Right now, though, he was ready for lunch. Breakfast had been a ham-filled bun and a flask of coffee, eaten perched on a spectacular slab of rock that jutted out of the top of one of the smaller peaks. It was about the same length and width as a diving board; in fact, that was exactly what the locals called it! Rex had sat on the edge of it, his legs dangling over the side, perched several hundred feet above an almost sheer drop. If he fell now, he’d thought, it would take more than a plaster and a bit of Germolene to put him back together again.
As he strode back to the village, heather and tufts of grass gave way to enclosed fields surrounded by hedgerows. It was almost lambing season, and the fields were full of pregnant ewes munching contentedly on the new growth. The bit of sun last weekend (Easter weekend and it hadn’t rained – a miracle!) had encouraged fresh green shoots to spring up, and the leaves on the trees were starting to unfurl.
He stopped to touch a dangling catkin, smiling at the unmistakable sign of spring. A few wild primroses were scattered at the foot of the drystone wall, and he was careful not to tread on them. As he walked on, he made a mental note to check the funding situation for this particular path. It was obviously well used and was starting to degrade in places. He wanted to repair any damage now, and not wait until the job became a major one.
A gentle bend in the path brought the now familiar view of Tanglewood into sight. He’d not explored this particular route before, but he had checked on the map before he’d set out this morning and knew it looped around to bring him back to the village from the north-west. Besides, he’d know Tanglewood anywhere, with the ribbon of river running alongside it, the small stone bridge that he could just make out if he squinted, and the crossroads formed by the intersection of the two main streets. The village was nestled at the bottom of a U-shaped valley with the steep slopes of the mountains rising either side, and surrounded by lush farmland.
He had to admit, it was very picturesque, reminding him of a miniature Switzerland, but with rows of stone cottages instead of chalets. Tracing the little streets with his eye, he counted the houses until he came to the one he lived in. From here, it was nothing more than a speck, but he was convinced he could see the ivy growing around the door. He was renting it for now, although if this move worked out and he decided to stay, he might see if he could purchase it once the money came through from the sale of the house in Scotland that he still part-owned with his ex.
Even in his own mind, Rex hesitated to use Jules’s name. If he thought of her at all that is, because he was actively trying not to. It wasn’t that he was heartbroken (he was heartsore, but his heart wasn’t shattered – there was a difference), it was just that her departure had been so unexpected. There they’d been, bumbling along – quite happily, he’d thought. Then she’d dropped the bombshell that their relationship wasn’t going anywhere and she was moving out.
Looking back, he knew he should have realised. The pair of them had become more like a couple of lodgers than romantic lovers. Maybe it was to be expected when you were with someone for any length of time – perhaps you did lose the spark. How sad if that were true, he mused. During the weeks between the split and moving to Wales, he had found plenty of time to reflect, and had been forced to admit that he was equally to blame. Maybe he should have made more of an effort, wooed her more, made her feel special.
He had also realised something else, which had come as a bit of a surprise to him: that perhaps it was because he hadn’t loved her enough that he hadn’t made the effort in the first place. After the first flush of passion had worn off, they hadn’t had a great deal in common. They’d simply drifted along like two pieces of flotsam on the same tide. Even moving in together had been a matter of finances; their decision to buy had been based on wanting some kind of return on their investment. They’d chosen their house with their heads and not with their hearts. Looking back, that should have told him everything he needed to know.
He grunted, kicking a loose stone down the path. At least the house had increased in value, so they’d both got something out of their failed relationship.
After climbing over the last stile, he picked up the pace. He was starving, and a bowl of delicious soup with a couple of slices of home-baked granary bread was calling to him. He’d taken to popping into Peggy’s Tea Shoppe every now and then when he couldn’t be bothered to cook. Actually, it was becoming a daily habit, and if he didn’t manage to get the same table by the window, he had a tendency to feel a little disgruntled.
‘She’s made some spinach and cheese patties,’ Betty, the old lady who helped in the tea shop, hissed at him as he slid into his usual seat. ‘They’re not as good as my vegetable pasties, but they’ll do.’
‘Do you have any of your pasties?’
‘No – why do you think I told you about her patties? They come on a bed of rocket with home-made onion chutney,’ she added.
‘I’ll have those then,’ he replied with a smile, ‘and a bowl of whatever soup is on the hob.’
‘Tomato and roasted pepper,’ Betty said over her shoulder. ‘I take it you want a pot of tea?’
‘Please.’ His order given, he leaned back and studied the noticeboard. He enjoyed looking at what events and activities were on, what was for sale. Stevie, who owned the place, was very strict about what she allowed to be posted on it. Today there were the familiar adverts for a plumber and a handyman, which had been there a while. There were also a couple of new ads for a dance class and an open day at the little primary school, alongside a notice for a twelve-mile walk into the Beacons for charity. Rex knew all about that particular event, because although he hadn’t organised it, it was taking place in his area, and he intended to be on hand just in case.
The items for sale included a pram, a garden shed (buyer to dismantle and remove), a chest of drawers and—
‘Here you go. Mind that bowl, it’s hot.’ The younger waitress, who was pregnant and who Rex thought might be called Cressida or Cassandra (he wasn’t sure which and he didn’t like to ask), placed his meal on the table. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No thanks, this is perfect.’
It was, too, and he set to it with gusto. When he was finally replete – which took a piece of cake and another pot of tea – he leaned back, patting his stomach. If he kept this up, he’d have to double his daily mileage just to keep his weight even. The food here was simply too good.
As he waited for his meal to go down, he found his gaze returning to the noticeboard. Something had caught his interest earlier, but his food had appeared and distracted him before he could read it properly. He scanned the adverts. Ah, that was it. He wasn’t really ready, but there wasn’t anything wrong with just going to have a quick look. It wouldn’t do any harm, and it would let him stick his toe in the water, so to speak. He didn’t have to buy one, did he?
He fished around in his backpack for a pen and some paper before carefully writing the number down. In case there was the remotest possibility he might forget what it was for, he added puppy underneath and underlined the word three times.
Chapter 3
Leanne had been rushed off her feet all day, yet despite that, she was bored.
Maybe bored wasn’t the right word, but for the life of her she couldn’t find a more suitable one. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been creative today; she had. She’d spent a good couple of hours stripping the window of its Easter arrangement and designing a bright, pretty spring display – something she always enjoyed doing. But something was missing. She felt restless and out of sorts. Maybe she was coming down with a bug or a virus, and she prayed that wasn’t the case – she couldn’t afford to be ill. The last time she’d been unwell, she’d had to close the shop for a couple of days.
She was curled up in her favourite armchair at home, with her laptop on her knees, reflecting that if you ran your own business then your work was never truly done. She paid a couple of invoices, moved a few spam emails to the trash and read a sales pitch or two,
saving one of them for later. Then she spotted something that almost made her heart jump out of her chest – an email from Budding Stars.
Calm down, Lea, she told herself, it’s probably a standard rejection, a ‘thanks but no thanks’. She recalled how giddy she’d become when she’d received an earlier email from them, until she’d realised it was merely an acknowledgement of her entry. But she was unable to stop her hands from shaking as she clicked on the message.
She read it once, then read it again. She looked up and stared into space for a minute, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth. She read it for a third time, just to be certain.
She was through to the next round of the selection process! They were inviting her to their studios in London for an interview and a demonstration of her abilities.
She felt sick. She felt excited. And she felt incredibly nervous. What if she made a total prat of herself? What if they didn’t like her, or she looked like a hideous witch on screen? She’d heard that the camera hated some people and loved others – what if she was one of the hated ones?
She could always back out now, walk away with no harm done; no one would ever know.
Yeah, right. There was no way she was going to pass up an opportunity like this, no matter how terrified she was at the thought of taking part in the competition.
Then it finally hit her – she was actually through to the next round! Squeee!
She had to tell someone. Her mum was out at a planning meeting to raise funds for the church roof, but her dad was around. She vaguely remembered him muttering something about a man and a dog, and she guessed he must be with Bess and her pups, so she decided to go and find him. The puppies were eight weeks old and absolutely adorable. Plus, it was a good excuse for her to play with them, because there was no way she was going to get any more work done this evening – she was far too excited for that.
Bess, like the other farm dogs, lived in one of the old stables next to the house which Leanne made her way over to now. She couldn’t ever remember there being any horses in them. The dogs usually bunked down together, but Bess had been moved to a pen of her own when the birth of her puppies grew closer, and there she would stay there until her babies left.
Aw, look at the proud mama with her seven puppies – four boys and three girls. Leanne’s favourite was the smallest female, the runt of the litter. She was shyer than the rest, quieter and more loving, content to cuddle rather than to play.
She leaned over the half-door, watching them for a moment before she went in. They were suckling and she didn’t want to disturb them until they were done, so she listened to their little grunts and squeaks with an indulgent smile. They were simply too cute for words, and she wished she could keep them all. Her father flatly refused, of course. If they kept every puppy that was bred on the farm, he argued, the place would be overrun with dogs. Besides, these were working animals, bred for herding sheep; they needed to go to farms where they could do exactly that. He had already started their training in preparation for their new homes, but there were two babies who didn’t cut the mustard, as he liked to say, and it was one of these, the rather timid little girl, that Leanne had her eye on.
When Bess had finally had enough of nursing her brood and the blissful look on her doggy face was replaced by a long-suffering expression as sharp little milk teeth made their presence felt, she scrambled to her feet. Shaking her pups loose, she jumped onto the raised platform above to escape them, and flopped down on the straw-covered wooden boards, her tail thumping a greeting.
This was Leanne’s cue. Quickly she undid the latch on the bottom half of the stable door and slipped inside before any of the little blighters could escape. Then she dropped onto the straw and let herself be clambered over. There was nothing quite as lovely as being surrounded by a litter of milky smelling puppies, with their fat little tummies, soft paws and fluffy baby coats. The other thing that was wonderful about puppies was that they were always so delighted to see her. Stumpy tails waggling, they greeted her with little yips of excitement.
Oh, they were sooo sweet! She could spend all day in here being climbed over and nibbled at. The puppies soothed her nerves, and after a few minutes of wonderful doggy attention, her excitement over the news that she was through to the next round of the selection process abated a little, and she was able to think about it more dispassionately.
It was going to be hard and would mean a great deal of work, but imagine if she actually won! Calm down, she told herself. She had to get through the interview first, not to mention the televised rounds.
‘Take it one step at a time,’ she murmured, and Bess wagged her tail harder, as if agreeing with her. At nearly seven years old, the bitch was an experienced mum. She was also a brilliant sheepdog, which was why Leanne’s father had bred from her. She had a lovely temperament and was happy enough to let people wade in among her little ones, although she kept a close eye on proceedings as Leanne scooped up the smallest puppy and held it close, feeling the beat of the little dog’s heart. This baby had actually stolen a piece of her own, and she wished she was in a position to keep her, but she knew how much her dad disliked having pets around the farm. According to him, every animal should earn its keep, so the chances of Leanne being able to adopt the puppy were non-existent.
Her father had already picked out one of the males to train up to replace Shep, and he didn’t intend keeping any of the others. Most of them were already sold, bought by farmers or shepherds. There were only two that weren’t spoken for, and one of them was the little bitch.
Leanne had named her Nell. It was a mistake – not the name itself, but giving her a name at all. It would just make it that much harder when the pup left. But she hadn’t been able to stop herself – it was a long time since she’d become so attached to one of the livestock. The last time it had been a piglet, bought to fatten up for slaughter; the enormous sow it had grown into had died of old age, because despite Leanne’s upbringing and the fact that she knew what farm animals were all about, she had bawled her eyes out when it was time to send ‘Grunter’ to slaughter. Her brothers still teased her about it now, whenever their mum cooked roast pork for Sunday lunch.
Voices, one of them her father’s, broke into her thoughts, and she gave the tiny dog a final kiss on its fluffy head before putting it down. Then she scrambled to her feet and backed into the corner behind the door so the newcomer could have a clear view of the pups. She peered through the crack between the door and the frame as the two men came into view. She found herself praying that the guy wanted a working dog and not a pet.
‘There are a couple left, a dog and a bitch,’ her dad was saying. ‘I gotta be straight with you – the bitch ain’t up to much. You’d be better off with the male. He’s like his father, full of spirit and a bit cheeky.’
Leanne had to smile. Her dad was as honest as the day was long. He’d trained enough sheepdogs to know which were liable to become good ones, and even at this early age, he could usually tell. The way he was going, though, he’d never sell that pretty little girl, which was another reason why Leanne still had a smile on her face when the stranger leaned over the half-door for a closer look at Bess’s pups.
‘My, they’re bonny,’ he said, and she guessed from his accent that he wasn’t local.
As the man studied the dogs, Leanne studied him, and what she saw made her heart flutter. He was gorgeous, in a rugged, outdoorsy kind of way. He had to be at least six foot, possibly taller, and had a decent pair of shoulders on him (Leanne had a thing for shoulders). Russet-coloured hair, slate-grey eyes and a proper man’s jaw (she had a thing for jawlines, too) completed the parts she could see.
She brushed off her jeans and moved into his line of sight, conscious of his curious gaze turning towards her.
‘Oh, hello, love,’ her father said. ‘I didn’t notice you there.’
‘Hi, Dad. He’s right, you know,’ she added to the stranger. ‘The male is definitely the bolder, more confident of the two t
hat are left.’ She bent down to pick up the pup, who growled in protest.
The man laughed. He had a really nice smile, too, Leanne noticed.
‘Isn’t he a cheeky chappy? Is that the female?’ he asked, pointing to Nell, who had climbed onto Leanne’s trainer and was sucking on the end of one of the laces, content to let the rest of her litter-mates play boisterously around her.
Leanne looked down at her feet. ‘Yes, that’s Nell,’ she said with a smile.
‘You mustn’t give them names,’ her dad said. ‘It just makes it harder when the time comes.’
‘Nell, eh? Do you breed your dogs much, Mr Green?’
‘Only now and again,’ her dad replied. ‘Shep, the father of this bunch, is getting on a bit and I need to start training a replacement. Bess,’ he pointed to the bitch still lying on her platform, ‘has had one litter before this one, so I’ll probably not breed from her again – she’s done her bit.’
Leanne was sorry to hear him say that. She loved it when there were puppies on the farm. There was nothing like the happy, non-judgemental welcome of a dog. Multiply that by however many were in a litter, and it was a recipe for paradise.
‘I’m Leanne, by the way,’ she said, deciding it was about time she introduced herself, and held out her right hand. The left still clutched the wriggling, squirming pup to her chest.
‘Rex.’ The man took her hand and shook it.
‘Is that what you’re going to call him?’ Leanne asked, holding the pup up so the guy could get a better look at him. ‘It’s a good strong name for a dog.’ Sheepdogs tended to have one-syllable names that could be easily shouted across a field.
Her father snorted. Leanne gave him a swift look, wondering why he was biting his lip and why his face was turning purple with suppressed laughter.
‘Not the dog’s name; mine,’ Rex said. His smile was half apologetic, half resigned.
The Tanglewood Flower Shop Page 2
