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‘You can get out now. You have reached your destination,' he continues, speaking like a sat nav.

‘The dogs . . .?'

‘They won't come after you. I promise.' He clears his throat. ‘Um, Zara. . . .'

‘Yes?' I catch my breath, distracted by the sight of his face in the beam of the outside light on the barn. He is completely and utterly gorgeous and I'm reluctant to tear myself away as he continues, ‘I'll catch up with you later, I hope.'

‘Thanks again.' I find myself hoping the very same as I walk quickly up to the house, keeping an eye over my shoulder for the dogs who are watching me with their mouths open and tongues hanging out, from the back of the pick-up.

‘Hi Emily, how are you?' I slip my muddy shoes
off in the hall. The door is unlocked – my sister never bothers with security, whereas Murray is obsessed with locking up his tractors and other equipment.

‘Well, thank you,' Emily appears in the doorway to the living room in her leggings and sweatshirt, the first time I've seen her dressed in anything but her pyjamas since Daisy was born. ‘I'm a bit sore, that's all.'

It's surprising how quickly a mum forgets the pain of labour, I think, and lucky for the future of the human race that they do.

‘I can tell you I feel a whole lot better than I did this time last week, though. Come on through.' Emily glances at my trousers. ‘What happened to you?'

‘I thought it was a nice day for a walk in the country,' I say ironically. ‘Actually, I had to leave the car down the lane with a puncture. Lewis gave me a lift.'

‘Murray can fix it.'

‘It's all right. Lewis is already on the case.'

‘He's lovely, isn't he?'

‘He's definitely fit,' I say.

‘He's single too.'

‘And?' I face my twin, mirroring the way she stands square tome with her arms folded. ‘Emily, don't waste your time matchmaking. I've only just met the guy and, even if he was the most perfect man ever, it would never work – he's too young for me.'

‘He's twenty-three, not some teenage toy-boy.'

‘And he won't hang around here for long,' I go on. Murray's only given him a temporary contract. ‘How's Daisy?'

‘I'd forgotten you're working,' Emily says. ‘Daisy's
asleep,' She shows me into the living room where the baby lies snug beneath a blanket, her wavy red locks peeking out from beneath the woolly hat that Gran knitted. Her hands are curled into small fists up by her ears, and covered with white mitts to stop her scratching her face with her tiny fingernails.

‘Where's Poppy?'

‘She's in her room, having a nap. The baby's keeping her awake all night too. I really don't know if it's possible, but it's as if she belongs to some alien nocturnal species. I don't remember Poppy being like this.'

‘I think she was.'

‘I was going to give her a full bath, not just top and tail her, but I don't like to disturb her. Do you really have to wake her up?'

‘I let her sleep last time. I really should do the heel prick test today. Oh, let's let sleeping babies lie for now. Can I get you anything, Emily? Tea, or a milkshake? Toast?'

When I return from the kitchen with tea and toast, Poppy is coming down the stairs with the toy cat under one arm and bumping a kid's travel case in Barbie pink down behind her.

‘Hello.' I block her progress towards the front door. ‘Are you going somewhere?'

She looks at me through her curly fringe. ‘I'm going to live with Grandma.'

‘I think you'd better let Mummy know,' I say, diverting her to the living room. ‘Look who I've found, Emily.'

‘Poppy, I thought you were asleep.'

‘I'm going to live with Grandma,' she repeats.

‘Oh no, you can't do that,' Emily says. ‘We need you here. Your baby sister needs you. Poppy, I want you to be as quiet as a library full of church mice because Daisy's asleep and I want her to stay that way, please.'

‘I hate my baby sister.' Poppy explodes with redfaced rage and rushes over to the Moses basket and pulls Daisy's blanket off. I've never seen Emily move so fast, but she fails to intercept her and Daisy wakes up, fills her lungs and screams. Emily scoops her up and hugs her to her breast, while holding Poppy to her waist and shrugging with despair.

‘I don't know what to do,' Emily says once we've calmed Poppy down with a bowl of ice cream and chocolate sauce, and helped her unpack.

‘Give it time,' I say when we're sitting down at last.

‘It would have been easier for them to have been twins, like us,' Emily observes. ‘We have a really special bond.'

‘We still fought when we were younger.'

‘We didn't.'

‘Oh yes, we did.'

‘I know . . .' Emily sighs as I check Daisy over and weigh her. ‘Sisters. Who'd have them?'

‘Hello,' Murray says, walking into the room with a sack of potatoes in his arms. ‘I've got your keys, Zara. Your car's ready in the yard. Lewis says to apologise for not having time to valet it.'

‘Where is Lewis?' Emily pauses from stroking
Daisy's hair. ‘He could have handed the keys over himself.' She glances at me and I know exactly what she's trying to achieve. It won't work, though. Lewis isn't my type, although I would admit that I'm slightly disappointed not to have seen him again to thank him in person, not for any other reason. I look away, picking an imaginary hair from my top to hide the blush that is spreading across my cheeks.

‘He's taking a ewe over to Talyton Manor for a Caesar,' Murray says. ‘One of the vets is waiting for him.'

‘Oh, Murray, not another one,' Emily says, looking concerned. ‘We can't really afford it.'

‘It's the way it is. It has to be done. You have good days and bad days. That's farming for you. Here, Zara. Catch!' Murray throws me the keys and, to my surprise, because I've never been good at ball games, I catch them.

Emily claps and Poppy joins in. ‘That's the first time you've caught anything more than a cold. Have you been practising for Claire's wedding?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Catching the bouquet. She mentioned it to me when she came up to see me and Daisy.'

‘Emily what are you like?' I say, appalled. ‘I've been married before, remember? I've been there, got the T-shirt . . . Never again!'

‘Don't be silly. Think of what you had with Paul as a trial run.'

‘I'll see you soon,' I say, changing the subject. ‘I must go.'

‘Give our love to Gran,' Emily says. ‘I'll pop in and see her when I'm in Talyton tomorrow, if I can get the three of us out and dressed.'

‘Will do,' I smile. ‘I hope she's been behaving herself.'

‘You sound like me talking about Poppy,' Emily observes. ‘I thought she was supposed to be looking after you.'

‘We look after each other. Thank Lewis for me, won't you? Tell him I'm sorry I missed him.'

I drive home with the rich aroma of sheep and dog in my nostrils, and when I check for the source of the smell, I find Lewis's coat on the back seat of my car. I pick it up and take it indoors, leaving it on the counter while I greet my grandmother.

‘I thought I heard someone rummaging around in the shop,' she says.

‘It was me – I couldn't resist a quarter of fizzy cola bottles.'

‘I hope they aren't going to ruin your appetite.'

‘Gran, they won't. I'm thirty-one, not thirteen.'

‘Sometimes I think we should have a guard dog,' she says. ‘That way I'd feel more secure.'

‘I'm here now. I'll keep you safe.' Gran knows that if she ever decided to bring a dog to live here, I would have to move out.

I call Emily for Lewis's mobile number. Poppy is bawling in the background so we don't get to chat. I text Lewis to say I'll bring his coat back to the farm ASAP, but he's on his way back from the vet's, so he arranges to drop by to collect it.

I don't know why, but I run upstairs to brush my
hair and change into jeans and a long cream jumper with a belt around the middle, before he hums up.

‘You look nice, dear. Who's the lucky young gentleman?' Gran says. ‘There must be one.'

‘I always change out of my uniform when; I get home.'

‘Yes, into your sweat top and jogging bottoms.' Gran's like a dog with a bone. ‘Will he want tea?' She means dinner. ‘There's plenty in the pot.'

‘He won't be stopping. He left his coat on the back seat of my car by mistake.'

‘If you say so,' Gran says, and she makes an excuse to be downstairs when Lewis arrives, unbolting the door to let him in and accompanying him to the counter.

‘Thank you for fixing Zara's car, my lover. Your coat's just there.'

‘Let me get it,' Lewis says. ‘It's a bit of a health hazard.'

‘How can we thank you?' Gran asks. ‘Zara, offer the young man some sweets.'

‘No, I'm fine.' Lewis stands by the counter, hugging his coat, apparently struck down by an uncharacteristic attack of shyness in front of my grandmother.

‘Gran, I think I can smell something burning,' I say, Wishing she'd leave us alone for a few minutes.

‘Me too,' she says with a wicked glint in her eye. ‘The fires of passion.'

‘Gran! I mean you could just check . . . upstairs.'

‘In a mo,' she says brightly, apparently having no intention of making herself scarce.

‘How is the ewe you took to the vet?' I ask eventually.

‘She's good, thanks. She's in the back of the pick-up with her lambs. Come and see them.'

‘You stay here, Gran. It's too cold for you outside,' I say quickly, before following Lewis out onto the pavement where the pick-up is parked on the double yellow lines. In the back, one of the woolliest sheep I've ever seen lies propped on her brisket in the corner. She's panting so fast she looks as if she's having a panic attack.

‘Mum's a bit stressed, not surprisingly,' Lewis observes. He reaches over and lifts the lid on a big plastic crate. ‘Here are her babies.'

I move closer, brushing up against his arm, to peer inside, where there are three lambs curled up together.

‘Ah, she's had triplets,' I say, captivated, until an icy blast whisks along the street, making me shiver.

‘I would offer you my coat,' Lewis says hesitantly.

‘That's kind of you, but . . .'

‘You don't want to smell of sheep for the next week,' Lewis interrupts. ‘How about sharing some body heat instead?' He turns his head and gives me the most wicked grin. ‘I seem to have plenty to spare at this minute.'

‘What are you saying?' I gasp.

‘Oh god, I'm sorry. I hope I haven't offended you.' He steps away from me. ‘It's just that with you standing so close . . .What I'm trying to say is that you have quite an effect on me, and that's a compliment. It wasn't supposed to come across as creepy.'

‘No offence taken, Lewis.' I can't help giggling at his reaction. ‘It's rather flattering to find out that I have
this effect on you, but I won't take up your offer right now.'

‘Maybe another time,' he says with a chuckle.

‘Maybe,' I flirt back. ‘I'd better go back indoors.'

‘And I'd better get these little guys back to their nice warm barn,' Lewis sighs. ‘I hope to see you again very soon. Goodnight, Zara.'

‘Goodnight.' I return to the shop and lock up, turning to find Gran at my shoulder. ‘Gran, you made me jump – and thanks a lot for being so embarrassing.'

‘It's a pleasure,' she says with glee. ‘That Lewis, he's nothing like Paul.'

‘What does that have to do with anything?'

‘Don't tell me it hasn't crossed your mind? He's devilishly handsome. If I was sixty years younger . . .'

She might be teasing me, but she has touched a nerve because it's true. It's the first time a man has caught my eye since Paul, unless you include Leonardo DiCaprio and Henry Cavill, but I don't think they count. It's odd because I haven't looked at a man in that way, let alone flirted with one, for quite a while. I must be getting my mojo back.

CHAPTER THREE

Love Me, Love My Dogs

It's Mother's Day in the middle of March and Gran is in the kitchen baking, the buttery aroma of choux pastry in the oven filling the air while I help out in the shop for a while. We're open for the morning only on Sundays in the winter, all day in the summer.

The initial rush for the Sunday newspapers to go with coffee and breakfast has subsided and it isn't exactly busy when Mrs Dyer turns up. She's in her fifties and well-built, her arms bulging through the sleeves of a long grey cardigan.

‘You're looking well, Zara.' She smiles, appearing slightly embarrassed. ‘I am talking to Zara, aren't I? Not Emily? I've always got you two in a muddle.'

‘I'm Zara.' I almost add, the fat one. ‘Thank you.' I go on, eternally amazed that people seem surprised to find me on my feet. Divorce isn't an illness and neither is being single.

‘I've heard all about you moving in with your gran and I think it's wonderful.'

I realise I haven't had the chance to speak to Mrs Dyer since I moved in four months ago, partly because I'm not keen on her enormous dog, and partly because the dog won't stand still for long enough for her to hold a conversation anyway.

‘It's so sad about you and Paul going your separate ways.'

‘It was for the best. We're still friends.'

‘I couldn't be friends, with my old man if we divorced.'

‘Everyone's different,' I say, not wanting to be drawn into gossip. Paul and I were happy together to begin with, but when we decided to try for a baby, our failure to conceive gradually strangled the life out of our marriage.