Shadow on the Fells (5 page)

The way Floss stayed close behind her told her that perhaps she would be one of the easier ones to train. That belief was strengthened when Chrissie stopped to gaze across the valley toward Craig Side and Floss sat obediently down beside her.

There were workmen in the yard again, she noted, tiny figures in the distance. Perhaps they were just repairing the roof. Andy had been pretty sure about the holiday rentals, though.

She imagined clusters of bright-coated tourists wandering across her land, letting their pet dogs chase the sheep and leaving gates open. They seemed to think they owned the Lake District just because it was a national park.

She'd go to the council offices in Kendal this week, she decided, to find out what was going on. One thing was for sure: if there was a planning application going in, then she'd be fighting it. She'd write a letter of protest and get signatures, and she could have a meeting with the local council to state her objections.

With a fresh boost of determination she pulled herself away from the view of Craig Side. What
were
her objections, though?
I don't like having tourists too close to my farm?
The shops, hotels and holiday cottages around here—her neighbors—depended on tourists. But encouraging them to stay as far up the fell as Craig Side could cause all sorts of problems—as she'd witnessed firsthand with Will Devlin's crazy dog. She could form her objection around that: tourists needed to be based closer to town, or in other nearby villages.

Smiling, she remembered that when tourists used to come tramping through Billy Parker's yard at High Ridge, he would turn the garden hose on them. True, that was probably taking it a bit too far, but the thought still amused her. She'd been half in love with Billy when she was sixteen, and his impetuous behavior had drawn her to him even then. He was happily married now with two young children, but they had always remained friends...

“Come on, girl,” she said to Floss, heading back toward the house. She was eager for a late lunch and a cup of tea. “One thing is for sure. Whoever has bought Craig Side is in for a fight if they're hoping to bring tourists all the way up here.”

CHAPTER SIX

A
S
W
ILL
MADE
his way home with Max still straining on the leash, he felt a flicker of irritation at the way Chrissie made him feel so small.

Even when he'd walked away from his career he had felt principled, never awkward or uncomfortable. He'd become totally sickened by the way the law worked, the way that clever words could help guilty men and women walk free when the whole world knew they didn't deserve to. And the worst part was that very often they were his words. That was what had truly finished him. He wasn't proud of what he'd done as a lawyer, and he'd made the right decision by walking away.

Chrissie's face slid into his mind, a strong face that didn't need makeup to enhance it. There was something about her whole demeanor that drew him in, something starkly beautiful about the proud way she held her head and the spark in her blue eyes.

He had come to the fells for peace and quiet, a chance to take stock and sort out the good from the bad, but already he was inviting chaos into his life at every turn. What he needed to do, he decided, was avoid Chrissie at all costs. He didn't want any more antagonism in his life, and sparks seemed to fly whenever they met, sparks that emphasized his confusion.

He realized that Autumn was too warm and mellow a name for the fierce, independent shepherdess. Winter, he decided, smiling at the thought.

Back at Craig Side there were men up on the roof. He could see them clearly from the fell, little ants busily working. He'd come here for solitude, but solitude seemed to be evading him—even when he sought it out on the wild slopes. Part of it was his own fault, of course; he had called the workmen in and he had let Max chase the stupid sheep. Still, he needed to talk to Jim and Roger Simmons soon. Though, right now, getting out of his soggy sweater and warming up were his first priorities.

Will had just managed to pull the demon sweater over his head and stuff it in the laundry basket when he heard a knock on the kitchen door. He ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would think he'd gone out. No such luck.

“Sorry to intrude, but we really do need you to look at these plans again.” Jim Wentworth poked his gray head around the corner just as Will ducked out of sight. “But if you're busy...”

“No, it's fine,” Will said awkwardly, emerging from the laundry room. “I got a bit wet, that's all.”

“I saw you coming down the fell.” Jim smiled. “You did look a bit sodden. To be honest, it's always a good idea—”

“To wear a coat when you live around here,” Will finished for him. “Autumn—I mean, Chrissie Marsh—said just the same thing.”

Jim raised his bushy eyebrows. “You've seen her again already, then?”

“Only by accident. You'd think you could never accidentally bump into someone way up here, but I've managed to do it twice.”

“With better results than yesterday, I hope.”

Will laughed. “Well, Max didn't chase her sheep, but she presented me with a bill for one that fell down a cliff yesterday...and she let me know I was wearing the wrong clothes yet again.”

“As I said, Chrissie doesn't suffer fools gladly.”

“So you think I'm a fool, now?”

When Jim looked at him in dismay, Will placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “Don't worry. I know that's not what you meant. Tell you what—give me half an hour to get changed and we'll go and meet Roger together.”

Jim nodded. “He said he was working at home all day. I'll give him a ring so he knows to expect us.”

As he ran up the stairs to get changed, Will realized just how much more lighthearted he felt already, and all because his sense of purpose was filtering back. He could feel it, the drive inside him that made life worthwhile. Chrissie Marsh might have made him feel out of place and out of his comfort zone, but he wasn't one to give in easily. At least that was one good thing to come out of being a lawyer.

It was a culture shock, that was all. For years he'd been revered and admired; no one messed with Will Devlin unless they wanted a lawsuit on their hands, a lawsuit that they would definitely lose. He just had to adjust to the principles of life here. They were different than in the city, more basic and more honest.
Better...?
he asked himself. The answer came at once.
Yes
. Well, at least he definitely hoped so. All he had to do was keep well away from the shepherdess and he'd be fine. After he gave her a check, of course; he'd go there first thing tomorrow and get it done with.

His cell phone buzzed as he ran down the stairs. Roy Wallis? What the heck did he want? Ice seeped through his veins, weighing down his heart once more. Would they never let go of him? Putting the phone to his ear, he pulled on his professionalism like an invisible skin. “Roy! How are you? To what do I owe this honor?”

“Fine, and how are you?” replied the head of Marcus Finch and lawyer extraordinaire. “Feeling better, I hope.”

“Getting my head straight, if that's what you mean,” Will said cautiously.

“I won't mince words. I have a case for you, an important case.”

“Well, give it to someone else because I am no longer a part of Marcus Finch.”

“Look, Will...” Roy hesitated, piquing Will's interest. Roy Wallis never showed his unease.

“Look at what?”

“Ezra McBride has insisted that you handle it, and I think you know what that means.”

Will stayed silent, digesting the information. His palms were sweaty. “I guess it means a heap of money for the company.”

“It also means the loss of a very good client...not to mention the repercussions if he gets convicted.” Roy's frustration sneaked through his usual steely tone. “Our reputation is at stake here, Will. You can't deal with these people lightly.”

“Then perhaps the company should change the people it represents,” Will suggested coldly. “Don't tell me...what is it this time? Murder, perhaps? Extortion? Bribery? Or maybe he just wants to cover up an even worse misdeed, like—”

“No!” Roy was quick to stop his tirade. “You know I can't mention the details. We need you back, Will. You have responsibilities.”

“My only responsibilities are here,” Will said. “Get some other mug to do your dirty work. I'm too busy.”

He ended the call and had to pause at the bottom of the staircase, trying to still his shaking body. He thought he'd finally got his point across to Marcus Finch, but it seemed they just wouldn't let him go. It disgusted him, the way they valued winning—and getting paid for it—over the greater good.

You were like that, too
, he reminded himself. Getting this or that murderer off when everyone knew they'd done it, and worse, knew that they'd do it all over again...and again...and again as long as they had people like Will to protect them from the law. Well, not anymore.

“You okay?” asked Jim when Will walked into the kitchen. He was waiting by the back door, looking awkward.

“I'm fine...let's just get this over with.”

“We can leave it for today, if you like.”

“I have nothing else to do.” Will's voice was cold and cutting.

“You're a bit pale, that's all.”

Will took a breath. He wasn't in court now and never would be again. “Sorry, I really am as keen as you are to get these plans sorted. I just had a difficult telephone conversation, that's all.”

“Perhaps you should leave your phone behind, then,” suggested Jim.

The idea alone left Will reeling. “But what if...”

“What if nothing. If someone wants to speak to you badly enough, they'll get hold of you later.”

Feeling anxiety and freedom all rolled into one, Will dropped his phone on the table in triumph and reached for his jacket.

“Come on, then,” he said. “Let's go.”

* * *

W
ILL
HAD
ONLY
spoken to Roger Simmons on the phone up until now, and the architect proved to be totally different than he'd expected. Average height with a middle-aged paunch, graying hair and kind blue eyes, he was the epitome of grandfatherhood.

Will had hired him for his reputation, and in his world that meant expensive suits and lean bodies achieved through hours in the gym—men and women who were trying to make a statement to the world. This man's statement, it seemed, was in his work, not his appearance. He was what he was, and Will could tell it by the firm, honest grip of his handshake.

“Now,” Roger said, ushering him to a seat at the table and laying out some large sheets of paper. “Jim here tells me we have crossed wires regarding this development.”

Will leaned forward, poring over the precisely drawn plans. “Since I first spoke to you, I guess I've had a change of heart. Instead of the rather grand communal idea, I thought that maybe we should keep it more traditional.”

“He wants to give visitors the opportunity to live as people used to do,” Jim added. “Cut out a lot of the amenities.”

“And you think it will work?” Roger asked, frowning.

Will shrugged. “Well, it seems to be fashionable in places like London and Manchester nowadays. You know, to get away from the pressures of business and modern living, return to your roots and see how things used to be. It will have to be cleverly done, of course, to make the visitors feel that they're stepping back in time without it being
too
uncomfortable. I thought we could get quite a few cottages in there and make it like a real community, so that they can socialize if they want but have their own space, as well.”

Roger tapped his pencil against his chin. “Mmm...that will take some working out. And do you intend to live on-site, too?”

Will hesitated. “I had intended to, but...”

“Well then, why don't we put the farmhouse plans aside for now and focus on the outbuildings first? You may end up wanting to move somewhere more private.”

“That makes sense,” Will said. “I'm enjoying the solitude at Craig Side and I don't want to lose that. I'll look forward to seeing your ideas.”

Roger nodded, smiling. “I really think I understand where you're coming from now. I'll have some plans for you very soon.”

Will stood and shook Roger's hand. The architect had a firm grip.

“You do realize you'll get some opposition from the locals?”

Will frowned. “But why? The new plans are going to be very traditional. Why would anyone object?”

“You obviously don't know much about the folks around here,” Jim remarked. “They don't like tourists wandering about, upsetting the sheep, leaving gates open and messing up the land.”

“Well, there aren't that many people around here to object, anyway,” Will said. He might not be a defense lawyer anymore, but that didn't mean he had to give up his skills of persuasion. “We can overcome anything they have to say, I'm sure. In my experience, there is always a way.”

Roger appeared doubtful. “It's not quite as easy as that,” he said. “And I wouldn't underestimate our local council, but we'll just have to do our best with that. Anyway, I'll be in touch in the next couple days and we'll take it from there.”

Roger left, and Will walked Jim to his car.

“Do you think we'll have objections from the locals?” he asked the builder.

“Probably,” Jim said. “People around here object to everything.”

Back at Craig Side, Will ate a late lunch beside the stove. For the first time in what felt like ages, he felt a flicker of enthusiasm for the future, followed almost immediately by regret that he might have to leave this place he had become so attached to. The builders' presence was irritating enough, but it was temporary; what would a property constantly full of tourists do to him?

It was kind of weird that he—who not so long ago thrived on the hubbub of city life—now felt threatened by the idea of sharing his space with just a few tourists.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the silence. It was total and welcome, calming his troubled mind. Later, he supposed, picking up the crumpled invoice from where he had thrown it earlier, he would have to go up to High Bracken and drop off a check. And this time, after the trip he'd made to the men's outfitters in town, at least he would be dressed right. Hopefully he could act right, too; no one had made him feel as awkward as Chrissie Marsh since he'd become a lawyer.