20. PRESTON
Chapter twenty
PRESTON
LIKE I NEEDED ANOTHER REASON TO FALL IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN
“Mr. Fletcher, good to see you,” I say, shaking his hand. I can’t help but notice how much older he looks. Back when I was a boy visiting this farm, he was a tall strapping man with a full head of black hair. Like those rustic men, they’d put on magazine covers. Now, his hair is almost entirely white, barely a fleck of black left to it, and the lines on his face are deep set. He moves a lot slower now, too. Surely he’ll have to start giving up the manual labor of the farm soon enough, hand it down to his sons or sell up.
“Nice to see you, Dr. Knight. Thanks so much for coming out so quickly. Dean, I wasn’t expecting you. Sorry to hear about the leg. How’s that going?”
“It’s a pain in the ass. I’m helping the doc out while I heal up. Hope you don’t mind.”
“You’re always welcome out here. Be sure to stop in and see Mother before you head home. She’d love to see you, too.”
“I will. So, what can you tell us about your sheep? The doc said you lost fourteen last night?” Dean asks.
Mr. Fletcher heads towards the old truck.
“Up to sixteen now. Jump in, I’ll take you to them.”
The old truck is a crew cab, and I help Dean into the back before jumping into the front. He brushes off any help with his leg, but I know it’s got to be hard getting in and out with that boot thing.
Mr. Fletcher drives us past the usual paddocks, barely a scrap of green grass left, and heads towards the far acres.
“You’ve moved them?” I ask, and he nods.
“We were short on feed, so we had to.”
It’s not unusual for farmers to clear unused areas of their land to repurpose and find alternative feed options for their livestock, but when we pull up on the area he’s using, I immediately suspect I know what’s happened.
“Are those olive trees?” I ask, and he nods.
“Yeah, a few years back we planted, but it never produced the way we wanted, so it was just left to its own devices.”
I grab my bag and follow him over to where the dead sheep are laid out in a row at the edge of the new paddock.
Mr. Fletcher and Dean stand to the side with one of his farm hands while I make a start on the first one. On-site post-mortems are a vital part of this job in preventing the spread of disease and providing farmers with immediate advice on how to best treat their livestock.
I pull on gloves, grab the tape recorder and flick it on to start recording the findings as I go.
“Hooves are clear, normal appearance, and unremarkable,” I say before moving on to examine the sheep’s eyes and nose. So far nothing stands out to confirm a contagious disease. “I’ll be opening her up now,” I say and make the first incision. As soon as I get to her insides, I confirm my suspicions.
“The rumen are full of what appears to be olive seeds,” I say.
“It’s the feed?” Mr. Fletcher asks.
“I expect so. I’ll have to open up the rest to be sure, but this girl’s cause of death is definitely the olive branches she’s been eating.”
“Get the boys, have them move the herd out to the front pasture, set aside any that are not looking right for Dr. Knight to look in on,” he yells at the farm hand and the kid is off like a shot across the field towards the bulk of the herd we can see in the distance.
Dean staggers around the second sheep I’m starting on.
“I thought olive leaves were good for the animals?”
“It is, the leaves and grass under the trees are anyway, but they’ve been cutting off branches with fruit from the looks of it, and the sheep have been eating the bark too. The seeds and bark can be too hard to digest in large quantities, see here,” I say, cutting open the stomach and pulling out undigested handfuls of seed. It’s not a pretty sight, but Dean stays with me through them all, watching as I work.
I finish off the rest of the post-mortems and clear the boys to take them away.
Then we look over the rest of the herd, the fellas had already separated the ones looking not quite right into the front pasture.
“Keep these ones separated in the closest paddock so you can keep an eye on them. Give magnesium carbonate every six to eight hours and monitor them closely. Offer plenty of fresh water and call me if any of them start showing signs of respiratory distress,” I tell them and all the farm hands nod in agreement.
“Keep checking the rest of the herd, too. Pull aside any that look like they’re having trouble passing feces or not eating, any that look bloated or not wanting to stand up either. Basically any signs of something not right.”
“We will,” Mr. Fletcher says, taking off his hat and wiping the sweat from his brow. “I can’t believe I’m what’s done this to them. The poor things. I just wanted them to be fed.”
“I know. How about we grab some tea and talk about some alternate feed options?”
“That would be great, thanks,” he says, and we follow him into the house. Dean hasn’t said much, but he’s been scrolling and tapping on his phone since we moved on from the post-mortem.
“You okay?” I ask him as we sit side by side on the floral couch of Mrs. Fletcher’s sitting room.
“I was just getting the boys to check the grounds for olive trees. I remember Gramps tried to grow some trees a while back, too, but I can’t remember what we did with them when it failed.”
“I can’t say I remember seeing any trees on the grounds, but like I said to Mr. Fletcher, it’s normally great to have sheep graze an olive grove, the grass is rich with nutrients and the leaves from the olive trees are amazing for them, too. But when they run out of fresh grass and start eating the bark and olives, they should be moved out to fresh grounds to prevent them getting any digestive issues.”
“I figured it was best to be safe. Connor reckons there are a couple out on the cow pastures. Will Mr. Fletcher get into trouble?”
“I was just about to ask the same thing,” Mr. Fletcher says, coming in behind his wife who’s carrying a tray of teacups and a pot of steaming tea. It wobbles a little and Dean is on his feet in a heartbeat, collecting it from her hands and setting it down on the table. It’s the most balanced I’ve seen him wearing that boot since he got it.
“You didn’t know. The good thing is we caught it before the majority of the herd were in danger.”
Mrs. Fletcher rubs Mr. Fletcher’s shoulder.
“He moved over the first three dozen two weeks ago, to see how they went. We only moved the rest of them out yesterday,” she says.
“Lucky,” Dean replies, and Mr. Fletcher sighs.
“Not for the ones we lost.”
“No, not for them,” Dean says.
“I thought we’d talk through some alternate feed options,” I say, moving the conversation on to what we can do now.
“I’ve looked into the alternatives out there. It’s all just too expensive. I might have to reduce the herd, at least until the main paddocks reseed,” he says, and Dean shifts in his seat to pull out his phone.
“Sorry, I just have to check in with the ranch. I’ll be back in a second,” he says and staggers out the door.
I go through all the options again with them, and unfortunately, I don’t offer anything new. They really did do their research. They don’t have any other land to keep them on and only have about half the funds they would need to get the whole herd well-fed through until they get back on their feet. It’s too familiar, their story. It’s why half the farms surrounding Bellerelle have sold up and moved on. Generational farms are now in new hands, and too many of them are earmarked for housing developments.
“There are a few grants for farms like yours that the government funds. I’d be happy to provide any supporting documents you need, as a major producer of wool and meat in the state, you’d be in with a good shot,” I say, and Mr. Fletcher smiles and nods as his wife sips her tea.
“That’s great for next season, but I’m afraid it won’t save me from having to cull numbers now.”
“I think I have a way to help now,” Dean says from the doorway.
“You should be resting. Come, sit,” Mrs. Fletcher says, ushering him to retake his seat beside me.
“I’m not sure you can come up with anything we haven’t already thought of,” he says, and Dean smiles widely.
“I reckon I can, and I’d be willing to bet one of Sally-May’s apple pies on it.”
“How is Sally-May?” Mrs. Fletcher asks.
“Good, she’s still off with her sister, and Nial will kill me if I lose the last apple pie she left us in this wager, but I reckon I’m good.”
I turn in the seat to face him.
“Well, what is it?” I ask, more than a little curious. I racked my brain for every idea to help out the Fletchers. The grants are the only thing that I could come up with, but I’m more than happy for anyone to uncover a solution because culling half a flock of sheep is not a result I want for this farm or any other.
“Walk them up to the back four acres on Beaker Brothers,” Dean says, and the Fletchers both frown.
“What are you saying?” Mr. Fletcher asks.
“I’m offering you the back four acres to feed your flock. I called Nial, and he agreed. We aren’t using it, and it’s totally overgrown, but the sheep will have fun breaking it down.”
Just when I think I have this man figured out, he goes and surprises me yet again with how amazing a man he is.
“I’m no charity case. What will it cost me?” Mr. Fletcher asks cautiously.
“Nothing.”
“You can’t be serious. Why would you do this?”
“Why would I help a farm that’s been here since before I was born?” Dean asks as tears begin to well in Mrs. Fletcher’s eyes.
“It is a generous offer,” I say, and Dean shakes his head.
“Look, as far as I see it, we’re trading here. That land is way too overgrown for me to make any use of it, and you need grass for your flock. There’s a narrowing of Beaker Creek that is close to your land; you can run them through there. It’ll mean working on the fences to fit a gate to make moving them in and out easier, but it’s probably a day’s work at best with the guys you have here, and we can help, too.”
“You’re serious then?” Mr. Fletcher asks again.
“As a heart attack.”
Mrs. Fletcher wraps her arms around her husband and hugs him tight, then hugs Dean, not as tight because she’s careful of his leg, and I wish it would be totally acceptable for me to reach over and hug him, too, because this man is the best of men, I’m sure of that now, and I can hardly believe I almost blew my shot to date him.
Friday night is going to be our first date, but I can honestly say, I’ve never met a better man, and I can actually picture myself never wanting anyone else ever again. So really, while it might be our first date together, it could be the last first date both of us ever have, and that thought makes my chest swell and my cheeks flush.
“You’re amazing,” I tell him, and he fixes me with those big, dark eyes.
“Just following your example, Doc.”