Chapter 2
I’d just pulled up to the farmhouse when my phone rang again. A glance at the screen said it was Sorcha. Guilt nagged at me as I ignored it and jumped out of the Defender.
Georgie, the only farmhand I had left, was waiting by his car outside the house. Dread settled in my gut, hoping he didn’t bring me more bad news.
“Did you get Sorcha sorted?” he asked, pushing away from his vehicle.
Sorcha Penman was the woman I was casually seeing. After years of one-night stands, I’d started dating Sorcha because she knew the score. It wasn’t serious. We both knew I would never commit. She promised she didn’t want commitment and I had to hope she meant it. I liked Sorcha, but I’d never love her. I wasn’t even sure I was capable of romantic love.
What we had was convenient for both of us, but it was starting to interfere with the farm. I’d gotten a hysterical call from her a few hours ago because her dog, Brechin, had eaten a bar of chocolate. I was fond of the wee thing, so when she’d asked me to come be with her at the vet in Inverness, I’d gone. Brechin would be fine.
But Sorcha had clung to me like I was her adoring boyfriend, and it made me seriously uncomfortable. Maybe it wasn’t so convenient anymore.
Georgie read my expression. “I know that look. I take it you ended things.”
I shook my head. “Not yet. I’m not such a bastard I’d dump her the day her dog almost died. How was today?” I hated that I’d left Georgie to the farm when things were shit.
The farming industry was more stressful than ever. Dependent upon the mood of the weather, every year was always a possible struggle. But these last few years had been devastating. The turnover was so bad, I had to let my other farmhand (and friend) Enzo go.
He’d since moved down south to work on a farm in Kent.
Last winter, there was so much rain we hadn’t gotten our winter barley into the ground fast enough. The barley needed to be cultivated, sprayed, cultivated again, and then drilled. All within two weeks. Nearly five hundred acres needed to be done in those fourteen days. But it rained and rained last September, and we weren’t fast enough. The yield dropped off, along with the profits.
Only the April before, my rapeseed crops were destroyed by the flea beetle. They destroyed the lot of it. Thousands and thousands of pounds’ worth of loss.
Enzo had been my shepherd, and as much as Georgie and I tried, we couldn’t look after the fields, the cattle, and the sheep. So I’d sold my flock. But the problem with that was, not only did we lose money in lambing season, we lost money on our crops. The Department for Environment, Food Rural Affairs gave me money to not grow crops. I had wildflower meadows that made money by simply existing, but I had to mow those fields—and my flock of sheep had done that for me.
Everything was connected on the farm. Start to break it apart and failure seemed inevitable.
The thought of failing my grandfather, for being the one responsible for the end of the McCulloch Farm, was a knife in my gut.
“The rapeseed is looking good this year.” Georgie clapped me on the shoulder, giving me a reassuring smile.
I relaxed marginally and blew out a breath. “Good.”
My friend sighed.
Oh fuck. “What happened?”
“I had to get Ennis out.”
Ennis was the local farm and equine vet. “Why?”
“One of the cows had a sore on her leg. Ennis looked at her and says she’s just injured herself, nothing to worry about. But …” He shrugged apologetically.
“More money.” Ennis wasn’t cheap. “It’s fine. You did the right thing.” I felt a familiar tightness in my chest and suddenly I desperately needed to be alone. “Head home. I’ll finish up.”
“Everything’s done that can be done today.” Georgie frowned. “Go get some sleep.”
It was like he knew I hadn’t been sleeping. It had felt like weeks of tossing and turning, worrying about the farm. How to fix it. How to make it work before it was too late.
A few minutes later, I was alone in the house I’d lived in for the past nine years. I’d visited my grandparents’ home before then, during summers as a kid. But it had truly been my home from the moment my grandfather took in a scared-shitless twenty-one-year old. He’d taught me to farm, and it had become a way of life for me. When he passed away almost six years ago, there was no question in my mind that I would take over the family business.
My cousin Sarah had lived with our grandparents since she was a young teen. She’d gone on to become a best-selling crime writer, to marry the man who turned her book series into a globally successful television show, and they spent half their year in London and the other half here. Sarah had already gifted the farm a new tractor and a few other bits and pieces. If she knew the farm was in trouble, she’d offer to help in a heartbeat.
But that would make me feel like an even bigger failure.
Granddad wouldn’t want me to take money from Sarah to turn the farm around. He’d want me to find the solution myself.
I was trying. Fuck, I was trying. For him. For me. That tightness compressed my chest and I squeezed my eyes closed against the panic.
What a day. What a fucking day.
First Sorcha dragged me away from the farm (though it wasn’t like she knew it was in trouble), and then giving Allegra Howard, of all people, a lift home.
Her perfect features flashed in my mind and I groaned, scrubbing a hand down my face.
Allegra was one of those women a man couldn’t believe was real. The first time I saw her, I thought I might be hallucinating. Ardnoch, because of the club, had seen its fair share of beautiful people, but Allegra … She was the kind of beautiful that stopped traffic. The kind of beautiful that surely was only meant for the television screen or a perfume ad.
Yet she wasn’t an actor or a model. She was an artist.
But she was also the daughter of Hollywood director Wesley Howard, and you didn’t have to be into movies to know who the hell he was. Her mum was Chiara Howard. I’d known guys who kept posters of her in nothing but her underwear in their mechanics garage back in Glasgow.
Aye, Allegra was from another world. Not for me. She’d been too young when we met, which made it easier to avoid temptation. But she was twenty-five now … and still she looked at me like I was fascinating. That was hard to resist.
But I would.
I should’ve driven past her today, but the sight of her pacing along the side of the road with a troubled expression on her stunning face … I had to stop. Had to make sure she was all right. Then I’d been a sullen bastard because I didn’t know how to act around her.
Guilt pricked me.
“Enough. Fuck.” I pushed up off the couch, shoving thoughts of the American out. I had far bigger things to worry about than Allegra Howard.
I’d realize just how true that was a few hours later when I got out of the shower to find a missed call on my phone and a voicemail waiting for me.
Sitting down on the bed that Sarah had bought as a gift when I took over my grandparents’ old bedroom, I switched the phone on speaker as I listened to the message.
My blood chilled at the familiar voice echoing into the room. “Jar, long time, pal. But your auld man needs to talk to you. It’s important. Call me back on 08798256825. And don’t make me wait, pal, awright.” The last was a threat.
Fuck.
What the fucking hell did my waste-of-space dad want now after all these years?