CHRISSIE STRODE OUT across the rough, damp earth, well-worn wooden crook in hand, reveling in the signs of spring. Green shoots broke through the parched brown of tufty winter grass, bringing new life to the fell; the sound of birdsong, different now, bright with hope and promise, filled her ears with nature’s own sweet music as they sang to the end of the cold, hard winter. And it had been hard this year, up here on the fell. She’d lost a dozen sheep to the snow and ice, only finding their sad, frozen bodies after the thaw.
Closing her fingers more firmly around the knotted wood, taking comfort from its familiarity, just as her father must have when he walked the fells with the help of the same curved crook, she stopped to take stock.
Today wasn’t about death; that chapter was closed, until next year at least. Today she was embracing new life, for lambing time was imminent and she needed to gather the ewes and take them to lower ground. There was a time when four or five shepherds, each with at least two dogs, would meet to gather up their sheep, bringing them down all together, as a team, but right now it was just her sheep on this part of the fell.
With a low whistle to her dogs, Tess and Fly, Chrissie gazed up into the wide gray sky that never failed to soothe her soul. She watched the tumultuous clouds slide away, revealing the clearest, palest blue that seemed to stretch into eternity. For twenty-eight years she’d gazed up into that same sky, here in Little Dale, following the traditions set by her parents and their parents before them, caring for the sheep way up in the bleak and beautiful Lakeland fells. It was a tough, harsh and lonely life, but one she wouldn’t swap for anything.
The border collies, one black-and-white and the other a distinctive blue merle, sank to the ground, heads on paws and keen eyes alert for their mistress’s every gesture, waiting patiently as she looked back down the steep slope toward the huddle of buildings that nestled in the crook of the land.
High Bracken, the place where she had lived alone with her dogs for almost seven years since her parents were killed in a car crash. It had happened on the first holiday they had taken for as long as she could remember. She had been only nineteen then, and already dedicated to the land and the sheep, so it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to carry on the traditions she had been learning for her entire life.
After the accident, her mother’s sister, Hilda, had arrived to help her niece organize both the funeral and her future. She’d been horrified when Chrissie revealed that she intended to live in her family home all alone and carry on working with the sheep; Hilda’s pleas for Chrissie to pursue a more “suitable” career had been a waste of time then—and still were—but Aunt Hilda kept turning up unannounced every few months to stay a while and nag Chrissie to change her job.
Her aunt had left Little Dale that very morning, in fact, which was why Chrissie was so late. If she hadn’t had to run her aunt to the station then she’d have had all the sheep safely down the fell and nearer to the farm by now.
Hilda had left, of course, with yet another well-meaning lecture.
“It’s not natural for a young woman to live like this,” she’d grumbled over breakfast. “You’ll never meet a husband nor have any children if you don’t shape up. You need to stretch your horizons, get out more...do something more feminine.”
“But I’m always busy and I do get out,” Chrissie had retorted. “I’m involved with Little Dale’s young farmers group, I’m on a couple of committees, I meet lots of people through my dog training and I even competed in some sheepdog trials this year.”
“Exactly,” her aunt had snorted. “That’s what I mean—it’s all about sheep farming and dogs and the land. Most of the farmers around here are already married and the single ones aren’t worth having. You’ll never meet anyone in Little Dale.”
Chrissie’s insistence that she didn’t need a husband and was perfectly happy on her own fell on deaf ears, but she’d been moved by the brief hug her aunt had given her at the station before heading back home to her comfortable cottage by the sea. Hilda had seemed satisfied that she’d at least tried to do the responsible thing for her poor dead sister. And Chrissie had to admit that High Bracken always felt empty after Hilda had gone.
A smile warmed Chrissie’s heart as she thought about Hilda. It was comforting to know that she still had at least one relative who cared, even if her aunt did try and persuade her to give up the way of life she loved.
Then again, perhaps Hilda was right. Perhaps Chrissie was becoming a bit reclusive. There was a time when she’d dated a bit and gone to the movies with friends, but that had gradually slipped away as everyone she knew got married and settled down. Maybe she should make a bit more effort to be sociable before she ended up being pigeonholed as a batty old lady.
She’d go down to the pub in the village tonight, she decided, to have a meal and catch up with her friends; at least it would be something. It was hard to be social, though, when everyday life took such effort. There was always so much to do with the sheep and the dogs that there never seemed to be enough hours in the day.
Just yesterday she’d taken on yet another young dog to train—stupid, really, when lambing time was nearly here, but she needed the money. Although she loved the farm, it was barely paying its way. Remembering the nervous young black-and-tan Welsh collie, Floss, who had arrived last night, Chrissie put her half-hearted idea of socializing on hold. She needed to spend time with the new arrival and begin the process of bonding. Her dogs were trained through love and trust, not fear and force, which was so often the way.
She shook Aunt Hilda’s words out of her mind. Chrissie didn’t usually have such thoughts; she had everything she wanted right here. Yet she couldn’t help but notice that the landscape she loved so much was changing. And she didn’t welcome change.
As she headed even higher up the fell, Chrissie spotted movement at Craig Side, the small farm that was her nearest neighbor. There were two four-by-fours in the yard, she noted, as well as a large truck with something on the back. Tiny figures moved around it.
That was a surprise; the place had been empty and up for sale for almost a year, ever since James and Doreen Allen retired, sold Chrissie most of their sheep and moved down South to live with their son and his wife. When Andy Montgomery, Chrissie’s vet, had stopped by last week, he’d told her that it had finally been sold and there was a rumor that the new owner might be converting the farm into holiday rentals. But Chrissie hadn’t expected anything to happen so soon.
Yet another farm, then, lost forever. In Chrissie’s opinion, there were far too many farms going the same way, turning their backs on tradition and