Chapter 2
MARY
The Lamb Thief
(Or How to Pick a Fight with a Sheep)
I pull up in front of McGregor Castle wondering exactly how my grandmother managed to summon me to a family dinner less than twenty-four hours after my return to Glenfield.
Oh right.
Because she’s Maggie McGregor, and refusing an invitation from Maggie McGregor is basically signing your own social death warrant in the Highlands.
Her message this morning had been deceptively simple:
“Dinner tonight, 7 p.m. The whole family will be delighted to see you.”
I hadn’t even tried to negotiate. What would’ve been the point?
I cut the engine and stay seated for a minute, watching the lit windows of the castle. Rain drums steadily against the roof because, obviously, it’s raining. This is Scotland. It’s always raining. I spent enough time in London and across Europe to forget that relentless meteorological truth.
Right.
Let’s get this over with.
I let out a sigh, grab my bag, and dash through the pouring rain toward the main entrance. Jamison opens the door before I even get the chance to knock, as though he’d been expecting me.
Which he probably had.
Jamison always knows everything.
“Good evening, Miss Mary. Welcome home.”
“Good evening, Jamison. My grandmother is…”
“In the drawing room with the rest of the family.”
Everyone’s already here.
Of course they are.
I hand over my soaked coat and purse before heading toward the large sitting room where bursts of laughter spill through the open doors. I pause for a second in the doorway, gathering my courage and forcing a smile onto my face.
You can do this, Mary. It’s just dinner. With your family. The same family that’s going to bombard you with questions about why you came back when you’d planned to spend at least a year traveling around Europe.
I step into the room and, exactly as expected, every head turns toward me.
“Mary!” Jane exclaims, springing from her armchair to throw her arms around me. “We missed you so much!”
Her rounded belly forms an obstacle between us as she hugs me tight.
“It’s been three months, Jane. Not three years.”
“Three months is a long time when you miss someone,” she replies with the warm smile that’s always disarmed me.
Jane Carter-McGregor has that rare gift of making you feel instantly better, even when your life is spiraling out of control. It’s probably why Callum fell in love with her.
“Mary,” my cousin says, getting to his feet to kiss my cheek. “Glad you’re back.”
“Thanks, Callum.”
My cousin Keira waves at me from the sofa where she’s curled up against her husband, Alistair.
“So tell us. Did you run away from Europe, or did Europe run away from you?”
“Keira,” her mother Isobel scolds gently from her chair beside the fireplace, “let your cousin sit down before interrogating her.”
“I’m not interrogating her. I’m taking an interest in her life. Completely different thing.”
“It’s exactly the same thing,” Alistair comments with an amused smile.
The door swings open and Lachlan and Emma walk in hand in hand, grinning like newlyweds in a toothpaste commercial. It’s both adorable and mildly irritating.
“Mary!” Lachlan calls, crossing the room to hug me. “Welcome home.”
“Technically, this isn’t my home,” I point out.
“That’s just a detail,” he says with an airy wave of his hand.
Emma wraps me in a warm hug.
“I heard you’re taking over the veterinary clinic. That’s wonderful!”
“Wonderful,” I repeat weakly. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
And then, of course, comes the voice that dominates all the others.
“Mary, darling! Come sit beside me.”
Maggie sits in her usual armchair, a throne from which she rules the family with terrifying efficiency. She pats the seat next to her, and I obey like the good granddaughter I am.
Because that’s exactly what I am.
A puppet in Maggie McGregor’s theater.
“You look beautiful,” she declares, studying me from head to toe.
Then she addresses the butler.
“Jamison, everyone’s here. We may go to dinner now.”
The butler nods and disappears, likely to orchestrate the arrival of the feast Mrs. Finley the cook has prepared.
We all head into the dining room, and I end up trapped between Jane and Lachlan. Across from me, Keira watches with that barely concealed curiosity that instantly puts me on edge.
The first course arrives—a steaming vegetable soup—and the questions begin.
“So,” Callum says in that deceptively neutral tone of his, “your European travel plans are officially dead?”
“Postponed.”
“Postponed or canceled?” Keira asks, with all the subtlety of a jackhammer.
“Keira,” Isobel warns disapprovingly.
“What? It’s a legitimate question!”
I dip my spoon into the soup while searching for an answer that won’t reveal too much.
“Postponed. I had… a professional opportunity here. Jamie MacNeil left the clinic unexpectedly, and the village needed a vet. Coming back made sense.”
“Jamie left?” Emma asks in surprise. “Why?”
“No idea.”
“How strange,” Maggie murmurs thoughtfully. “People fleeing without explanation. It’s becoming an epidemic.”
I shoot her a suspicious look, but she merely smiles innocently into her soup.
The second course arrives, and the scent of roasted leg of lamb fills the room. My stomach growls in anticipation. If I have to survive a family interrogation, at least there’s good food involved.
“There’s a new doctor in the village,” Maggie suddenly mentions with studied casualness. “Poor man seems to be struggling to fit in.”
“City people,” Callum comments absently while cutting into his meat. “They arrive in the Highlands full of arrogance and then act shocked when nobody instantly worships them.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Maggie replies smugly.
Something about her tone feels odd, but I’m too distracted by Lachlan asking whether I plan to stay in Glenfield “permanently.”
“I don’t know. For now, yes. After that… we’ll see.”
“That’s not an answer,” Keira points out.
“It’s an honest answer.”
“Same thing.”
I’m about to fire back when a strange noise echoes from the hallway.
The sharp clatter of hooves against hardwood.
Followed by a deep, determined bleat.
Everyone freezes.
“Fergus left a door open again,” Isobel sighs.
And then, as though this evening weren’t already surreal enough, a sheep walks into the dining room.
But not just any sheep.
A massive sheep with thick black wool, two sets of curling horns, and a cold, vaguely judgmental stare stands in the doorway like he owns the place. He scans the room, assessing us one by one, until his eyes finally settle on—
The leg of lamb in the center of the table.
Oh no.
“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter.
The sheep stares at me.
I stare back.
A silent challenge passes between us.
Then he charges.
Not at me.
At the lamb.
“No!” I shout, jumping out of my chair.
But the sheep is alarmingly fast for something built like a furry battering ram. He barrels straight toward the table, and purely on instinct—or perhaps a suicidal impulse, the jury’s still out—I launch myself at him.
Bad idea.
Very bad idea.
The sheep dodges with an agility that defies all known laws of ovine physics, and suddenly I’m scrambling onto the dining table to block his access to the lamb. My knees sink into the tablecloth, knocking over a glass of red wine that spills dangerously close to Callum.
“Mary!” Jane gasps, somewhere between horror and hysterical laughter.
“Can someone… maybe… help me?” I pant, clutching the serving platter.
But the sheep is determined. He plants his front hooves against the edge of the table and bites down on the chunk of meat that slid loose from the platter.
“Drop. It. Right now,” I growl through clenched teeth.
The sheep stares at me with what can only be described as pure contempt.
Then he pulls harder.
So do I.
“Help me!” I yell at my family.
We are now engaged in a full-blown tug-of-war, me on all fours atop the formal dining table while a deranged sheep battles me for possession of the roast lamb under the horrified gaze of my entire family.
“Mary,” Callum says dryly—still making absolutely no effort to help—“I didn’t realize veterinary medicine included Greco-Roman wrestling with the patients.”
“Oh, shut up, Callum.”
The sheep gives one final violent yank, the meat tears free, and he bolts triumphantly toward the door with his prize clenched in his jaws.
I remain frozen on all fours atop the table, breathless, hair falling out of its pins, meat juices staining my favorite sweater.
And that’s the precise moment another sheep appears in the doorway.
Hamish.
I recognize the legendary family sheep immediately—the one who attended every wedding, caused endless chaos, and seems to possess almost supernatural intelligence.
He surveys the scene.
Me sprawled across the table.
His companion fleeing with the lamb.
And then he makes a sound.
A bleat.
But not just any bleat.
One that sounds disturbingly like mocking laughter.
Then he calmly walks away as though he’s seen exactly what he came for.
I slowly climb down from the table, smoothing my pants and trying to salvage what little dignity I have left.
“Well,” Maggie finally says in a perfectly unbothered tone, “at least you’ve met Ragnar.”
“Ragnar?” I repeat faintly.
“The sheep who just stole our dinner,” Keira explains, visibly seconds away from bursting into laughter. “He’s rather… temperamental. We learned pretty quickly it’s best not to upset him.”
“Temperamental,” I mutter, staring toward the doorway where the meat thief vanished. “That’s one way to put it…”
“He hates everyone,” Lachlan adds, “except apparently roast lamb.”
“Sheep don’t eat meat,” I point out.
“Yeah, it’s definitely strange, but he’s been stealing meat for days now,” Alistair says. “Nobody knows what he actually does with it…”
“We figured out pretty fast it’s safer to let him do whatever he wants instead of getting in his way,” Emma informs me. “He can get pretty brutal when he’s determined.”
I sink back into my chair, accepting the glass of wine Jane hands me with a sympathetic smile.
“Since when do sheep run this castle?” I mutter to no one in particular.
“Welcome home, Mary,” Maggie says with a broad smile.
I drain my wine in one gulp and wonder whether it’s too late to book that ticket to Madrid.