Surefire (3 page)

I shrug and mumble something along the lines of, “If I have to…”

Tom just chuckles, that lovely, sexy laugh of his. “You live on a farm now, Miss McAllister. Get with the program.”

* * * *

It’s late afternoon and I’m making my way back down from an area known locally as Black Moor, high above Haworth. I’ve managed to get some decent images, including the lovely smudgy horizons I was looking for, so life’s good as I trundle across the springy moorland grass on my quad. Barney is ambling alongside, his quiet company always welcome. Eva was having an off day so didn’t want to come with me, and Rosie’s at some after school club I gather so it’s just me and my big furry friend.

I’ve traveled a few yards farther before I realize Barney has stopped, standing stock still, his ears cocked. I stop and wait for him. He doesn’t move so I twist round in the seat and try calling him. I could do with getting back home before too much longer—I have images to upload onto my computer, work to do.

Barney’s having none of it. He turns away from me, starts to inch across the grassy slope toward a patch of dark brown bracken. He’s crouching, his ears back as though he’s stalking something. As I watch him, wondering what on earth he thinks is in there, he comes to a stop and starts barking at whatever he thinks is hidden in the undergrowth.

Curious, I switch off the engine, and it’s only then that I hear what Barney’s sharper ears must have picked out. A high-pitched squealing sound, a sound made by something quite small in a lot of distress. We do occasionally get poachers around here, setting cruel traps for rabbits. I’m pretty sure what I’m hearing isn’t a rabbit—as far as I know they don’t make any sound—but maybe something else has got trapped. I make my way cautiously over to Barney, leaning over him to look at whatever he’s found.

It’s a fox. Tom’s fox I don’t doubt. Sure enough, I can see its right hind leg has a nasty gunshot wound, although the blood looks to be dried up pretty much. Still, the animal is in a bad way. It’s not dead, not quite. I can see its flanks moving as it breathes, but its eyes are closed and it seems unaware of our presence. It’s definitely not the fox making all that din.

But first things first. I pull out my phone and shoot a quick text off to Tom.

Found your fox. Still alive—just. On edge of Black Moor, about 100 yds west of footpath. Do you want me to wait till you get here?

His reply isn’t long in coming—

Would you? That’ll help me to find it. See you in 10.

He must have got held up as it’s closer to fifteen minutes before I spot Tom’s Land Rover bouncing over the rough moorland, about a mile below me. I wave at him, both arms above my head, and see the moment he spots me and turns in my direction. A few minutes later he’s jumping from the Land Rover, his shotgun broken across his elbow.

He drops a kiss on my forehead. “I knew I could rely on you, sweetheart. Where is it then?”

I point to Barney, still standing guard. I can’t take the credit either.

“Barney found it, not me.”

“What a team.” He tosses the words back as he strides away from me, and is soon crouching alongside Barney, examining the state of the poor fox. He stands, turns back to me.

“Would you mind getting Barney out of the way—don’t want any accidents?”

I nod and reach for Barney’s huge collar. I doubt there’s going to be much I can do about it if the mountain of a dog decides he wants to stand his ground, but luckily he’s in a cooperative mood and lets me tug him out of the immediate vicinity. I turn my back, knowing what’s coming, but still I flinch as I hear the shot.

“Right. That’s one sorted, now where’s the other?” Tom has started pacing around, looking at the ground, moving in circles around the carcass of the fox.

“Other? What other?”

“The cub. That’s what’s making all that noise. You must have heard it?”

A fox cub! I never even considered that possibility. The dead fox must have been a mother with a young cub, and now the baby’s somewhere nearby screaming its head off. I scurry to catch up with Tom and join in the search.

Barney soon comes up trumps again though, and in a few minutes is standing with his nose in the bracken, sniffing at something on the ground. We both crouch next to him and sure enough there it is. A cute and fluffy little red fox cub. It’s squealing loudly—frantic, high-pitched squeaks that tell of hunger and fear and loneliness. My heart turns over as I reach out to stroke it.

Tom catches my wrist before I can touch the little furry creature.

“Careful, it’s a wild animal even if it does look like a puppy dog. And it’ll be riddled with fleas. You get Barney out of the way, I’ll see to this.”

He starts to re-load his shotgun, and I realize he means to shoot this poor little orphan. I grab his arm, determined that’s not going to happen. How could he? How could anyone?

“You can’t do that. The poor little thing’s hungry, and cold, and…”

“It’s vermin. In another few months it’ll be helping itself to my chickens. Or it would have been.” He closes the gun and stands, the barrel pointing down.

Instinctively I position myself between Tom and the cub. Tom gives me a narrow, withering look and breaks the gun open again for safety.

He tries to convince me. “Look, love, it won’t survive on its own anyway. It’s too young to fend for itself. Kinder for me to put it out of its misery now rather than let it starve to death.”

I’m not having that. This is a baby, for Christ’s sake. He can’t just kill a baby. I can hear the pleading note in my voice as I try to reason with him. “We could look after it, rear it until it’s old enough to set free.”

Tom looks at me as though I’ve just been beamed in from Mars. The idea, the very notion of hand-rearing a fox cub then letting it go is as alien to him as my old life in Bristol now seems to me.

“Like hell we will. There’s no way I’m taking that thing back to my farm, wasting good food on it, just to let it go so’s it can help itself to my fucking chickens. Christ, they even take piglets if they can get past the sows.” His tone is exasperated, his expression one of utter incredulity.

I can see he’ll never relent.

And neither will I. There’s no way I’m letting this happen. I unzip my light hoodie and slip it off.

“Now what are you doing?” He sounds pretty pissed off, I don’t get the impression he thinks I’m stripping for his benefit. He’s right.

“I’m taking it home. I’ll look after it.”

“You’re not taking it home, Ashley. Not happening. No way is that bloody fox going anywhere near Greystones.”

I’m just as angry as Tom now, and I give up any attempt to plead with him. I turn and reach for the still squealing little cub and wrap it in my hoodie. I stand to face him again, this time cradling the noisy bundle in my arms.

“Not Greystones.
My
home. My cottage. Get out of my way.” I make to shove past him, but Tom grips my elbow. He makes one last attempt to assert his authority in this matter.

“Ashley, last chance now. Put the cub down, get back on your quad and go to the farm. I’ll finish off here and see you at home. Do it now.” His voice is stern, unrelenting, all Dom. It shakes me a little, I’ve never seen this facet of Tom outside of a scening situation and I know he expects me to obey him. Normally I would, without question, but every fiber of my being insists I protect this helpless fox cub.

I don’t drop my gaze and naturally neither does Tom. He waits for me to back down and obey him. I can’t, not in this. At last I just shake my head and step around him. He makes no further attempt to stop me, and I manage to scramble onto my quad and start the engine, my precious little bundle huddled in my lap.

I glance back up the hillside when I reach the wider bridle path at the bottom. Tom’s Land Rover is still there and I see him sling something onto the back of it—no doubt the dead vixen. And even my loyal companion Barney seems to have opted to stay with Tom.

Tom turns in my direction as I make my way along the bridle path, and seems to be watching me ride away from him. My temper, always a short-lived fizzle at best, has cooled on the way down, and now my heart is sinking as I ask myself how something so simple ever came to this? How could a sweet little orphaned fox cub cause such a rift? Tom doesn’t issue many instructions, but when he does, he means them. And deep down I do know he’s right about the practical realities of foxes around his livestock. But I couldn’t just let him kill the cub. Could I?

When I arrive back at Smithy’s Forge about half an hour later, the place is cold and unwelcoming. I haven’t spent a night here in months, but I still carry the key on my key ring so I let myself in, the tiny fox cub still bundled in my hoodie. Even though I call in every few days to pick up my post and just check the place over, there’s no food in—for me or the cub. No hot water and only a couple of logs beside the stove to heat the place. Luckily it’s summer so the cottage isn’t cold, but I still don’t see how I’ll be able to manage. Most of my clothes are at Tom’s, as is all my equipment for doing my work. I really have not thought this through at all.

I pull out a drawer from my small kitchen dresser to dump the cub in for the time being, Maybe if I nip down into the village I can pick up some milk.
I wonder if foxes like cow’s milk?
Or I could call at Tom’s vending machine, which is closer. On second thoughts, that’s probably rubbing salt in.

The squealing is now reaching fever pitch and I know I have to do something. But what? Despite my determination to be some sort of foster mum, I really haven’t the first idea of how to care for a fox cub. I sink into my fireside chair, with no idea at all what the hell to do next.

My phone tinkles, a text has arrived. I tap the screen to open the message. Naturally, it’s from Tom.

Phoned RSPCA in Bradford. They’ll take the cub. Will that do?

I hit reply, and type in my response.

Thank you. I should have thought of that. I’ll take the cub there. Whereabouts in Bradford?

His reply is quick in coming and curt.

I’ll send you a link to their website. It has directions and a map. Then I want you to come straight back here to the farm. Is that clear?

He seems very, very angry still. Angry Doms are difficult to be around I’ve found. I don’t expect my homecoming to be a joyful affair. But first, the cub…

* * * *

An hour and a half later, I’m turning into the Greystones driveway, my little squeaking charge safely deposited with the kind people down at the RSPCA. They promised me they’d take care of it, rear it until it’s big enough to fend for itself, then they’ll set it free somewhere. I just hope it’s somewhere a long way from Greystones.

I pull up next to the vending machine then get out of the car to close the gate behind me. Some aspects of farming life have become ingrained it seems, and I strongly suspect I’m about to learn a few more hard lessons in the very near future. My bottom clenches, and I’m surprised to note this is not in an entirely bad way, as I consider what is without doubt in store for me at the farmhouse.

I pull up around the back next to the Land Rover and climb out. I lock my car before making my way to the kitchen door. I’m almost as nervous as I was that first morning when I came here to clean, to start my atonement for the attack on Tom two years previously. The door is unlocked as usual, and I slip inside. The kitchen is empty apart from my young cats who are snoozing in their box beside the Aga. They ignore me as I wander from room to room looking for Tom. I’m dreading finding him, but at the same time it feels so lonely here without him. The farm is empty, quiet and cool, not at all to my liking. I know the temperature is no different from usual probably, but it still feels chilly to me.

My phone tinkles again, and I drag it from my pocket. The text gives me my instructions.

Go to bedroom and choose a belt from my wardrobe. Then come to barn. DON’T keep me waiting.

Well, now I know. Less than two minutes later I’m hurrying across the yard toward the barn, a stout belt from Tom’s extensive collection looped around my arm. The door is standing open so I go straight inside.

I have to wait a few moments to let my eyes adjust to the dim light but soon pick out Tom down at the far end of the huge space. He’s leaning against a stack of hay bales, facing me. His arms are folded across his chest, his ankles crossed. He looks terrifying, stern, angry and about to deliver retribution. All this for a tiny little defenseless fox cub.

I make my way toward him, wondering if perhaps even now I can talk my way out of this. After all, just disagreeing with Tom, even about something to do with his farm, is hardly a capital offense. I soon dismiss that notion. I might as well have tried to remove my own appendix with a knife and fork. It’s a total non-starter. He doesn’t even let me get a word in.

“Hand me the belt. Drop your jeans and your underwear, and bend over this bale.”

I hesitate, really scared suddenly. He’s only once before laid a hand on me in genuine retribution and that
was
only his hand. Not a thick, heavy belt. This is going to hurt. A lot.

“Please, Tom, I’m sorry…”

“Do as I say. Now. When you’re bending over the bale, your bottom bare and ready for me, then you can start telling me what you’re sorry for.” His Dom voice cuts off my attempt to apologize, echoing around the barn. He doesn’t shout at me, he never does, but that icy tone grabs me every time.

I start to unfasten my jeans, my hands shaking.

“The boots too. I want you naked from the waist down.”

“What if someone comes in? Seth or maybe one of his sons?”

He smiles, but there’s no warmth there. “You’ll just have to hope they don’t. You could always try not to make too much noise—the sound of you screaming might attract more attention than you really want. I don’t mind an audience for this, but you may feel differently.”

I certainly do. I kick off my boots then finish removing my jeans and underwear before moving to stand in front of the bale he’s decided to use. I notice that he’s spread a blanket over it, which I suppose is fairly considerate in the circumstances.