Josiah Bolt raised sheep! No, surely not.
But half an hour later when she finally reached the stone wall bounding Bolts’ field, Gabe was showing Charlie how to lay a lasso over the head of a very bewildered sheep.
“You don’t rope sheep!” Freddie exclaimed, clambering over the stile.
Gabe just looked up and grinned at her. “I do.”
“Josiah will go round the bend! He’s not the easiest neighbor to get along with in the first place,” Freddie railed. “I know him! He’ll say you’re endangering the quality of the wool!”
Gabe broke out laughing.
“Trust me. He will,” Freddie said. “And it can’t be good for the sheep in any case. I mean, they’re not meant to be roped. And Stantons have always been in the forefront of agricultural responsibility. Quite looked up to, they are, and-”
Gabe shoved his hat back on his head. “You made your point. We won’t rope.”
Both children looked at him, crestfallen, then at Freddie, accusing.
“We won’t rope
“Well, the earl, of course. He has prize Herefords.”
“Not them,” Gabe said. “Earl’d have my hide. We need a retired cow.”
Within hours he had Stella.
Stella. She was big and brown and mud-caked and Mrs. Peek, who just happened to drop by, knew that Mr. Ware was selling her because her milk production was down.
“He don’t want to. ’Er’s a member of the family, like,” Mrs. Peek said. “But he’s a businessman for all that. And you know ’er’ll be for the knacker’s yard if he don’t sell ’er.”
“The knacker?” Charlie and Emma were horrified.
“We’ll have her,” Gabe said.
Mr. Ware delivered her to the dower house that afternoon. Gabe put her in the small barn.
“We don’t keep cows,” Freddie objected.
“Now you do.”
And apparently she did. The children were overjoyed. Gabe seemed as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was whistling as he brought Stella a barrow full of hay.
“Making her comfortable,” Freddie said sardonically.
“Hey, you’re the one who was carrying on about agricultural responsibility.”
“So I was.” She watched as Gabe forked the hay into the stall. “Who’s going to milk her?”
He blinked. Then something that might have been a flush peeked above the collar of his jacket. He scratched his ear. He chewed his lip. He looked around a little desperately.
“You’re a cowboy,” Freddie reminded him.
“I’ve never milked a cow.”
“Never?” She was amazed.
“Cowboys don’t!”
Freddie smiled. “They do now.”
She had to give Gabe credit.
He was obviously not keen on milking cows, but when she said, “If you can teach Charlie and Emma to rope, I guess I can teach you to milk a cow,” he cocked his head and looked at her, a small smile playing around his mouth.
“Guess so. If you’ll show me how.”
Freddie, who hadn’t milked a cow since she was twelve years old and spending the summer holidays at her grandparents’ small farm in Somerset, said blithely, “Of course.”
It would serve him right for her to be the one in control for a change.
Moments later, seated at Stella’s side with Gabe crouched next to her, his fingers beneath hers as she attempted to show him the right way to pull the teat, she had serious second thoughts.
She’d never thought of milking a cow as foreplay. Suddenly she did.
She tried to tell herself it was ridiculous, that Gabe certainly wasn’t thinking sexual thoughts while they were thus engaged.
But there was something excruciatingly intimate about their proximity, about what they were doing.
Their hands were touching. So were their thighs. His head was so close her hair brushed his cheek-and his brushed hers. She could hear the soft intake of his breath, could feel it on her lips when he turned his head to grin at her as the first stream of milk from the cow’s teat hit the bucket.
His mouth was that close…and moving closer.
“Never mind!” She practically leaped to her feet, knocking him sideways and almost tipping over the tin pail. “You’re right. Cowboys don’t milk cows. I’ll do it myself!”
He laughed up at her from where he sat on the straw. “You sure, Fred?”
Her cheeks were burning. “Yes, Gabriel,” she drawled. “I’m sure.”
The Gabriel bit was supposed to put him in his place. To annoy him the way being called “Fred” annoyed her.
But he just grinned. “My mother named me after the angel.”
“Your mother named you after seven other Stantons,” Freddie retorted. “I see them hanging in the abbey every single day. Glowering down at me.”
Gabe’s grin widened. “And you think of me.”
“I do not!”
“Liar.” His voice was soft and teasing and set all the hairs on the back of her neck to standing at attention.
She couldn’t argue because Charlie and Emma suddenly barreled into the barn.
“Is she milked? Can we start ropin’ now?” Charlie asked.
“Not yet,” Gabe said. “She needs a little cooling off time.”
His gaze met Freddie’s. She blushed. Then she picked up the pail and started toward the house. “I’m going to fix dinner,” she said, trying to sound casual and indifferent. “You three can play cowboy for another hour.”
“Not without Stella,” Charlie said glumly.
“There’s nothing to do if we can’t rope Stella,” Emma added.
“Take Mr… take Gabe up to the abbey,” Freddie suggested. “Maybe you can rope the ghost.”
They often took B &B guests to the abbey. Regaling visitors with the tale of the Stanton Abbey ghost was always good fun. And whom better to tell than the man whose ancestors had usurped the ghost’s home?
“What ghost? What are you talking about?” Gabe looked both wary and baffled, as if afraid Freddie was having him on.
“Didn’t you ever hear about the ghost?” she asked.
