, steeling myself, I push my hands underneath and heave the thing onto my lap.
It’s heavier than I imagined. Clearly there’s no shortage of beetles round here, or whatever badgers eat. This one’s not been going short. With a fair amount of grunting and wheezing of my own I manage to get to my feet, the badger bundled up in my arms. Bitterly regretting the heels I’m wearing I stagger over to the car and lower my burden carefully onto the back seat. The badger has not regained consciousness, which I daresay is a mercy for us both.
Ten minutes later I’m pulling up in the dark and deserted zoo car park. The place is locked up tight, not a soul around. No reason why there should be. I realize I have no idea at all what to do now. It’s not as though I can just go and rattle the gate and expect someone to come. I could try phoning the number on the sign outside, though it’s unlikely they have anyone on the switchboard at this time. I really should have thought this through more.
Just as I’m arriving at the conclusion that I’ll have to drive to Barrow after all a movement catches my eye. The small pedestrian gate beside the kiosk opens and a lone figure trots out. It’s a woman, a member of staff I assume, on her way home.
“Excuse me…” I call out to her as I scramble out of my car.
She stops, clearly puzzled and more than a little perturbed at finding a strange car in the car park way after hours. And a strange women bent on conversation. She turns, and from her startled expression I suspect she’s about to shoot back inside and lock herself in.
“No, wait. Please. I need to see a vet. Is there a vet here?” I’m rushing across the shale car park toward her. Even if she does prefer to talk to me from the other side of the gate, at least she could summon someone else. If there is anyone else.
My words seem to be enough to at least convince her I mean her no harm. She pauses, one hand still on the wrought iron perimeter fencing, and waits as I get close.
“Did you say you were looking for a vet?” This is a wildlife park. Our vets don’t do surgeries.”
“No, I realize that. It’s just, I have an injured badger and I wondered if there was anyone who could…? I mean, it’s probably too late to help him but I just thought…”
“A badger? Where is it?” She looks interested now.
“In my car. I ran over it. It’s on the back seat.”
I can just make out her features in the dim light cast by the illuminated sign. She looks as though she considers my explanation dubious at best.
“You’ve got a badger on the back seat of your car? A live one?”
“It was alive a few minutes ago. It won’t be for long though. Is there a vet here or not?” I try to keep the exasperation out of my tone, but I suspect I don’t entirely succeed. Having got this far it seems a pity to let poor Bryan, as I’m coming to think of my latest little friend, die while we chat at the gate
The woman shakes her head. “I doubt it. The vet normally leaves by about four. I’ll check for you though. There might be someone on night duty, one of the nurses, who could have a look.”
I’m relieved, at last some cooperation. I wait in silence as my new ally pulls her mobile from her pocket and punches in a few numbers.
“Hello. This is Mary from the front kiosk. Is Becky there please?” There’s a pause, the woman obviously listening to something being said at the other end. “Oh. Julie then?” She listens for a few moments more, then, “I see. I’m sorry to bother you, sir. It’s just that I’m in the car park on my way home, and there’s a member of the public here with a badger that’s been hit by a car. She’s asking if there’s a vet who could deal with it.” A few more seconds pass, then. “Thank you. That’s fine, sir. I’ll tell her.”
She hangs up the call and turns to me. I’m fully expecting a final brush off. Clearly neither of the nurses is available to help.
“The vet hasn’t left yet. He says he’ll take a look at the badger. He’ll be out in a minute.”
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About the Author
Ashe has been an avid reader of women’s fiction for many years—erotic, historical, contemporary, fantasy, romance—you name it, as long as it’s written by women, for women. Now, at last in control of her own time and working from her home in rural West Yorkshire, she has been able to realize her dream of writing erotic romance herself.
She likes to write about people, relationships, and the general cock-up and mayhem that is most of our lives. She often writes about places she’s known but her stories of love, challenge, resilience and compassion are the conjurings of her own imagination, with a hefty dose of kink to keep it interesting. We all need to have a hobby.
Ashe loves to craft strong, enigmatic men and bright, sassy women to give them a hard time—in every sense of the word.
When she’s not writing, Ashe’s time is divided between her role as resident taxi driver for her teenage daughter, and caring for a menagerie of dogs, rabbits, tortoises, and Colin the hamster.
Email: ashe.barker1@gmail.com
Ashe loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com
Also by Ashe Barker
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Sure Mastery: Sure Thing
Sure Mastery: Surefire
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The Hardest Word: Hard Lessons
The Hardest Word: Hard Choices
A Richness of Swallows: Rich Tapestry
A Richness of Swallows: Rich Pickings
A Richness of Swallows: Rich Promise
Paramour: Re-Awakening
Jolly Rogered: Right of Salvage
What’s Her Secret?: The Three Rs
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