Calder? Okay, so that’s kind of a badass name. My name is Calder, Calder McCloud, from the Clan McCloud.
“My flight was scrubbed, so I thought I would see if I could lend a hand.” Calder stands up straight so he’s eye-to-steely-eye with Angus. “Besides, since when dae I need an excuse tae spend time with my auld brother?”
“Vivia and Lisa,” Fiona says, ignoring her husband and brother in law. “How would you like to be the first to bond with Baasheba?”
Lisa hops up. “I would love to!”
I dart a nervous glance at massive horned lint ball from Hell ramming his head into the side of the observation pen.
“Oh, that’s okay,” I say, “I’m not really the touchy-feely kinda gal.”
“Yes, you are!” Poppy cries.
“Yes, she is!” Fanny chimes in.
Calder MacFarlane has walked over to the edge of the observation pen and is watching me closely, an I-Stole-The-Who-Hash grin twisting his lips.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are!”
Damn Fanny!
“She’s the most touchy-feely person you will ever meet!” Fanny vehemently declares. “She hugs her mail lady, her dentist, the man who makes her favorite spicy chicken…”
I consider offering the solid argument that Mister Foo never tried to ram me, but Fanny is full steam ahead in her defense of my touchy-feeliness.
“She once hugged a homeless woman we found wandering around Golden Gate Park in search of her lost cat.”
“The cat died,” I explain to Fiona. “Years before.”
“She hugged me,” Poppy pipes up, “within the first twenty-four hours of meeting me!”
“You see!” Fanny proudly declares. “She hugged a British woman, a strange British woman, which means she will hug just about anyone.”
“Thanks.” Poppy sniffs.
“Come on, Vivia,” Fiona encourages. “Baasheba loves to be cuddled.”
Fanny is beaming. Poppy is beaming. Fiona is gesturing for me to join her in the pen. The Chick Trippers are murmuring their encouragement.
Calder strides over.
“How about it, Vivia?” He holds out his hand. “Are you ready for some heavy petting?”
Chapter 19
Ewe Need a Good Ram Every Now and Then
Text from Camille Grant:
Dear Vivia, Have you considered writing an article about grown daughters who abandon and neglect their elderly mothers? I believe you would do a bang-up job. Let me know if you need a source. I might be able to help. Your faithful reader, Camille Grant.
“How about it, Vivia?” Poppy purrs.
“Arrre ye rrr-ready for some heavy petting?” Fanny butchers Calder’s brogue. “Rrr-really, rrr-really rrr-ready?”
We are sharing a pot of Earl Grey and a carton of Borders Shortbread in the kitchen before rejoining the group for the afternoon’s activities.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“That accent?”
“’Tis my brogue, ye wee lassie.”
“Make it stop!” I press my hands to my ears. “It is literally painful to listen to you attempt a brogue, Fanny. You’re worse than that actress in those awful whisky commercials.”
“I dinna ken which commercials yer on aboot.”
“I know those commercials!” Poppy sits up. “They were wretched. The actress looked like she totally lost the plot. What was it she said at the end of each commercial?”
“‘Are ye thirsty, Angus?’”
“Yes! That was it. Barking mad.”
“I dinna ken which commercials yer on aboot,” Fanny repeats.
“YouTube it. You’ll be ashamed.”
“If ye’re rrr-really rrr-ready”—Fanny whips the plaid dishtowel off the counter, wraps it around her waist, and grins—“I have a wee beast under my kilt you can pet, lassie.”
“Eww!” I yank the towel off Fanny’s waist, give it a twist, and snap her with it. “You’re disgusting.”
Poppy grabs a biscuit, pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, and gently dunks it in her Earl Grey, her pinky raised in the stereotypical blueblood way.
“Yeah, I’m out.”
“Too far?” Fanny asks.
“Perhaps a smidgen.” Poppy dabs her lips with her napkin. “Vivia has only just become acquainted with Mister MacFarlane. It is too soon to be making jokes about his genitalia.”
“Thank you, Poppy.”
“You’re quite welcome, Vivia.”
“Pardon me, Duchess.” Fanny curtsies. “What is the customary waiting period one must observe before making a socially acceptable genitalia joke? A year?”
Poppy folds her napkin into a perfect square and places it neatly to the right of her cup and saucer, before fixing Fanny with an earnest look. “At least twenty-four hours.”
Fanny bursts out laughing and Poppy joins her.
“Nice.” I stand and toss my half-eaten cookie on my plate. “Really nice.”
“You mean, rrr-really nice.” Poppy gasps. “Don’t you?”
* * * *
We spend an hour watching Angus, Calder, and one of the Magic Mike III bit players take turns shearing sheep “the old way,” wrestling the poor animals to the ground and using a pair of traditional clippers. The newly sheared sheep huddle together in a corner of the pen, naked, pink, and trembling like pre-teen girls at a swim party. I feel sorry for them.
Then again, I wish a big brawny Scot would wrestle me to the ground and make half my body weight magically disappear. Or just wrestle me to the ground. That would be okay, too.
I glance around the circle of Chick Trippers surrounding the pen and my shame dissipates. I am not the only woman feeling the mojo vibes emanating from the virile men working inside the pen. Cindy, the romance writer, keeps fanning herself with her hand and muttering, “Oh, my Lawd. Sweet baby Jesus.” Megan is snapping pictures with her iPhone. Devon and Paige are giggling like school girls. Even stiff upper-lip, raised-pinky Poppy looks completely discombobulated by the totally old-school masculine display.
I lean over and whisper in her ear, “What’s wrong, Pop? You mean to say when you were dating Tristan Kent, he never whipped off his shirt and hogtied a ram for you?”
Poppy’s only response is to flush red and sputter.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love me some tall, dark, and brainy Frenchman, but there’s something damned sexy about watching a broad-shouldered Scot roll around in the hay until he’s sweaty and panting.” I wink at Poppy and nudge her in the ribs. “You know what I’m saying? I’ve never wished for a good rammin’ more than I do right now, but then, ewe need a good rammin’ every now and then. Am I right?”
Poppy just stares at me, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open. I am about to repeat my sordid little rant when I have that sudden prickly sense someone is behind me.
I turn around and find Calder standing on the other side of the pen, one sweaty, muscular arm resting casually on the top rail.
Maybe he didn’t hear me. It is loud in here with all of the bleating and “Oh, my Lawd-ing” going on.
Calder pierces me with his blue-eyed gaze. It’s one of those steely poker player stares meant to unnerve me into revealing my hand. He’s bluffing! I knew it! He didn’t hear a thing.
“Did ye have a question about the ram, Vivia?”
Oh Lawd! Sweet baby Jesus! He heard me! He heard me! Think, Vivia. Think. What did you say? What did you say?
“I-I don’t know.”
I can’t remember exactly what I said to Poppy. I was just jacking around, flipping her some shit. Half of the time, I don’t know what I am saying even as I am saying it. I mean, seriously, who could possibly keep up with my rushing stream of consciousness? My thoughts are like the Amazon—always flowing.
Ramming! I said something about ramming. I think I said I wanted him to ram me. Oh Lawd, Jesus, help me!
I begin fanning myself with my hand.
“If ye remember whit ’twas ye wanted tae ken aboot rams,” he says, laying the brogue on thick. “I’d be happy tae help ye.” Calder winks and walks away.
I turn to Poppy. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes.”
“You know what that means, right?”
“Yes,” Poppy whispers. “It means it is now safe to make jokes about his genitals.”
Fanny snickers.
When Fiona calls an end to the sheep shearing demonstration and invites our group to follow her outside, I want to drop to my knees and give thanks to my Almighty for putting an end to my suffering. Seriously? How long can a woman worship at the altar of man before she loses her religion and starts thinking naughty things? Where wicked thoughts come, wicked deeds soon follow, my mum always said.
I am the first one out of the barn, bursting into the sunlight and gasping, like a drowning swimmer.
Lisa follows, links her arm through mine, and whispers, “I think you have an admirer.”
“I have a fiancé,” I whisper back. “At least, I think I have a fiancé.”
Luc’s vintage Tiffany ring hangs on a chain around my neck, the smooth three-carat diamond cold against my breast.
Lisa frowns up at me. “Sounds complicated.”
“It is.”
“True love usually is.”
“Really”—I blink back tears—“because I thought true love was supposed to be easy. Boy and girl meet, fall in love, have a pesky little black moment, make up, and live happily ever after.”
Lisa stops walking and unlinks her arm from mine. “Maybe in romance novels, but not in real life. If by ‘Happily Ever After’ you mean juggling work and home, raising colicky babies and tantrum-prone toddlers, losing a job, losing a parent, getting cancer…” Lisa shrugs. “If you mean that, then yes.”
“Wow.” I frown. “You make it sound so…bleak.”
Tava, Fanny, and Poppy join us by a wooden fence separating two fields, two flocks of sheep.
“Life can be bleak, but the alternative is much bleaker.”
“Amen, sistah!” Tava says, pumping her fist. “Preach!”
One by one, the rest of the group straggles over to the fence. The Chick Trippers are on a double-shot espresso buzz over the sheep shearing demonstration, practically vibrating with amped up adrenaline. It’s like being at Starbucks at eight in the morning.
Fiona and Calder, his collie trotting at his side, exit the barn and begin making their way to us.
“Life can be bleak”—Lisa leans close and lowers her voice so only I can hear her words—“but it can also be a fourth of July fireworks explosion of color and light and joy, especially if you have someone special to hold your hand through the darkness and light.”
“Now,” Fiona says, drawing our attention. “We have one last demonstration for you before we set you free for the afternoon. Calder is going to show you how we use a dog to help us round up a flock.”
“Good afternoon, lassies.” Calder smiles a broad, Colgate smile.
Someone behind me sighs. Literally, sighs.
Calder. Of course, it has to be Calder. It couldn’t be a fat, toothless, hairy, dimwitted man to lead the demonstrations, because toothless, ugly men don’t exist in the Highlands.
“Now then, a weel trained herding dog watches over th’ flock and can even prevent coyotes from attacking…”
Blah. Blah. Blah. He might as well be one of the adults on the Charlie Brown cartoons. His words make absolutely no sense. His good looks are distracting me, as is my annoyance with myself for even noticing his good looks.
He’s taller than I realized, towering over Fiona and every lady in our group, and more muscular, too. The stubble outlining his chin appears red in the bright afternoon sunlight and his blue eyes sparkle like polished turquoise nuggets.
Polished turquoise nuggets? Did I really just think that? My humiliation is near complete. What happens next? Do I start having fantasies about Calder calling me Sassenach while ravaging me on a bed of heather?
“…a weel trained collie can bring even the orneriest ram to heel. Isn’t that right, Shep?”
The collie sits obediently at Calder’s feet, but his tail thumps wildly against the ground.
“How old is Shep?” Poppy asks. “Is he still a puppy?”
“Aye.” Calder grins. “He’s a little over a year old, but he’s a clever boy.”
Shep waits patiently at his master’s feet, until a subtle flick of Calder’s wrist sends him bounding over the fence and flying across the field toward a distant flock.
It’s really quite riveting.
“Get a wee wee bye, Shep. Get a wee wee bye.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“I am telling him to round up the flock”—Calder grins and pierces me with his sexy turquoise gaze—“starting with the wee ones.”
He whistles, and Shep reverses directions, running counterclockwise around the sheep, until they clump together in one wooly mass.
“That is very impressive,” I say to Fiona, who is standing beside me. “I’ve never seen such an obedient dog.”
“Calder has a way with animals.”
The Dog Whisperer/Sheep Wrangler whistles sharply twice, and Shep stops running, freezing in place with his head cocked to one side. Calder whistles twice again. This time, the precocious pup runs to a bush and hides behind it.
“Shep!”
The dog skulks from bush to bush like an African hunter stalking big game.
“Come to heel, you cheeky rogue,” Calder says, rolling the r in rogue. “Come to heel!”
Shep pokes his head out from around the bush, as if making sure the coast is clear, before running across the field and leaping over the fence. The errant collie ignores the chorus of females crooning over him and trots right over to his master.
“You’re a clever boy.” Calder scratches the dog’s head behind his ears. “A clever dog.”
I don’t want to like Calder, but even callous-hearted, puppy-skinning Cruella de Vil would find it difficult to resist his broad grins and easy manner. I am sucker for a man with a dog. Luc has two giant poodles. He found them when they were puppies, abandoned in a box on the side of the road near his chateau. Tall, dark, and extra shot of sexy Luc doesn’t look like a poodle man, but there it is…
The other women circle around Fiona as she describes the many ways we might want to spend the rest of the afternoon—from hiking to an Iron Age hill fort to touring Strathpeffer, a charming Victorian spa town a short drive from the farm.
“If you do decide to visit Strathpeffer, be sure to visit the chocolate shop in town,” she says, capturing my full attention. “The proprietors aren’t very friendly, but the chocolate is the best you’ll find outside Belgium.”
Chocolate? Did someone say something about the eighth deadly sin? I am so in! Fanny will have to do the mini-triathlon to the Iron Age hill fort, and Poppy will have to engage in her heavy sheep petting session, sans moi! There’s a cocoa-dusted truffle in Strathpeffer with my name written all over it.
“Vivia.” Fiona cranes her neck looking over the top of Tava’s head. “I figured you will want as much information about how the farm operates and the surrounding countryside, so I’ve asked Calder to allow you to ride with him as he does a survey of the flocks.”
Fanny looks at me and waggles her eyebrows.
“Ride?”
Please, God, when she says ride, please let her mean in a truck, convertible, 110-foot yacht, or even a souped-up golf cart. Just not a horse.
“You can ride a horse, can’t you?”
The last time I rode a horse was in Italy, and I very nearly died.
“You’re not afraid of horses, are you?” Fiona asks.
I consider telling Fiona about the runaway Italian stallion and my near-death experience when I realize the entire group is staring at me—Lisa, Kat
hy, Cindy, the other romance writers, and Calder.
Owning it: I know I sound arrogant, but I decide not to confess my fear of becoming an equestrian homicide victim because I am worried it will get out in the Twitosphere and affect my rep as an intrepid columnist. #NoStreetCred #TimidTraveler
“I am totally cool with horses.” I avoid making eye-contact with Fanny. “I ride all of the time.”
“Good.” Fiona gives one of her spooky I-know-more-than-you’re-saying smiles. “Even if you didn’t, Calder is an excellent horseman. You’ll be safe in his hands.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Cindy mutters, fanning herself. “Sho ’nuff will.”
The romance writers giggle as they turn to make their way back to their cabins. Poppy smirks and waves her hand in one of those stiff turning Queen of England waves. Fanny just gives me a thumbs up.
Why does Fate get off by sticking me in a saddle with a hot, foreign man riding my rear?
* * * *
Calder takes me on a sweaty, exhilarating, thoroughly-satisfying ride, through fields and black pine forests, over hills and past circles of ancient standing stones.
He’s polite, attentive, witty, and one hundred percent professional. No grinning (darn), no winking (double darn), and no flirting (triple darn).
He gives me a lot of interesting background information for my column.
When I finally trudge through the field to return to my cottage, heavy clouds hang low in the sky like an indigo canopy, and I ache in places that haven’t ached since I rode a bike from Provence to Tuscany. I fall into bed too tired to even think about Jean-Luc and his cryptic e-mail—much.
Chapter 20
Goin’ Deep With My Hype Girl
Text to Camille Grant:
Dear Faithful Reader: Thank you for your confidence in my ability to write an article about neglectful daughters. It is an intriguing idea; however, I am far too busy writing The Guilt Trip: Parents Who Use Emotional Manipulation. Love, VPG
We spend the morning performing the countless, thankless tasks associated with caring for a flock of sheep. I would like to tell you that feeding, watering, deworming—eww, don’t even ask me to elaborate—and shearing sheep are deeply satisfying tasks, and that raising sheep is a great alternative career choice should this writing gig not work out for me, but I am not feeling Fiona’s furry flock vibe.
Finding It Page 18
