Bluestone & Vine

by Donna Kauffman

  He pulled on jeans and a well-worn green Henley, then managed to get the tangles out of his wet hair, deciding to leave it loose so it would dry faster. He grinned then, thinking his baby sister had no idea how often he’d thought of shaving his head again. It was just that he rather liked the whole heathen-up-the-hill and Blue Ridge Viking jokes the folks in town teased him with. He liked the relaxed, unregimented lifestyle of mountain life. It was a far cry from the one he’d led while serving in the Army. Much of his other military training stood him in good stead, and he was grateful for it every day of his life, but he was happy to be free of certain rigid codes of conduct.

  He grabbed the damp towel and the clothes off the floor, then headed back out to the mudroom, mentally going over the speech he’d prepared to explain to Pippa her upcoming move. Given her confident self-sufficiency, he suspected she’d understand his reasoning. She seemed a pretty decent sort, all in all.

  Pippa was nowhere to be seen, however. She’d set a place for him at the bar, with a napkin, an empty bowl, and soup spoon. The pot of stew was still simmering on the stove, and the basket of scones, along with the butter, sat next to his bowl. If she’d eaten already, there were no signs of it. The kitchen was otherwise spotless. Well, at least she was respecting his space, he thought, annoyed that what he felt wasn’t relief, but disappointment. And telling himself it was because he wanted to get his little speech out of the way wasn’t all that convincing, either. You either want her here, or you don’t, laddie. Make up your mind.

  It just seemed ... quiet. And he loved the quiet. Revered it, in all honesty. It was a large part of why he’d purchased the property. He could run a business right from his own homestead, but retreat into the peaceful solitude of his home at any time. There were no bombs exploding, no planes buzzing overhead, no missiles whistling in, or out, no guns erupting in a fusillade of bullets, and there would never again be the constant, twenty-four-seven hum of activity that was base living. He didn’t suffer PTSD, as many of his compatriots did, not in any crippling sense. But his military experience, largely spent deployed in some of the worst places on earth, had marked him. Inevitably. It was a life experience unlike any other. Add to that, his life before the military had been growing up in a house with five other kids, two parents, two grandparents, one great-grandparent, and numerous house pets. All of which had trained him quite well for the constant chaos of life in uniform, but only added to his desire for serenity now.

  Given that, he was content and quite satisfied to be far out and away from all the noise, the clutter, the daily disturbances that came with life, no matter how normal and mundane. He had his vines, a few farm animals, and no one to bother him unless invited to do so. Eventually he’d have people coming to the winery, in a steady stream, he hoped, but even that would be regulated by establishing regular business hours. His home was, and would always be, his sanctuary. His life was perfect.

  “So, sit and enjoy the stew you didn’t have to make, and be happy your chatty little houseguest will be moving on as soon as you can dig your way out,” he muttered.

  Instead, he checked the mudroom, noted the washing machine was empty, as was the dryer, though it was still warm to the touch. He started his own load of clothes, then noticed her bright blue ski jacket was no longer on one of the hooks by the door. And her boots were gone. “Dammit, Pippa,” he muttered. He looked back at the place setting, breathed in the mouthwatering scents of the stew, then ducked his chin and sighed. She was a grown woman, with an apparently surprising skill set. He doubted she’d go and do anything that would put her in an adverse situation—Buried snow machine notwithstanding, he thought, and grinned despite himself, recalling her insouciant smile when she’d said the same thing.

  Still, it was going to be dark soon, and though it looked like the snow had finally stopped, the wind hadn’t. The path he’d plowed out earlier, and re-plowed on his way back in earlier, was likely half, if not already fully blown over again. He had floodlights on the house and barn, but that didn’t completely ease his mind. He looked from the stew pot to his wet and muddy boots. He really didn’t want to go back out there, hadn’t planned on it until later that evening, to see to Dex and the rest of his farm animal crew, before holing up in his makeshift office for a few hours.

  Swearing under his breath and planning on getting free legal advice from his baby sister for himself and everyone he knew for the rest of her natural life, he walked to the kitchen and packed himself a thermos full of stew, groaning in deep appreciation as he sampled a bite or two before putting the lid back on and turning the burner off. He tossed a few of the scones in a baggie, then quickly pulled on his now toasty socks, the not-so-toasty muddy boots, then opted for his fleece-lined canvas overcoat with the big hood. He wasn’t going to be outside any longer than he had to be.

  The skies remained overcast, and it was more dark than light by the time he made it out to the barn. There were more lights on inside now than when he’d left earlier, so he supposed that answered the question as to where she’d gone. Pippa must have headed out the moment he went to take his shower, because any tracks she’d made were gone. The wind was still blowing something fierce, making him wish he’d grabbed a scarf to cover his cheeks and beard. Dexter wasn’t the only one who needed defrosting after being out in the snow.

  He heard the music before he slid open the door, and found himself smiling. Well, at least Dexter has found a new friend. He spent a second thinking maybe he should let her stay after all, if for no other reason than to keep his lovelorn llama distracted and out of his hair. Then he stepped inside and stopped dead in his tracks, all thoughts of anything other than the tableau in front of him wiped from his mind.

  Pippa was sitting, cross-legged, in the middle of the dirt-and sawdust-covered floor with a pygmy goat curled up in her lap, fast asleep; one of his three barn cats—the gnarly one—rubbing back and forth against her back; while Dexter sat hunkered down in front of her, his long legs folded under himself, so she could comb the soft hair on his neck. She was bopping her head to the pulsing rhythms of “I Wan’na Be Like You” from Disney’s The Jungle Book, which filled the cavernous barn interior at such decibels that neither human nor beast had so much as looked his way.

  The doors to the three stalls on the far side of the barn that presently held the remaining dozen little goats were closed. He’d already checked the henhouse out back before heading in earlier, making sure the heat lamps were on and the chickens were safely inside out of the weather. He’d also checked the small herd of Merino sheep, who were, at the moment, being housed in the big round barn down the hill for the duration of the storm. They’d been fed and watered as well. The only one who hadn’t been fed was him. Well then, he thought, and quietly let himself into the end stall he still called his temporary office, despite having used it now for a full year. He set down the thermos and baggie, took off his coat and hung it on one of the feed hooks. The barn was heated, but with the wind howling, it remained pretty drafty. So he turned on the small space heater down by his feet before settling in the big leather chair he’d rolled out there when he’d finally accepted he was more comfortable working in the barn than in the space he’d allocated for an office up at the house. For now, anyway.

  The chair was positioned at an angle that had his back to the side wall, and afforded him a view of the barn interior, mostly so Dexter could see him rather than the other way around. He stared at the happy cluster of woman and beasts, then, shaking his head, turned to his computer, poured himself some stew, and got to work. Despite the throbbing decibel level of the music, for once he left his headphones lying on the battered wooden door he’d fashioned into a desktop by laying it across two beat-up metal file cabinets. He’d added a few old phone books on top of each cabinet to create the right amount of knee space, which normal desks did not provide. Apparently, men his height didn’t hold desk jobs.

  He’d long since lost track of time, and might have been bopping his own head a
nd singing “The Bare Necessities” under his breath when he finally heard the knock on the wood beam that framed one side of his stall. He glanced up to find Pippa standing on the other side of the stall door, Mr. Grumpy in her arms looking for all the world like a cosseted house cat, which he was most assuredly not. Seth had the scratch marks to prove it.

  “I don’t see any signs posted out here for your care and feeding,” she said with a smile.

  Her hair was down, falling to just below her shoulders, all soft and kind of wild, looking like dark fire. Her skin was paler now, the pink from the storm having faded, which only served to make those eyes of hers all the more luminous. She’d taken off her jacket and wore a formfitting black fleece pullover, and at least one shirt underneath, a mock turtleneck the same shade of blue as her jacket. Boutique skiwear, he thought, wondering if she’d ever worn them for actual skiing. Then he remembered her stunt-training background and gave himself a mental head slap for making gross assumptions based on gender and income. His sisters would have smacked him in far more tender places had he done the same to them.

  He was also forced to admit the outfit looked pretty darn good on her. She might be slim bordering on skinny, but he could see now that her brand of skinny was far more on the wiry than the frail side. She had toned shoulders and arms and he suspected the rest of her was more of the same. All the better to manhandle that snowmobile with, he reminded himself. And possibly you, as well.

  Her smile widened at his prolonged gaze, making those eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief, as if she’d read his thoughts. He found himself still wondering about the tips of those ears as he finally looked away. Faerie sprite, indeed. He picked up the now empty thermos. “I think you’ve done just fine in the care and feeding department. It was really good. Thank you.”

  She dipped in what he assumed was another curtsy, but he could only see her from the cat up, the lower half of her body obscured by the stall door.

  “It was the very least I could do. I hope you didn’t mind my coming out here. I thought I’d give you your house back for a bit, come out here and see how Dexter was getting on. Do you have any others?”

  “Others?”

  “Llamas,” she said. “Don’t they do better in groups?”

  Seth saved the work he was doing, then leaned back in his chair. “How is it you know about llamas?” he asked. “Or are they a part of that star-ish entourage you left back in Ireland?” He grinned when she did, and added, “Even with four sisters, I’m afraid I’m woefully behind on my celebrity gossip.”

  “Four, is it? You poor man. Katie said you and Moira also come from a big Irish brood. I’m one of six myself, though it’s the other way around for us. I’ve four brothers. As to my celebrity star-ish entourage, aye, well, these days we’re all about the cheetahs and lynxes, you know,” she said, not missing a beat. “Big cats are all the rage.” She wrinkled her petite nose. “Last season it was orangutans. I didn’t much care for that phase.”

  “Yes, well, they can be moody, or so I’ve heard.”

  She giggled at that and the sound was a surprisingly delightful little trill, without a hint of the throatiness that was there when she spoke, or laughed. He immediately wanted to hear it again. It also made him curious about her music, what she sounded like as a singer. He’d purposely not gone and looked her up when he’d settled in to work, focusing on his never-ending load of paperwork instead. He suspected he’d give in to the urge sooner rather than later, now.

  “Actually, I’ve learned more than a little bit about llamas from my assistant, Julia. Her mum raises a whole herd of the happy beasts up in Clonalvy, north of Dublin.” She smiled when Dexter walked up behind her and bumped his nose against the side of her head. “I’ve never met one in person until now, though. I hope you don’t mind my combing his coat. I saw the bucket with the brush and comb sitting by the CD player, and he seems to really like it.” Dexter bumped her head a bit more forcefully with his nose this time and she giggled again. “You’ve had your time now,” she told the beast. “I thought they were woolly, like sheep.” She stroked Dexter’s soft, reddish-brown coat. “I can’t believe how soft he is.”

  “Different breeds have different coats,” he said. “He’s considered a classic. Their coat is silkier. The other is the woolly. You can’t comb them. They have to be sheared.”

  “So, he’s the only one you have then?”

  Seth nodded. “Mrs. Bianchi—the woman who owned this place before me—rescued him from a farm down in the valley on the other side of the mountain range. He’d been severely neglected, half-starved, left in a stall by himself with a lot of filth. Don’t ever try to put him in a stall,” he added, a little abruptly, out of concern for Dexter as much as for her safety. “He’s phobic about that.”

  “Understandably so. That’s awful,” she said, her expression stricken. “And I won’t,” she said. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “I tried to introduce him to a few others from a farmer down closer to the mill, on the other side of Big Stone Creek. He breeds alpacas. Dexter is on the small side for a llama, and alpacas are a smaller breed than llamas. He’s a gelding, and Tom has geldings, so I thought it might be a good fit, and if so, I’d buy a few and bring them up here.”

  “But . . . no?” she asked.

  Seth shook his head. “Not even close. Freaked him right out.”

  “Aw,” Pippa said, turning to give Dexter a gentle hug. “That’s awful.”

  “I don’t know his full story, other than what I told you, and unfortunately, Mrs. Bianchi has since passed away, but Tom, the alpaca breeder, suggested maybe I should let Dex work as herd security. He said that maybe having a job of sorts where he has something to do would help him emotionally, and one that establishes a pecking order that doesn’t threaten him in any way would be a start. I did some reading on that and thought he might be right.”

  “You mean he takes care of the little goats?” Her face lit up. “How adorable is that?”

  Seth shook his head. “Well, not yet, anyway. From what I read, I thought sheep would work better. They’re housed in the round barn down the hill right now because of the storm. Otherwise, though, they’re out to pasture, and Dex is out there watching over them for parts of the day. We don’t have a coyote issue at the vineyard, at least not since I’ve been here, so the flock isn’t really threatened, but Dex doesn’t know that. Otherwise he’s in his own paddock or in here with me. He’ll eat too much if he stays in the fields all day.” He lifted a shoulder. “It’s not the optimal setup, for him or for me, but it works for now, and he seems happy enough.” He glanced at Dex. “Maybe over time we can find him a buddy closer to his own size.”

  “So, you didn’t already have them? The sheep I mean. You bought him his own herd?”

  Seth smiled briefly. “I made a promise that I’d take care of him. It works, and they’re not too much trouble. I actually have a few local kids who come up and help out with them. The Bluebird ladies will come do the shearing when it’s time, and I let them keep the wool for their projects. It just sort of works itself out.”

  “The Bluebird ladies?”

  “An artists’ guild that works out of a restored silk mill down in Blue Hollow Falls. Long story,” he said with another smile. “I imagine you’ll meet them at some point.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Pippa said, and so sincerely he suspected it would end up happening before too long. Pippa turned to the llama and juggled the cat in her arms so she could give him a proper salute. “Sergeant Dexter of the Royal Sheep Guard, sir,” she said proudly.

  Seth could have sworn Dexter stood a little taller at that, and smiled to himself.

  “So, who did you buy the goats for?”

  Seth looked at Pippa, a smile playing around his mouth. “What makes you think I bought them for anyone? Maybe they came with the place, like your pal, Sergeant Pepper, there.”

  Pippa set the cat down, then straightened and folded her arms on the
top of the stall door, her smile bemused. “Let’s call it a hunch.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment, then looked back to his computer screen and punched a few buttons. Not for any actual purpose other than to keep her from reading him like a book, which was apparently another one of her superpowers. “They were a Christmas present for the sister of a friend of mine,” he admitted.

  “The whole lot of them?” Pippa asked, sounding surprised.

  He glanced at her and chuckled. “I bought a whole herd of sheep for a llama, but you’re surprised I bought a handful of goats for a ten-year-old girl?”

  “She’s just ten?” Pippa’s expression softened. “Why goats?”

  “Long story, but Bailey—my friend’s step-sister, and my friend as well—has had an . . . unconventional life. She had goats at one point, and Sunny, her half-sister, got her a few small-breed sheep last year, which Bailey keeps at her place. Well, Addison Pearl’s place, which is now Bailey’s home as well. Addie Pearl sort of adopted Bailey when an inheritance here brought Bailey’s existence to light. She was in foster care before that.” He smiled at Pippa’s look of confusion. “It’s an unusual family tree, but Addie, Sawyer—the friend I was referring to—along with Sunny, and Bailey, were scattered all over before the inheritance of the old mill brought them all together. Now they all live here in Blue Hollow Falls. Still unconventional, I guess, but it works.”

  “Sounds really nice, actually. And Bailey has a true home now. That’s all that matters.”