goats, too?”
“Not so much breed as husband.” She halted on a low rise and pointed to a herd grazing some distance away. “Goats have always run wild on the island, and in large part still do. Most fences aren’t high enough to keep them in. But in winter they come down from the heights for feed and shelter.”
“They’re golden.” Logan studied the unusual coat color displayed by most members of the small herd.
“Most of that lot are Golden Guernseys.” Linnet had her book out again. She looked down as she made a note. “The color comes and goes depending on how much they breed with the other goats-there are several varieties on the island.”
“Do you send goats to market, too?”
“Some, but usually not as many in a year as donkeys. We take what we need, and then whatever seems appropriate to cull goes to market in St. Peter Port. Given there’s so many goats about, it’s only in the larger towns that there’s any real demand.”
They walked a number of the rougher paddocks, counting numbers. In one field, Linnet wanted to get a closer look at some kids.
Hanging back and watching as she coaxed the young ones to her, Logan heard a snort, looked, and saw a buck lower his head, paw the ground.
Linnet fell back as Logan abruptly appeared beside her, startling the kids away, but then she saw that his right hand was wrapped about the horns of a twisting, irate buck-who had been about to butt her.
She blew out a breath as Logan shoved the animal away. The buck snorted, eyed him evilly, but then harrumphed and turned away.
“Thank you.” She caught Logan’s eye. “I’d forgotten about him.”
He frowned. “I take it you usually do this-checking the animals-on your own.”
“Generally.”
“So what happens if one of them mows you down?”
“I pick myself up, brush myself down, and put salve on the bruises later.”
Falling into step beside her, he shook his head. “Gently bred ladies aren’t supposed to land on their arses in goat shit.”
“Gently bred ladies aren’t supposed to sleep with strangers, either.”
That shut him up. Head high, she led the way on and around to the pastures where the dairy herd grazed.
While she walked among the animals, checking their condition, noting which calves were showing most promise, he stood to one side, watched.
“I didn’t see a dairy among the outbuildings.”
“It’s a separate building.” She waved to the north. “It’s on the other side of that hill.”
“All part of your estate?”
When she nodded, he asked, “How many people does the estate employ?”
“Outside the house, fifty-three.”
Logan knew that was a significant number-fifty-three outside employees would translate to forty or more families dependent on the estate. Not a small number. “That must make the estate the biggest employer in this region, if not on all of Guernsey.”
“Both.” She looked up, smiled pointedly. “Hence my comment about Queen Elizabeth.”
He inclined his head. She saw herself as responsible for the welfare of a large number of people, and in fact she was. Logan didn’t know why, but he understood that-the concept of duty.
Letting his eye rove over the cows, placid and large, he said, “The cows and cattle around Glenluce are different breeds-Ayrshire for dairy, Black Galloway and Belted Galloway for beef.”
“I’ve seen Ayrshires, and the Blacks. Are the Belted much different?”
“Other than the white band, not that I ever heard.”
Eventually they trudged back to the house. It was the smells that stayed with him the longest, that teased his memory the most. He’d been familiar with the scents of donkey, goat, and cow, but… his memories suggested much drier, dustier versions, but that made no sense, not if those memories came from Scotland.
He felt Linnet’s gaze on his face, glanced up and met it.
She searched his eyes, then looked toward the house. “At least you’ve had some fresh air.”
Luncheon was being served as they walked in. Logan spent the meal chatting with the men, mostly about land and farming.
When the meal ended and the other men rose and left, Linnet cocked a brow at him. “You’re not a farmer.”
Although she’d been talking with the children, she’d lent an ear to his conversations with the men.
He grimaced. “I know only the general things one knows from growing up in the country-the rhythm of the seasons, the weather. But I don’t feel any connection to farming itself, the mechanisms, the details.”
“Your hands aren’t the hands of a farmer.” Linnet pushed back her chair and rose. “I’m going to go out riding.” She met his gaze as he got to his feet. “Given the distance you walked this morning, you should probably rest.”
One black brow arched. “On your bed?”
She ignored the suggestion in his eyes. “Riding might jar your head, and it will stress the wound in your side. It’s healing nicely-no need to tempt fate.”
He held her gaze, the midnight blue of his eyes pronounced as a frown formed in the dark depths. “I want to ride.” He shook his head slightly. “Don’t argue-I’m fairly sure I ride. A lot.”
Not a little exasperated, she held his gaze, searched his eyes… read his determination and the underlying need to remember. “All right.” She blew out a breath. “But first you have to let me rebandage your chest.”
Logan suffered through the rebandaging-anything to get on a horse. The more he thought of riding, the more he wondered that he hadn’t thought of it before.
He felt as eager as a child anticipating a treat when, finally, he strode beside Linnet down the long central aisle of the stable.
“We’ve plenty of hacks-we all ride. You can-”
“This one.” Logan halted before the door to a large stall containing a massive gray stallion.
Linnet backtracked to halt beside him. “That’s Storm. My father bought him as a colt, but never got to ride him. We use him mostly for breeding.”
“But he’s been broken to the saddle.” Logan unlatched the stall door, pushed it open.
“Yes, but he’s not been ridden much. He’s so damned strong, even Vincent has to wrestle with him.” Linnet frowned as Logan walked straight to the big stallion’s head, placed a hand on the horse’s long nose, then reached up to scratch between his ears.
Logan flung her a glance. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m damned strong, too.”
Not a point she could argue. Resisting the urge to waste her breath lecturing him, trying to get him to choose a safer mount, she shook her head and stepped back. “The saddles are through here.”
Vincent was busy saddling her roan mare, Gypsy. Before she could stop him, Logan selected bridle and saddle and carried them back to Storm’s stall.
She leaned on the stall door and watched as he readied the big horse-who gave every sign of cooperating, almost certainly eager to run-and gave thanks she’d insisted on bandaging Logan’s chest again. Yet his movements as he settled the bridle, then hefted the saddle to the gray’s broad back, were practised and economical; he’d clearly performed the task countless times.
Vincent came up, leading Gypsy. He raised his brows when he saw Storm saddled. “That’ll be interesting.”
“Indeed.” She hoped it wouldn’t prove
But as he led Storm out of the stall and into the yard, and she followed with Gypsy, she sensed in him nothing but supreme confidence. Then he planted his boot in the stirrup, swung up to Storm’s back, gathered the reins as the big stallion shifted under his weight-and even she ceased to doubt.
He grinned at her. Grinned like a boy.
Blowing an errant strand of hair from her face, she climbed the mounting block and clambered into her sidesaddle. She preferred to wear breeches and ride astride, but increasingly no longer did. She missed the freedom. Leading the way out of the yard, she was conscious of a spurt of envy.
