“What did you want to talk about?” the American shouted over the motor as she started to navigate a particularly sharp turn around one of the sharper rises of land.
“About the—sheeeeep!”
On the other side of the hairpin curve, three fat ewes meandered across the road. They were all owned by Widow Craigie, judging by the painted markings on their wool. The middle sheep released a terrified bleat so loud that Sinclair could faintly hear it over the motor. While the other two scampered away, fear rooted this one to the ground. It gave another bloodcurdling scream that almost rivaled a billy goat’s.
Deftly Miss Van Etten skirted around the ungulate obstacle. Somehow, she managed not to smash the automobile into the hillside or send it tumbling over the steep slope. As she jerked the conveyance back to the center of the road, Sinclair’s hat flopped off his head, catching on the brim of hers. While continuing to straighten the vehicle, Miss Van Etten snatched his cap. Without removing her eyes from the rough road spinning out before them, she dropped it squarely in the center of his lap.
Judging by the way Miss Van Etten tore over both the land and water, she was certainly talented, and Sinclair begrudgingly respected that.
“Maybe we should try this over again,” Miss Van Etten hollered after they finished bouncing over a particularly deep rut. “What did you wish to discuss with me?”
“The Sheep Problem.” He hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but she made him feel like he was sinking into a bog with no steady ground under his feet. All his limited stores of eloquence had vanished, leaving just his natural bluntness behind.
“I’d say thereisa sheep problem!” Miss Van Etten exclaimed as they popped over another hillock. As if on cue, another group of sheep came into sight. They lifted their heads in clear bewildered panic before they took off running. Only one intrepid ewe stayed a few feet away from the roadside to glare at them—Fetty. She was his sheep, and the children had made a pet out of her. The stubborn, surprisingly bright old girl often showed up on their croft, having walked across the exposed strand in pursuit of special treats.
“I didn’t mean that the sheep were the cause of—” Sinclair tried to quickly correct himself, but the blasted air carried away his words.
“I wouldn’t want to injure one of the flock while driving.”
At least Miss Van Etten seemed concerned about the fate of the sheep rather than annoyed by their presence.
“Who owned that first ram who froze in the middle of the road anyway?” She shifted gears as they started to coast down the last hill. The blue of the water beyond Hamarray seemed ready to swallow them up, but at least the roar of motor and wind diminished enough to allow speech as Miss Van Etten was forced to slow a fraction.
“Ewe,” Sinclair corrected.
“Me?” she asked, clearly befuddled. “I own asheep?”
“I meant female sheep—notyou.”
“But I thought I spied horns on it,” Miss Van Etten yelled. “Also, we need oil!”
“I assure you that it was a ewe,” Sinclair shouted as they sailed over another bump while he pumped more lubricant into the engine. “In many breeds, the females have those protrusions too.”
“Do they? Sheep are much more complicated than I’ve given them credit for.”
They really weren’t, but Sinclair was not eager to discuss the particulars of a sheep’s general personality with someone who clearly knew little about the species. Any explanation would just frustrate both of them.
“So whodoesown that ewe?”
“Widow Craigie.” Sinclair hoped that even if Miss Van Etten did get angry over the collection of woolly beasties on her hunting grounds, she would at least temper her ire toward a bereaved woman.
They’d reached the edge of the strand, and Miss Van Etten had slowed the car to a stop, making the conversation easier.
“Does Mrs.Craigie own the entire flock?”
“Nay. All of the residents of Frest keep a handful of sheep on this island. The Earl of Mar agreed that we could bring them to Hamarray at the beginning of the war since there was a bigger demand for lamb with the Grand Fleet stationed in Scapa and there wasn’t space to expand the flock on Frest. His Lordship received—and now you will receive—a percentage of the proceeds of any sale of meat or wool. In fact, we’ll be holding the annual sheep count tomorrow as per our agreement with Mar.”
“So Iwillhave a stake in sheep,” Miss Van Etten said as she turned the wheel to avoid another section of collapsed road. “I never imagined myself a shepherdess. What is this Sheep Problem, then?”
“We, your crofters on Frest, want to confirm that you will extend the agreement that we had with the earl regarding our grazing rights on Hamarray.”
“Give me the contract, and I’ll give it a skim and see what I need to discuss with my lawyers.”
Sinclair rubbed the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to strike his head against something hard in frustration. The stone wall whizzing by to his left would do nicely. “There is no document.” The cagey earl hadn’t wanted anything to bind him. He’d still been bitter about the restrictions the Crofters Holdings Act of 1886 had placed on his holdings in Frest.
“Oh.” Miss Van Etten waved her hand. “We’ll need to remedy that in due course. If there is one thing I learned from my father, it is to put everything in writing. There are some matters that I must take care offirst, but after those are resolved, I’ll be happy to discuss the terms in more detail with you.”
“But this is a matter of great importance for us croft—” Sinclair began to say, but the roar of the Mercer’s engine drowned him out. To his astonishment, Miss Van Etten once more accelerated and steered them straight toward the exposed strand currently connecting Frest and Hamarray. Water had already begun to form large pools, and it would not be long before the entire bar was once again under the sea.
