Eleanor Jones - Shadow On The Fells

He’s a danger to everything she holds dear

With his unruly dog, big-city airs, and obvious ignorance of the Lake District and its traditions, Will Devlin is Chrissie Marsh’s worst nightmare. There’s nothing the shepherdess loves more than the land she lives and works on, and nothing she hates more than the tourists who threaten it. Except Will isn’t a tourist; he’s her new neighbor. And he intends to turn her hallowed fells into a playground for people on holiday. But when he keeps showing up at her farm to offer—and ask for—help, she realizes she’ll need to put a stop to her own feelings before she can even try to stop him.

Chrissie watched helplessly as sheep disappeared in every direction.

She whistled to her collies, but she would have needed half a dozen dogs to keep the terrified sheep together.

“Max!” cried the man. “Max! Bad dog. Come here.”

The big dog ignored him, but he managed to grab hold of its collar. For a moment, they struggled, and then the man staggered forward. If the situation hadn’t been so desperate, Chrissie would have laughed as he sprawled to the ground.

She whistled to Tess and Fly, and they raced over. The sheep had calmed somewhat, but at best she’d be spending the rest of the afternoon gathering them. At worst…well…she didn’t want to think about that just yet.

“Good dogs. Stay.” The man was on his feet now, his leather shoes much the worse for wear and his suit pants ripped at the knees.

“You,” she said in a cold, flat voice. “You should get back to the city…and take your idiot dog with you. I’d have been well within my rights to shoot it, you know.”

He held her gaze with his piercing eyes. “But you haven’t got a gun.”

“Then I’ll start carrying one.”

Dear Reader,

This is the fourth and last book in my Creatures Great and Small series. I do hope you enjoy it. Any thoughts, comments or questions you may have about Shadow on the Fells or any of the other books in the series would be very welcome. I really do appreciate feedback from my readers, for without you I would have no reason to write.

You can contact me at info@holmescalesridingcentre.co.uk or through Facebook.

All very best wishes and happy reading,

Eleanor

Shadow on the Fells

Eleanor Jones

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELEANOR JONES was brought up on a farm in the north of England and learned to love animals and the countryside from an early age. She has ridden all her life, and after marrying her husband at just eighteen years old and having two wonderful children, they set up a riding center together. This is still thriving over thirty years later, doing hacks, treks and lessons for all ages and experiences. Her daughter competes at the national level, and she is now a partner in the business and brings her adorable three-year-old son to work with her every day. Eleanor’s son is also married with two children, and they live nearby. Eleanor has been writing for what feels like her whole life. Her early handwritten novels still grace a dusty shelf in the back of a cupboard somewhere, but she was first published over fifteen years ago, when she wrote teenage pony mysteries.

I would like to dedicate this book to my grandchildren, Dan, Emma and little Ollie

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

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.”