“Ann Inkster, move a peedie bit to the right. We need to give them an opening to run through,” Mr.Sinclair called out, and Rose’s attention flew to the figure who moved. Sure enough, Ann Inksterwasthe maid Rose had frightened. She looked a bit like Janet, and the scarf she wore around her head was clearly cut from the same piece of fabric as the older woman’s. Rose would need to have another chat with the shy miss.
“Astrid, Ron, and Ann Craigie, start pushing them in from your end. Take it easy now. Don’t crowd them too much. We don’t want themto bolt yet,” Mr.Sinclair called next. All the islanders listened to him without hesitation. It was apparent from the way that he orchestrated the roundup like a conductor of a symphony that he’d done this many times before. Some of the people of Frest might be bitter that he had not served his country, but it was clear that they recognized his innate leadership. Even Rose, who generally balked at authority—including during the war—found herself listening to him. Perhaps it was because he did not so much command as he simply expected them all to work together. It was strange, being a moving part of a larger unit, all working in tandem as one single force toward the same goal.
When they finally moved the skittish creatures into the drystone sheep pens on the beach opposite the docks, an odd sense of accomplishment filled Rose. She had no idea why it felt so fulfilling to stare down at the fleecy,maaing chaos as she sat on one of the thick walls, but it did.
As she watched, one of the sheep closest to Rose tried to jump over the back of another. The poor thing looked as panicked as the rest of the woolly beasts. When the same ewe tried scrambling over another member of the herd, Rose let out a gasp. There were tinyhoovessticking out of the poor dam’s rear.
“Mr.Sinclair!” Rose shouted, instinctually calling his name. “Mr.Sinclair! I do believe that there is a sheep with a problem!”
He was at her side within a second. All she had to do was point at the struggling ewe, and he sprang over the stone barricade, using only one arm to execute his impressive vault. A chorus of bleats met his landing. Two of the other men also climbed into the pen, and the flock’s existential crises burgeoned. Wide eyed, the sheep tried to form a tight huddle but managed only to move in every direction at once. No wonder the poor beleaguered things made such easy targets for predators.
“Her instinct to herd is stronger than the labor pains,” Freya explained as she rushed over and leaned close to Rose and Myrtle. “Ifthe men cannot capture and calm her, we could lose both her and the lamb.”
Mr.Sinclair wove through the fluffy chaos with single-minded intent. The pregnant ewe tried her best to outmaneuver him, but he dived down and tackled her. After a brief struggle, he managed to wrap one of his large hands around the ewe’s front hooves and the other around her back feet. Cuddling her writhing, bucking body against his chest, he hoisted all 120 pounds of the frightened, fighting sheep into the air. He strode through the flock as if he were just strolling down the beach in Daytona. One of the men opened the wooden gate to the pen, and Mr.Sinclair carried the ewe to an enclosure that Rose assumed had been left empty as a place to contain the sheep as they were counted.
Rose, along with Myrtle and the islanders, moved to watch the proceedings. While the men held down the ewe, Mr.Sinclair knelt beside the animal. Gently, he moved his hand inside the dam.
“What is he doing?” Rose asked.
“Checking to make sure the lamb’s head isn’t turned. He’ll straighten it if it is,” Margaret explained. Rose turned toward the eight-year-old in surprise. The girl did seem to know everything there was about sheep, but Rose hadn’t expected her to be an expert in ungulate midwifery.
“She’s right,” Myrtle added. “I’ve helped with the calving on the ranch, and this is bound to be similar.”
“Don’t look at me,” Margaret instructed Rose, showing a remarkable lack of squeamishness as she kept her gaze trained on the rather messy proceedings.“Not if you want to see the babe being born. Thorfinn will start pulling soon, especially with how the mum is struggling.”
Sure enough, Mr.Sinclair did begin to steadily help ease the newborn from its mother. In a surprisingly short amount of time, the little lamb lay on the ground. The ewe scrambled to her feet and began to nuzzle and lick her offspring. Perhaps the creatures were much tougher than Rose had given them credit for. She of all people should have known better than to be deceived by outward fluffiness.
A soft cheer rose up among the people of Frest before they and Myrtle began to drift back to the other paddocks to begin the sheep count. Mr.Sinclair headed to the edge of the sand and bent to wash his hands in the turquoise water. When he stood up, he caught Rose watching him, but she didn’t look away. He strode over to her, giving her a smile instead of his normal tight-lipped frown.
“Thank you, Miss Van Etten. If you hadn’t noticed that the ewe was in trouble, things might have taken a tragic turn.”
“I’m just glad both mother and baby are okay.” Rose nodded toward the duo, who were both making low sounds as the ewe continued to clean her offspring.
Mr.Sinclair cocked his head in the direction of the pair too. “Do you hear that?”
“I do,” Rose said.
“They’re learning the sounds of each other’s voice and their smell. That’s how they know to find each other in the flock. It’s important they bond like this right after the birth, or the mother will reject her own bairn.”
“Perhaps someone should tell that to society parents before they summarily hand their babes off to wet nurses and nannies.” The words tumbled from Rose’s mouth before she thought better of it. She didn’t know why she’d been thinking about her own childhood so much lately. She rarely had in the past. But something about being on Hamarray and Frest among so many families working side by side was making her revisit her own personal history ... and the conflicted emotions that she preferred to keep buried.
Mr.Sinclair’s left eye widened in surprise, but she doubted he was as shocked as she was by her impromptu statement.
“Miss Van Etten—” he began, his tone cautious, as if he was not sure what to say. That made two of them, then.
“Sinclair!” one of the men shouted, providing a convenient distraction. “We need you over here to officially start the count!”
Mr.Sinclair paused, as if unsure if he should leave her after such a melancholy statement. Rose dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Go. I say inappropriate things all the time. Make nothing of it.”
Still he hesitated, but she shooed him away. As Mr.Sinclair dashed off, Rose drew in her breath as she glanced away from the suddenly too-precious domestic scene in front of her. She hadn’t come to Orkney to learn about animal husbandry. She was here to complete Viscount Barbury’s mission.
Her gaze fell on Ann Inkster, who was sitting on one of the walls, watching the men wrestle with the sheep as they and the older women checked the livestock. Rose walked over and smiled at the girl. The young lady gave her a faint grin before tucking her chin. Ann still seemed shy but not frightened like she had at Muckle Skaill.
“Ann, is it?” Rose kept her voice gentle and welcoming.
“Aye,” Ann said, raising her head again. Her voice was high and sweet.
“Are you Janet Inkster’s daughter?” Rose sat down beside her, keeping her eyes focused on the sheep, knowing that would make the conversation easier for the timid adolescent.
