9. 9.
9.
F olke sat in the car.
Alone, with Darach.
Thomas was out to shop for supplies and Finlay. . .He didn’t know where Finlay had gone. So it was just him and Darach and very little space between them. The excuse Folke had come up with, quietly to himself, was that he expected Finlay to squeeze in any moment now.
Yet those moments ticked by. The rain pattered the rooftop.
And Darach smelled of wilderness, and he was warm. His breaths serene while Folke’s rabid heart threatened to give away. . .
What?
Between the throbbing of his skull and longing to return to the cottage, Folke burned with a need to reach out. Discover all the indentations Darach’s hand featured. How pronounced his knuckles were. If there were any scars.
It would only take a fraction of movement, their hands already close. Fingers having brushed not a minute ago as they settled down.
“This town isnae terrible.”
Folke started, his shoulders slumping again as he paused to consider. “It’s not great, either. Worse during autumn with the festivals.”
For some reason, Darach thought that funny, and for some reason, Folke liked that he did.
“Maybe it wonae be as terrible if we go together.” The man shifted with a tired groan, leather creaking, and his thigh pressed against Folke’s.
Neither of them moved away.
Folke nearly forgot to respond, more concerned his heart might give out. “We can—we can go if you want, but it’s vile.” Autumn wasn’t far off, either. “People everywhere. There’s music and—”
Darach’s laugh held a tinge of disbelief. “Ye dinnae like music?”
“What? No, I do.” Did he, though? Folke couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard music even in passing. “It’s just. . .loud.”
“So are sheep, if ye dinnae mind me saying. ”
He couldn’t argue with that, and so only grunted. “I need to find someone who will shear them.”
“D’ye no have a regular?”
“I did.” Folke slid his sweaty palms over his knees. “The man was lively for a walking corpse, but I suppose even the lively ones eventually tire.”
He would need to get in touch with local farmers. The thought made his mouth curl with distaste.
Whatever he’d said amused Darach a great deal, needing several moments to get his response out. “I ken someone who can help.” More chuckling chased those words.
“You do?” Folke leant in, delight swooping his chest.
“I’ll make arrangements.”
Darach opened the door, the rush of wind particularly cold once his large body left Folke. The automobile shifted around him, then the door closed with a snap.
Alright, then.
“Where are you going?” Thomas’ voice floated in. The boot opened and paper bags rustled. “Oi, where’s he going?”
“Give me the keys,” Finlay said from somewhere near Thomas.
“What? Oh come on, I’m not that terrible!”
“My grandmother can drive better than you.”
“I thought you said she’s dead?”
“Exactly.”
She’d fit right in this town.
Folke grimaced, the boot slamming shut again. He only needed to put up with banging doors thrice more, Darach once again occupying his left. There was far more room in the back than anticipated, with Finlay at the wheel and Thomas in the front passenger seat.
Should probably move.
Don’t want to.
As the engine rumbled to life, Folke shifted to the other side. The chill of the window rinsed his spine with a shiver but it felt good to rest his head against it. Finlay was, mercifully, a better driver, the car’s brool lulling Folke into closing his eyes.
“Folke.”
Someone shook him by the shoulder.
“Hm?”
“Try no’ to fall asleep.”
Right.
Folke pushed off the window and leant forward to rest his head against the seat in front of him. “Will you tell me more about this person who might shear my Garments? How soon can they do it?”
“He’s agreed, but wants to meet over a coffee first.” A soft chuckle. “Dinnae look so revolted. It’s a common thing to do.”
For people who liked other people, sure, but Folke did not like other people .
“I told him ye’d be up for it in about a week. Hope I wasnae out of place to say that.”
“No. I’ll do it.” Anything for his sheep. His last two.
In his usual incessive manner, Finlay said something in Gaelic. Darach responded in kind, more casually. Folke was too tired to be bothered by their deliberate means of cutting him out of the conversation.
Finlay had been so quiet since Mister Hibbett’s. Folke twisted his forehead further into the seat, the leather squeaking under the heat of his embarrassment. His crook rested between his legs, digging into the left calf, vibrating against him with the car.
“Folke.”
He jerked upright with a startled inhale, then sagged back down.
God awful.
Folke rubbed his face, hoping to clear the fatigue. Leant his head back with the hope that the added pain would keep him awake.
“ Shepherd .“ The hand on his shoulder squeezed tight.
“Bugger it all,” Folke groused, startling awake again.
“Such a foul-mouthed lout.”
His stomach contorted at Finlay’s harsh words. At least he wasn’t calling him a baby again. There came a touch to his arm, Darach’s hand warm and comforting again. Folke eased the death grip he only now realised he had on the crook and allowed himself to lean in closer.
He nearly cast sideways when the car jerked to a sudden stop.
“We’ve reached the path, dinnae worry.”
Baffling, how fast the trip was by car.
Folke patted around the door until his fingers hooked the handle. Because everyone else seemed to be doing it, he did his best to slam the door as hard as possible.
There, closed.
He swiftly set on the gritty path, having no desire to physically meet with Finlay and provoke further insults.
His jaw set tight.
He would have to deal with Finlay for an indefinite amount of time now that he’d told them they could stay. Darach he could deal with, easily. Even Thomas, provided he stopped plotting his death.
But Finlay. . .
What had he done?
He’d fought so hard over the years to keep everyone out. Been rude to those who dared intrude and worse to anyone trying to help. Now here he was, with more people than there were beds.
Stone steps smacked against his crook, knocking its wide curve into his clavicles. Folke bit down his irritation and went inside. The door squeaked open several times before shutting with certain finality. Sealing them all inside. They were lingering behind him. The strange reality of this cottage being their home now beclouded the atmosphere .
Should say something.
“You’ll have to sort out sleeping arrangements amongst yourselves.”
Not a very good welcome.
Folke sought the kitchen. A squeaky bleat warbled in through the window. It made his breath catch.
Shawl.
The back door hit the wall in his rush. He bent to trace the edge of Needle’s headstone, then moved low to pat the earth until he found a small heap.
Rest easy. No more enduring.
The barn doors were back on their hinges. Shawl and Socks bleated their excitement when he entered, cloven feet crunching through redolent hay to greet him. Woolly heads bumped his hands as he let the crook fall and sank to his knees. He kissed soft noses whenever they nudged his face. Ran his fingers into their thick fleece. Picked out the biggest burrs and twigs.
Ran off so far.
All the way to the brook.
That brook with its melodious water and whispering grass. Where he’d spent an eternity with his mother in his arms. Her body so still, eyes closed as though she were only asleep.
Her last strained utterance forever haunting him on the winds pulling through the hills.
Folke ground the base of his palm between his eyebrows. Took several deep breaths. Willing away the terrible ache in his chest, worse than his head.
His head would heal. His heart didn’t seem capable of mending.
He’d lost too much.
Neglected the rest, including himself.
And now there were witnesses to such neglect. First Darach, then Finlay.
Who had called him a baby.
Folke couldn’t even deny it. Eleanor had called him an infant before, referring to his petulance whenever she tried to do something for him.
Temper tantrums, she’d called it.
An ewe pressed her nose to his jaw, her lips flapping. He ran his fingers over her lanate face. Rubbed the tips of her ears between his index fingers and thumbs. Socks, then. She liked that the most. With a final pat to her head, Folke gathered his crook and rose with a tired grunt. He wobbled. Waited until steady again.
If he wasn’t allowed to sleep, the least he could do was clean up.
Sweeping around the ground, however, all his crook connected with was more hay. And Shawl.
Sorry, Shawl.
The trough still had feed, the water level was acceptable. Dry hay nearly everywhere. The only thing out of place was the large hole in the back of the barn.
Darach had done so much.
Helped him with his sheep, climb the hills. Helped him with his foot, and his head. Made arrangements to get his sheep sheared.
Folke spun on his heel, regretting that decision instantly. A wave of dizziness nearly sent him crashing to the packed dirt.
“Ye alright?”
Folke’s hair stood on end before he forced himself to relax, and walked in the direction of Darach’s voice. The entrance, he thought.
“I’m fine. I wanted to—” He collided with a solid body that certainly should have moved.
An arm caught him, firm around his midriff. Folke found himself leaning into the hold without thinking. Pressed against the tall form. Fine hair tickled his nose when he tilted his head up. Darach’s beard. Soft and full, rounded at the bottom.
Folke’s hand trembled, fingertips feather-light as they explored without permission. Reaching those very same lips Darach had used to show him his supper hadn’t been poisoned. The feel of such pliant, heated skin startled him. He twitched his touch away, lowering it to the coat’s fur collars.
“Beg yer pardon.”
Softly spoken, each word gliding over Folke’s lower face. He opened his mouth, greedy for the taste of hot breakfast tea, consuming it with a deep, quivering inhale. Another breath over his lips, and Folke drew it into himself, starved.
A hint of fresh milk, sweet and creamy, and something else.
Notes of yeast and oats.
Bread.
Folke made a noise, tiny and cracked. Heartache and want flayed his chest, his stomach writhing with need. A calloused hand cupped the left side of his neck, thumb stroking his jaw. The feel of it seared into his skin.
Shared breaths became ravenously quick as Darach drew closer, until the tips of their noses brushed. A distant clatter and Folke’s other hand grasped the coat. Fisted its leather while his feet moved under Darach’s guidance.
His back connected with wood.
The hand on his waist sought his rib cage, soothing in the way it stroked him over the soft wool of his jumper.
“Ye’re shaking.”
Another noise left Folke, and he hated how pitiful it sounded. He leant away. Enough to find air that didn’t carry the intoxicating fragrance of food and beverage. To realise that yes, he was shaking.
Violently.
Every inch of him.
Folke fitfully grunted. Willed the storm of nerves away.
It didn’t work.
“I–I c-can’t s-stop.”
Darach’s soft, “Hm,” was barely audible over the thick splotches of rain pelting the barn. That thumb stroked his jaw again, then both hands left him entirely. A faint, hollow scrape of wood before his crook pressed against his chest .
Folke wrapped his arms around it as though it were a linchpin.
“Come inside for a brew.”