The Pregnant Tycoon. Caroline Anderson
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e-mail and then as an afterthought included her telephone number.
Maybe he’d ring and they could have a chat.
‘Michael, I’m not telling you again, do your homework or that GameBoy’s going in the bin. Rebecca? Beccy, where are you? Your stuff’s scattered about all over the place.’
She wandered in, her mouth formed in a sulky pout around her thumb, and with ill grace she shovelled her books back into her school bag and flounced off again.
Will sighed and rammed a hand through his hair. He had the accounts to do, another endless round of forms to fill in for yet another set of regulations—and when he’d finished that, he’d have the ewes to check—again. Still, at least it was warm now. Lambing in April, even if it was by accident, knocked spots off lambing in February.
The phone rang, freeing him from the paperwork he hated, and he scooped up the receiver almost gratefully.
‘Hello, Valley Farm.’
‘Will—it’s Rob. Just making sure that you haven’t forgotten the party.’
His heart sank, the gratitude evaporating. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten,’ he lied. ‘When is it?’
‘Friday—seven-thirty onwards, at the house. You are coming, aren’t you? Emma will give me such hell if you don’t.’
And him too, no doubt. ‘I’ll try,’ he promised evasively. ‘I might be able to get away for an hour or so, but I’m still lambing, so don’t rely on me.’ He didn’t need anyone else relying on him. He felt as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders as it was, and the party was just one more thing he had to do out of duty.
‘Stuff the lambs.’
‘With garlic and rosemary?’
‘Smartass. Just be there,’ Rob said firmly, and the dial tone sounded in his ear.
He dropped the receiver back into the cradle and scowled at it. If it was anybody else, any way on God’s earth he could get out of it, he’d do exactly that. He couldn’t, though. It was Rob and Emma, their tenth wedding anniversary and thirtieth birthday joint celebration, and he had no choice.
That didn’t mean, however, that he had to enjoy it or stay longer than was strictly necessary!
Two hours, tops, he promised himself. And duty done, honour satisfied, he’d be able to come home and—
And what? Sit here in the empty house on his own and stare morosely at the four walls? Go alone to his big, empty bed and lie staring at the ceiling, equally morosely, until sleep claimed him?
He snorted. He could always tackle some of the endless paperwork that dogged his life and drove him to distraction. God knows, there was enough of it.
Shooting back his chair, he went through to the kitchen, noting almost absently that Michael was now doing his homework, albeit in front of the television, and Rebecca was curled in the big chair with the dog squeezed up beside her and a cat on her lap, her eyes wilting.
‘I’m just going outside to check the sheep,’ he told them, hooking his elderly jacket off the back of the door and stuffing his feet into his muddy Wellington boots. ‘Beccy, bed in twenty minutes. Michael, you’ve got one hour.’
He went out into the cold, quiet night and made his way across to the barns. There were warm sleepy noises coming from the animals, soft bleats and shufflings in the straw, and he could hear the horses moving on the other side of the partition that divided the barn.
He did a quick check of the lambs, made sure none of the ewes was in trouble, then, satisfied that all was quiet, he cast an eye over the other stock: the chickens and ducks all shut up for the night, the house cow and the few beef calves out in the pasture behind the house. Then he checked the horses that were not his but were there on a DIY livery. He always included them in his late-night check, just to be sure they had water and none of them had rolled and got themselves cast, stuck firmly up against the side wall and unable to stand up again.
All was well, though, and with his arms folded on the top of the gate he paused for a moment, drinking in the quiet night.
A fox called, and in the distance he could hear a dog barking. Owls hooted to each other, and the pale, ghostly shape of a barn owl drifted past on the night air, on the lookout for an unwary mouse.
Vaulting over the gate, he left the stockyard and walked round to the old farmyard on the other side of the house, looking round at all the changes that had been made in the last few years.
The old timber cowshed and feed store had been turned into a thriving farm shop and café, selling a range of wonderful mainly organic foods, many of them cooked by his mother. She ran that side of the enterprise, while his father supervised the timber side of the business, the garden furniture and wooden toys and willow fencing which were now manufactured on-site in the old milking parlour.
Diversify, they’d been told, and so they had. Instead of boggy, indifferent grazing down by the river, only usable in the height of the summer, they now grew coppiced willow, cutting it down to the ground every winter and harvesting the supple young shoots while they were dormant. They were used to make environmentally friendly and renewable screens and hurdle-style fencing panels, now hugely popular, and all sorts of other things, many to special order.
He still grew crops on the majority of the farm, of course, but it was going organic, a long process full of bureaucracy and hoops of red tape that he had to jump through in order to satisfy the stringent requirements of the food industry, and then there were the sheep. In a few weeks, when the lambs were a bit tougher, he’d move them down to the saltmarsh pasture on the old Jenks’ farm, because organic saltmarsh lamb fetched a huge premium in the specialist restaurant market.
Buying up the farm from Mrs Jenks had been a major investment at a time when they couldn’t really afford it, but it had been a one-off opportunity and there had been no choice. It had spread their resources even further, however, and made more work, and it would be years before they got a return.
Small wonder, he thought, that he was tired all the time. Still, the farm was thriving again, their futures were secure, and that was all he asked.
With one last glance round to make sure that nothing had been overlooked, he went back inside. There was a little scurry and he saw the tail-end of his daughter disappearing through the doorway. He suppressed a smile and laid a friendly hand on Michael’s shoulder.
‘How’re you doing, sport?’
‘OK, I suppose. Just got my French to do now.’
Will chuckled ruefully. ‘Not my strong point, I’m afraid. You’ll have to ask your grandmother if you get stuck.’
He put the kettle on, and went upstairs to check on Rebecca. She was already in bed, with very little sign of having washed her face or cleaned her teeth, and he chivvied her through the bathroom and then tucked her up in bed.
‘Read me a story,’ she pleaded, and although he was exhausted, he picked up the book from beside her bed, settled down next to her with his back propped against the headboard and his arm around her shoulders, and started to read.
‘Dad?’
Will sucked in a deep breath and forced his eyes open. ‘Michael? What time is it?’
‘Nearly ten. You’ve been here for ages.’
Will glanced down at Rebecca, snuggled against his chest fast asleep, and gently eased his arm out from behind her and settled her down onto the pillow. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, getting to his feet. ‘I just sat down to read her a story—I must have dropped off.’
‘You look knackered,’ his son said, eyeing him worriedly. ‘You work too hard these days.’
Will ruffled his hair affectionately and gave him a brief hug. ‘I’ll live,’ he said, and wondered if it was only to his own ears that it sounded like a vow.
‘Good