Shadow On The Fells
He's a danger to everything she holds dear.With his unruly dog, big-city airs, and obvious ignorance of the Lake District and its traditions, Will Devlin is Chrissie Marsh's worst nightmare. There's nothing the shepherdess loves more than the land she lives and works on, and nothing she hates more than the tourists who threaten it. Except Will isn't a tourist; he's her new neighbor. And he intends to turn her hallowed fells into a playground for people on holiday. But when he keeps showing up at her farm to offer—and ask for—help, she realizes she'll need to put a stop to her own feelings before she can even try to stop him.
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Heâs a danger to everything she holds dear
With his unruly dog, big-city airs, and obvious ignorance of the Lake District and its traditions, Will Devlin is Chrissie Marshâs worst nightmare. Thereâs nothing the shepherdess loves more than the land she lives and works on, and nothing she hates more than the tourists who threaten it. Except Will isnât a tourist; heâs her new neighbor. And he intends to turn her hallowed fells into a playground for people on holiday. But when he keeps showing up at her farm to offerâand ask forâhelp, she realizes sheâll need to put a stop to her own feelings before she can even try to stop him.
Chrissie watched helplessly as sheep disappeared in every direction.
She whistled to her collies, but she would have needed half a dozen dogs to keep the terrified sheep together.
âMax!â cried the man. âMax! Bad dog. Come here.â
The big dog ignored him, but he managed to grab hold of its collar. For a moment, they struggled, and then the man staggered forward. If the situation hadnât been so desperate, Chrissie would have laughed as he sprawled to the ground.
She whistled to Tess and Fly, and they raced over. The sheep had calmed somewhat, but at best sheâd be spending the rest of the afternoon gathering them. At worstâ¦wellâ¦she didnât want to think about that just yet.
âGood dogs. Stay.â The man was on his feet now, his leather shoes much the worse for wear and his suit pants ripped at the knees.
âYou,â she said in a cold, flat voice. âYou should get back to the cityâ¦and take your idiot dog with you. Iâd have been well within my rights to shoot it, you know.â
He held her gaze with his piercing eyes. âBut you havenât got a gun.â
âThen Iâll start carrying one.â
This is the fourth and last book in my Creatures Great and Small series. I do hope you enjoy it. Any thoughts, comments or questions you may have about Shadow on the Fells or any of the other books in the series would be very welcome. I really do appreciate feedback from my readers, for without you I would have no reason to write.
You can contact me at [email protected] or through Facebook.
All very best wishes and happy reading,
Eleanor
ELEANOR JONES was brought up on a farm in the north of England and learned to love animals and the countryside from an early age. She has ridden all her life, and after marrying her husband at just eighteen years old and having two wonderful children, they set up a riding center together. This is still thriving over thirty years later, doing hacks, treks and lessons for all ages and experiences. Her daughter competes at the national level, and she is now a partner in the business and brings her adorable three-year-old son to work with her every day. Eleanorâs son is also married with two children, and they live nearby. Eleanor has been writing for what feels like her whole life. Her early handwritten novels still grace a dusty shelf in the back of a cupboard somewhere, but she was first published over fifteen years ago, when she wrote teenage pony mysteries.
I would like to dedicate this book to my grandchildren, Dan, Emma and little Ollie
Contents
CHRISSIE STRODE OUT across the rough, damp earth, well-worn wooden crook in hand, reveling in the signs of spring. Green shoots broke through the parched brown of tufty winter grass, bringing new life to the fell; the sound of birdsong, different now, bright with hope and promise, filled her ears with natureâs own sweet music as they sang to the end of the cold, hard winter. And it had been hard this year, up here on the fell. Sheâd lost a dozen sheep to the snow and ice, only finding their sad, frozen bodies after the thaw.
Closing her fingers more firmly around the knotted wood, taking comfort from its familiarity, just as her father must have when he walked the fells with the help of the same curved crook, she stopped to take stock.
Today wasnât about death; that chapter was closed, until next year at least. Today she was embracing new life, for lambing time was imminent and she needed to gather the ewes and take them to lower ground. There was a time when four or five shepherds, each with at least two dogs, would meet to gather up their sheep, bringing them down all together, as a team, but right now it was just her sheep on this part of the fell.
With a low whistle to her dogs, Tess and Fly, Chrissie gazed up into the wide gray sky that never failed to soothe her soul. She watched the tumultuous clouds slide away, revealing the clearest, palest blue that seemed to stretch into eternity. For twenty-eight years sheâd gazed up into that same sky, here in Little Dale, following the traditions set by her parents and their parents before them, caring for the sheep way up in the bleak and beautiful Lakeland fells. It was a tough, harsh and lonely life, but one she wouldnât swap for anything.
