Hooked on Ewe (2 page)

My scenic view was partially hidden due to the arrival of the sheep dog competitors, which had been going on since well before dawn. The day was shaping up to be another unusually sunny one. We’d been having a rare run on sun since Thursday, and it was expected to continue through today. Perfect weather for a fund-raising event. I’d give anything to duck out of the responsibilities I’d agree to early on. Vicki and I had both volunteered our services for the sheep dog trials, and Kirstine had decided that Vicki would be giving spectators tractor rides out to
the far fields for the competitions (a role assigned, I suspect but can’t prove, to keep Vicki away from the shop), while my assignment was to help at the welcome table right outside Sheepish Expressions. I, along with several other volunteers who worked for the hospice, would disburse information, sell programs, and in general, handle any minor problems.

I shuddered at the thought of a full day wasted at the welcome table. I’d much prefer to spend that time out in the field, watching the working dogs round up sheep. A few stragglers driving vans and trucks, some hauling trailers, were still pulling off the main road and parking up and down the lane wherever they could find space. I could see them starting to double-park as spots became scarce.

The parking lot before me was empty though, due to a large sign Kirstine had erected warning that the area was strictly for Sheepish Expressions customers and carried an accompanying threat of prosecution.
Ignore at your own risk.

A familiar white van pulled up close by. I recognized the vehicle mainly because of the heavily tinted windows that made it impossible to see inside.

The welcoming committee for the big event was converging.

I sighed heavily and stepped down from the porch.

The arriving van belonged to Oliver Wallace, who I’d met at the first of our organizational meetings. Oliver stepped out first, followed by his two passengers.

Down the lane, Isla Lindsey, the leader of the pack, scurried toward us from her parked camper van, and came to a halt next to the van. Isla wore a lightweight calf-length burgundy tartan skirt wrapped around her ample girth, thick cream-colored knee-high stockings, and a clunky pair of hiking boots—not to mention several metaphorical hats on her inflated head. She was the volunteer service coordinator, using whatever coercing and bullying tactics necessary to get locals involved whether they wanted to be or not. She also acted as treasurer, keeping the financial aspects of the many fund-raisers in order.

“Where should we set up?” I asked.

“Next to the shop,” Isla said to me, sharp and commanding. “And if you’d been at the last meeting, you would have
been informed as such. Stop dawdling and help us unload. And you”—Isla’s head swung toward Oliver—“are late, as usual.”

I’d watched Isla seize control of the welcoming committee from the start, and almost immediately regretted having signed on. Because her husband, Bryan, was president of the Glenkillen Sheep Dog Association, Isla presided over every single aspect of this fund-raiser as though she were queen of the kingdom, wielding her special brand of obnoxiousness the minute she had us all in her clutches. She was the main reason I’d stopped attending the meetings. Really, how much advanced planning was required to set up a little tent and produce a stack of programs to sell? We were volunteers, for goodness’ sake. Her job should have encompassed coordinating each of the volunteer areas, not micromanaging the four of us who had been unlucky enough to be on the one committee she’d decided to rule with an especially iron fist.

To be fair (from my limited experience with volunteerism), finding someone to head such a project as this must be a major feat. Maybe it takes a control freak like Isla to pull off a successful fund-raiser.

A scary thought.

Oliver Wallace, the only male in our bunch, was Isla’s designated gofer due to the fact that he was the only one of us who owned a vehicle with toting capabilities. Oliver claims to be a direct descendent of Scottish freedom-fighter William Wallace, and usually puts on airs as though this were the fourteenth century and his lineage actually mattered. He’d been an active volunteer throughout the fund-raising year (he seemed to be on every committee
and board associated with the hospice), and didn’t seem to mind taking orders like an indentured servant. Although
he
annoyed
Isla
plenty, so maybe he wasn’t quite the follower he appeared to be. Now he opened the back of the van, with some effort involved as the latch resisted, and pulled out a stack of poles.

Oliver’s passengers were the other two welcoming committee members—Lily Young, who worked housekeeping at the hospice, and Andrea Lindsey, a nurse in clinical services who also happened to be Isla’s husband’s younger sister. Between them they carried the blue-and-white welcome tent and a bag of stakes.

I noticed that most of the welcoming committee members looked sunburned. Sun in the Highlands is an anomaly, especially when the clouds go “on holiday” and it manages to shine for three days straight, as it had recently. That means lots of burnt skin for these fair-haired Scots. Isla’s cheeks were rosy, the skin of her nose starting to peel; and Oliver’s face and neck above his golf shirt were burnt red, a shade altogether different from his cropped red hair.

I’d also inherited fair Scottish skin and ginger tones in my hair from my paternal side, but I’m careful of the sun’s rays. I’d rubbed on plenty of sunscreen this morning, hoping to escape unscathed.

“Step lively,” Isla called out in military fashion.

Lily, even more sunburnt than Oliver and Isla, wore no makeup whatsoever, and her fine, straight brown hair hung limply to chin length. She had a pear-shaped body, lots of hips with narrow shoulders. Lily had made an unsuccessful attempt to take control of the welcoming committee at the
beginning, and—as she’d confided in me one evening at the pub when she’d had a pint or two too many—was hoping to break out of housekeeping and into a paid fund-raising position. She still hadn’t gotten over her defeat to Isla, judging by the occasional dagger glares she cast Isla’s way.

Rumor had it that the two of them had been on opposite sides of the ring since childhood, with Isla always coming out on top, pounding her opponent into the ropes with perfectly executed sucker punches.

Andrea, Isla’s sister-in-law, is a mouse of a woman, nondescript in physical characteristics as well as conversationally, with hardly an opinion to call her own. That must suit her sister-in-law just fine, giving Isla one more person to walk all over. Andrea, I’ve heard, is a competent nurse under that passive exterior, making up for her lack of interesting qualities with a superb bedside manner. And displaying a good deal of common sense, in my opinion, since she was the only one on the committee besides me who wasn’t toasty crisp from too much sun.

The little group marched over to a grassy area beside the woolen shop, led by Oliver, who was wearing a pair of gray wellies made colorful by bright yellow soles. Isla attempted to outpace him, but despite her effort, came in second.

I reluctantly followed last.

By the time I arrived, Isla had already started complaining.

“This isn’t the tent I told you to order,” she said to Oliver as though noticing the blue-and-white tent for the first time. “I specifically asked for bright yellow.”

“No yellow to be had,” Oliver mumbled. I knew for a
fact that he hadn’t placed the order until the last minute. Possibly his lapse was an intentional act of defiance.

“And the size is all wrong!” she continued to gripe.

“It’s the exact size you requested.” Oliver began assembling the poles.

“’Tis not. This won’t do at all. Ye’ll just have to find the proper tent, is all there is to it.”

Lily and Andrea ignored the exchange, making busy rather than getting involved. I’d learned my lesson moments earlier inside the shop, so took a page from them and kept quiet, too.

Isla, realizing that Oliver was hopeless, turned on the women. “Couldn’t one of you have managed this bloke?” Then her gaze found me. “And you! A fat lot of good you’ve been. Useless Americans.”

“Let’s get on with it,” Lily said, while I stood dumbstruck by Isla’s audacity. “Save yer breath to cool yer broth.”

Which was one of the few Scottish phrases I was actually familiar with, having heard Kirstine use it on occasion, prompting me to seek a definition from Vicki. Lily had just told Isla to quit complaining and get to work. Good for her.

It was bad enough trying to referee Vicki and Kirstine, but having to withstand Isla’s bickering with the welcoming committee members over every little detail was going to do me in. I had to find a way out.

But just when I thought all was lost, and I had no choice but to suffer through the day next to the parking lot, two welcome additions arrived (separately but almost simultaneously):

Detective Inspector Kevin Jamieson and Special Constable Sean Stevens.

To the inspector’s continuing chagrin, the local powers that be had decided to incorporate volunteer cops into the main corps of professionally trained police officers. Odd, but true. When I first learned of it, I thought my leg was being pulled. It wasn’t.

Scotland’s new volunteer police force draws citizens from all walks of life, giving them the opportunity to work side by side with experienced law enforcement officials. After a brief training course, these special constables wear similar uniforms and have the same powers as regular officers. My mind still boggled at the concept.

Anyway, Sean Stevens, a former security guard, had eagerly signed on, and since he was from the Glenkillen area he had been promptly assigned to Inspector Jamieson, bringing the inspector’s long and happy history of working solo to an abrupt end.

Since that fateful day, the inspector has spent much of his time dodging Sean or, when all else fails, creating busywork to keep his “special constable” occupied elsewhere. To his credit, Sean has countered those efforts with some pretty fine tracking techniques, managing to hound the inspector pretty much wherever he goes . . . though the inspector’s Honda CR-V is simple to tail once one has it in sight. Its horizontal yellow stripes framed by blue and black checkers give it away easily.

Today Sean, driving his red Renault, was hot behind the CR-V. They both parked in the restricted area, inside the parking lot designated for customers. The inspector pulled in near the shop, while the rookie headed for the
far end, maneuvering and backing in for a quick dash if the inspector managed to get a few steps ahead of him.

Neither of them acknowledged Kirstine’s warning sign. At least there still were a few individuals out there who she couldn’t control with her threats. I smiled at that.

As they approached, I couldn’t help comparing the two men. The inspector was a widower in his late fifties, graying at the temples. He wore a blue button-down shirt with the top button open, a solid tie knotted loosely, and a pair of beige trousers, his hair a little mussed. Sean, a bit younger than me in his early thirties, wore his standard police uniform—white short-sleeved shirt, black tie tight and perfect, his peaked cap with insignia perfectly aligned over his buzz cut, his carriage erect, his chin held high. He was right behind his boss, having to hurry since his shorter legs had to do double the work of the long-legged inspector.

“Vicki’s inside the shop,” I called to Sean, and smiled as he turned on his heels and headed for the porch leading into Sheepish Expressions. The special constable had been giving Vicki special attention. “He’s a young pup,” Vicki had said when I’d pointed that out.

“Age means nothing these days,” I’d argued.

“Off with you!” she’d replied. But the light in her eyes and the blush on her cheeks when he was around spoke volumes.

I’d met Inspector Jamieson my very first day in the Highlands, and not exactly under the best of circumstances. But over the following months, I’d come to consider him a friend, and I hoped he felt likewise. He did seem relatively comfortable around me, possibly due to
the twenty-year difference in our ages and my utter lack of romantic interest in him. Single men of the inspector’s age are considered hot commodities by many of the local widows and divorcees, but I’m hardly a threat to his chosen way of life. At this point, I’m not a threat to any man’s freedom. My divorce and my mother’s death following her long battle with MS have left me ripe for life changes. I’ve learned that being by myself isn’t nearly as lonely as being with the wrong person. In fact, I’m relishing it. I have no desire to jump right back into a relationship. One thing I’m definitely not looking for is romance. I have more than enough of that on the pages of
Falling for You
.

“Quite the to-do,” the inspector said now as I left the welcoming committee to greet him. “I’ve managed tae stay away until noo.” I enjoyed hearing his thick Scottish brogue; even though I heard Scottish accents spoken on a daily basis these days, I still wasn’t immune to the charm.

“You don’t like crowds?” I asked.

“Bloody uncomfortable, if ye ask me. The main reason I’m here is tae shake our Sean, and then I’ll be gone.”

“We open to the public at nine,” I warned him, in case he wanted to disappear before then. With the good weather, Kirstine and John expected attendance to far exceed the projected two hundred spectators.

“At least they are clubbing together to raise funds fer a worthy cause.”

“Yes, there’s that to appreciate.”

“I’ve decided to put Officer Stevens on traffic duty first thing,” the inspector informed me, “and he’s not tae leave until the very end o’ the trials.”

I nodded. “Smart of you.”

The inspector and I gave each other knowing looks. Mine said he’d cleverly managed to waylay Sean once again, effectively distancing himself from the overeager officer in a manner that suited both of them. Sean would hardly complain about his post, because it would keep him close to Vicki. The instigator’s expression told me he was pretty pleased with himself, too.

“Officer Stevens has put in a request fer his own beat car,” Inspector Jamieson said next. “I’m considering putting him on a bicycle instead. That should slow him down sufficiently.”

I pictured Sean pedaling like crazy to follow the police vehicle and grinned at the image.

Then a thought popped into my head—a glimmer of a workable plan to extricate myself from Isla’s clutches. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” I told Inspector Jamieson, “but the only problem with your plan is that Kirstine has already arranged for two young men to direct traffic into another field across the way once our visitors begin to arrive.” I watched disappointment flicker across his face. “Here they come now.” Sure enough, Kirstine’s two volunteers had parked off to the side of the field I’d indicated, and were now in position to make use of the bright traffic flags they carried.