Surefire Page 2

  Then one morning I let myself into the kitchen at Black Combe and there she was, just her, seated at the kitchen table. She had a mug of coffee in front of her and looked to have just got up. Her feet were bare, her hair still tangled from bed. I recognized the shirt she was wearing as one of Nathan’s, her long, bare legs crossed under the table. And there was no sign of Barney.

  She looked up, seemed unsurprised to see me waltzing into her kitchen. “Morning. Coffee?” She smiled at me, jerked her head in the direction of the coffee pot. “I just brewed some, thought you might be turning up sometime soon.”

  So she was apparently expecting me then. And seemed inclined to be sociable. Intimidated or not, I don’t have enough friends to turn down an opportunity so I nodded, muttered my thanks, and went to help myself.

  Sitting opposite Eva in the kitchen at Black Combe, I found I had absolutely nothing to say to her. What does a convicted liar and self-confessed thief find to say to an accomplished academic, a respected musician? And Eva seemed to be in no rush to make small talk, having apparently done her social duty by making the coffee. At a bit of a loss I decided to fall back on the sole topic of conversation I could come up with.

  “So, I understand you’ve been ill. How are you feeling now?”

  She looked at me, her face giving nothing much away. Then, “Ill? Is that what you call it? Not suicidal? Mentally unstable? A crap mother?”

  I regarded her, long and hard. If she wanted to pick a fight, why bother making me coffee? And I decided not to rise to it. I may not have her brains, but I’m definitely not stupid. Falling out with Nathan’s beloved Eva would not be a good move, not for me, not for any of us. I decided to make an effort.

  “No, I call it ill. And the fact that you’re down here rather than huddled up in bed suggests to me you’re getting better, and I’m glad about that. And I was here that day, when you first got back. I know what happened, and I know it was an accident.”

  She shakes her head, her lips quirked in a wry, self-effacing smile. “An accident waiting to happen.”

  I shrug. “Whatever, but they all count.” And I decided that was enough socializing for one day. “Thanks for the coffee. Is Barney anywhere about?”

  “He’s upstairs. In the shower.” She smiles at my astonished expression. “It seems he went out and rolled in something particularly vile and Grace refused to let him back in the house until he’d been swilled down. She dragged him off upstairs. It’s gonna take a whole crate of Head and Shoulders to wash that bloody dog…”

  I can’t imagine shampooing Barney is easy. “Can Grace manage, do you think?” Any excuse to get out of there.

  No help to be had from Eva, it seems. “I expect so. My mum’s up there too. I think they’ve got it covered. They left me in charge down here. All part of the great plan to make me feel useful. It’s not working.”

  At my puzzled look, she jerked her head in the direction of the corner behind me. I turned, to see baby Isabella tucked up nice and secure in her baby seat, fast asleep. I smiled, couldn’t help it. She’s so sweet. I turned back to Eva, resolved to maybe stay a little bit longer. “Can I pick her up? I’ll try not to wake her. Please.”

  She waved expansively in the direction of the baby. “Be my guest. She’s due a feed any time now in any case. Tell you what, I’ll make the bottle, and you give it to her.”

  And so, that’s how we came that morning to be sitting companionably in the kitchen at Black Combe, me feeding a very appreciative Isabella her bottle while Eva quizzed me about Tom.

  “So, you and Tom then? I’m glad he’s found someone. He’s a lovely man, always kind to me.”

  I nodded. I think Tom’s probably kind to everyone. Hell, he was even kind to me, eventually. These days he’s especially personable when he has a whip in his hand, but I didn’t see any reason to dwell on that. But Eva was on a quest, wanted more. “So how did you and Tom meet then?”

  Ah, now that was the six million dollar question. And quite suddenly, there and then, and bearing in mind I’d never clapped eyes on this woman before in my life, I told her. The full story, about that awful night in Bristol and about me turning up here quite by chance. I didn’t tell her about Tom’s reaction when he first saw me, when he recognized me and decided I needed to be taught some sort of a lesson—I think maybe that’s a tale for another day. Eva listened to me, never commented, never turned a hair. Her only response was to observe what a small world it is, and I found myself compelled to agree.

  We fell silent for a while, both of us I’m sure wondering if, how, to broach the issue uppermost in our minds. I know that Nathan’s a Dom too, and from what Tom told me I’m pretty sure Eva’s his sub. But it’s not exactly the sort of thing you can come right out and ask. Or is it? Eva seemed to think it was worth a try. She may have been somewhat taciturn when I’d first arrived in her kitchen, but she was positively garrulous now and certainly prepared to have a go.

  “Yes, Tom’s a nice guy. Very good looking too, in a sort of Adonis way.”

  “Adonis?”

  “Mmm, Greek god of beauty and desire.”

  “Ah, right.” Yes, definitely sounds about right to me.

  “And sort of—masterful. Dominating. Don’t you think so?”

  She cocked her head to one side, looked at me expectantly. I returned her gaze, steady, serious—before I lost it and collapsed into laughter. Even Isabella was moved to complain as the flow of her milk was rudely interrupted by my helpless giggling. Eva joined in, and it was clear we had a perfect understanding.

  At last, able to speak again, I responded politely, “Yes, very Dominant. I have on occasions had the scars to prove it, though they don’t usually last very long.”

  Eva just nodded wisely, she is after all my senior by nearly two years. “I find arnica helpful. Probably best to buy in some extra, just give me a shout if you want some.”

  I thanked her politely. We both smiled and reached an understanding.

  So now, Eva and I are firm friends. She’s always around as I collect Barney, we often share a morning coffee together. And occasionally she comes out with me, Rosie and Barney, up onto the moors. Never too far, or for too long. She’s not well still, gets tired easily. But I enjoy her company, and oddly enough she seems to like mine. We laugh a lot, mostly about Tom and Nathan. I’m not sure if subs are supposed to discuss their Doms and compare notes. Neither is Eva, but we do it. All the time. She’s been back about six seeks now, and is clearly staying. Rosie’s over the moon, Nathan’s a different man too. And I just love having a friend.

  Chapter Two

  “Are you out and about today?” Tom glances at me across the breakfast table, his marmalade toast dangling from his fingers. I smile, remembering just where those sticky fingers were half an hour ago. I do enjoy mornings at Greystones, and surely there can be no more civilized way to greet the day than with a mind-blowing orgasm. Still, back to the business in hand.

  “Yes, later probably. Depends a bit on the light quality. I’m after getting some nice smudgy horizon shots, so a bit of heat haze would be useful. What’s the weather forecast, do you know?”

  He shoves the last of his toast in his mouth and chews it before answering, “Of course I know. I’m a bloody farmer, it’s my job to know. You should be all right—dry, sunny, temperatures reaching twenty-two centigrade. Will that do you?”

  I nod then go to put more bread in the toaster. I’m quite proud of my prowess with toast these days, it’s really very simple when you know how.

  “I shot a fox earlier. Saw it sniffing around the outside of the poultry run first thing. I definitely hit it because there was blood on the wall where it scrambled over, but the crafty little bugger got away. I don’t like leaving a job unfinished, so if you happen to spot it could you text me and let me know where it is?”

  I turn to him, and I confess I’m a little shocked at his callous attitude. I know foxes are pests, but still… He sees my expression and stands up, comes to
give me a hug.

  “Don’t go getting all sentimental, love. You’d soon lose your fondness for foxes if you saw the state of a poultry shed after one had been visiting. Blood and carnage everywhere. They’re a menace around farms.”

  I shake my head. “But even so, can’t you…? I mean, you’re supposed to be humane aren’t you?”

  “Indeed I am. And I’m also a farmer with a living to make. I’d prefer to have killed it cleanly, though, so if you do spot it anywhere let me know and I’ll finish the job. Okay?”

  I shrug and mumble something along the lines of, “If I have to…”

  Tom just chuckles, that lovely, sexy laugh of his. “You live on a farm now, Miss McAllister. Get with the program.”

  * * * *

  It’s late afternoon and I’m making my way back down from an area known locally as Black Moor, high above Haworth. I’ve managed to get some decent images, including the lovely smudgy horizons I was looking for, so life’s good as I trundle across the springy moorland grass on my quad. Barney is ambling alongside, his quiet company always welcome. Eva was having an off day so didn’t want to come with me, and Rosie’s at some after school club I gather so it’s just me and my big furry friend.

  I’ve traveled a few yards farther before I realize Barney has stopped, standing stock still, his ears cocked. I stop and wait for him. He doesn’t move so I twist round in the seat and try calling him. I could do with getting back home before too much longer—I have images to upload onto my computer, work to do.

  Barney’s having none of it. He turns away from me, starts to inch across the grassy slope toward a patch of dark brown bracken. He’s crouching, his ears back as though he’s stalking something. As I watch him, wondering what on earth he thinks is in there, he comes to a stop and starts barking at whatever he thinks is hidden in the undergrowth.

  Curious, I switch off the engine, and it’s only then that I hear what Barney’s sharper ears must have picked out. A high-pitched squealing sound, a sound made by something quite small in a lot of distress. We do occasionally get poachers around here, setting cruel traps for rabbits. I’m pretty sure what I’m hearing isn’t a rabbit—as far as I know they don’t make any sound—but maybe something else has got trapped. I make my way cautiously over to Barney, leaning over him to look at whatever he’s found.

  It’s a fox. Tom’s fox I don’t doubt. Sure enough, I can see its right hind leg has a nasty gunshot wound, although the blood looks to be dried up pretty much. Still, the animal is in a bad way. It’s not dead, not quite. I can see its flanks moving as it breathes, but its eyes are closed and it seems unaware of our presence. It’s definitely not the fox making all that din.

  But first things first. I pull out my phone and shoot a quick text off to Tom.

  Found your fox. Still alive—just. On edge of Black Moor, about 100 yds west of footpath. Do you want me to wait till you get here?

  His reply isn’t long in coming—

  Would you? That’ll help me to find it. See you in 10.

  He must have got held up as it’s closer to fifteen minutes before I spot Tom’s Land Rover bouncing over the rough moorland, about a mile below me. I wave at him, both arms above my head, and see the moment he spots me and turns in my direction. A few minutes later he’s jumping from the Land Rover, his shotgun broken across his elbow.

  He drops a kiss on my forehead. “I knew I could rely on you, sweetheart. Where is it then?”

  I point to Barney, still standing guard. I can’t take the credit either.

  “Barney found it, not me.”

  “What a team.” He tosses the words back as he strides away from me, and is soon crouching alongside Barney, examining the state of the poor fox. He stands, turns back to me.

  “Would you mind getting Barney out of the way—don’t want any accidents?”

  I nod and reach for Barney’s huge collar. I doubt there’s going to be much I can do about it if the mountain of a dog decides he wants to stand his ground, but luckily he’s in a cooperative mood and lets me tug him out of the immediate vicinity. I turn my back, knowing what’s coming, but still I flinch as I hear the shot.

  “Right. That’s one sorted, now where’s the other?” Tom has started pacing around, looking at the ground, moving in circles around the carcass of the fox.

  “Other? What other?”

  “The cub. That’s what’s making all that noise. You must have heard it?”

  A fox cub! I never even considered that possibility. The dead fox must have been a mother with a young cub, and now the baby’s somewhere nearby screaming its head off. I scurry to catch up with Tom and join in the search.

  Barney soon comes up trumps again though, and in a few minutes is standing with his nose in the bracken, sniffing at something on the ground. We both crouch next to him and sure enough there it is. A cute and fluffy little red fox cub. It’s squealing loudly—frantic, high-pitched squeaks that tell of hunger and fear and loneliness. My heart turns over as I reach out to stroke it.

  Tom catches my wrist before I can touch the little furry creature.

  “Careful, it’s a wild animal even if it does look like a puppy dog. And it’ll be riddled with fleas. You get Barney out of the way, I’ll see to this.”

  He starts to re-load his shotgun, and I realize he means to shoot this poor little orphan. I grab his arm, determined that’s not going to happen. How could he? How could anyone?

  “You can’t do that. The poor little thing’s hungry, and cold, and…”

  “It’s vermin. In another few months it’ll be helping itself to my chickens. Or it would have been.” He closes the gun and stands, the barrel pointing down.

  Instinctively I position myself between Tom and the cub. Tom gives me a narrow, withering look and breaks the gun open again for safety.

  He tries to convince me. “Look, love, it won’t survive on its own anyway. It’s too young to fend for itself. Kinder for me to put it out of its misery now rather than let it starve to death.”

  I’m not having that. This is a baby, for Christ’s sake. He can’t just kill a baby. I can hear the pleading note in my voice as I try to reason with him. “We could look after it, rear it until it’s old enough to set free.”

  Tom looks at me as though I’ve just been beamed in from Mars. The idea, the very notion of hand-rearing a fox cub then letting it go is as alien to him as my old life in Bristol now seems to me.

  “Like hell we will. There’s no way I’m taking that thing back to my farm, wasting good food on it, just to let it go so’s it can help itself to my fucking chickens. Christ, they even take piglets if they can get past the sows.” His tone is exasperated, his expression one of utter incredulity.

  I can see he’ll never relent.

  And neither will I. There’s no way I’m letting this happen. I unzip my light hoodie and slip it off.

  “Now what are you doing?” He sounds pretty pissed off, I don’t get the impression he thinks I’m stripping for his benefit. He’s right.

  “I’m taking it home. I’ll look after it.”

  “You’re not taking it home, Ashley. Not happening. No way is that bloody fox going anywhere near Greystones.”

  I’m just as angry as Tom now, and I give up any attempt to plead with him. I turn and reach for the still squealing little cub and wrap it in my hoodie. I stand to face him again, this time cradling the noisy bundle in my arms.

  “Not Greystones. My home. My cottage. Get out of my way.” I make to shove past him, but Tom grips my elbow. He makes one last attempt to assert his authority in this matter.

  “Ashley, last chance now. Put the cub down, get back on your quad and go to the farm. I’ll finish off here and see you at home. Do it now.” His voice is stern, unrelenting, all Dom. It shakes me a little, I’ve never seen this facet of Tom outside of a scening situation and I know he expects me to obey him. Normally I would, without question, but every fiber of my being insists I protect this helpless fox cub.

&n
bsp; I don’t drop my gaze and naturally neither does Tom. He waits for me to back down and obey him. I can’t, not in this. At last I just shake my head and step around him. He makes no further attempt to stop me, and I manage to scramble onto my quad and start the engine, my precious little bundle huddled in my lap.

  I glance back up the hillside when I reach the wider bridle path at the bottom. Tom’s Land Rover is still there and I see him sling something onto the back of it—no doubt the dead vixen. And even my loyal companion Barney seems to have opted to stay with Tom.

  Tom turns in my direction as I make my way along the bridle path, and seems to be watching me ride away from him. My temper, always a short-lived fizzle at best, has cooled on the way down, and now my heart is sinking as I ask myself how something so simple ever came to this? How could a sweet little orphaned fox cub cause such a rift? Tom doesn’t issue many instructions, but when he does, he means them. And deep down I do know he’s right about the practical realities of foxes around his livestock. But I couldn’t just let him kill the cub. Could I?

  When I arrive back at Smithy’s Forge about half an hour later, the place is cold and unwelcoming. I haven’t spent a night here in months, but I still carry the key on my key ring so I let myself in, the tiny fox cub still bundled in my hoodie. Even though I call in every few days to pick up my post and just check the place over, there’s no food in—for me or the cub. No hot water and only a couple of logs beside the stove to heat the place. Luckily it’s summer so the cottage isn’t cold, but I still don’t see how I’ll be able to manage. Most of my clothes are at Tom’s, as is all my equipment for doing my work. I really have not thought this through at all.

  I pull out a drawer from my small kitchen dresser to dump the cub in for the time being, Maybe if I nip down into the village I can pick up some milk. I wonder if foxes like cow’s milk? Or I could call at Tom’s vending machine, which is closer. On second thoughts, that’s probably rubbing salt in.