Follow a Stranger

What, she wondered, as she climbed the cliff path at

his side, had happened to her hatred and resentment?

From their first meeting she had had a picture of him

as an arrogant, overbearing tyrant whose every word

put her back up. She had detested his self-assurance,

his sarcasm and scornful dismissal of women as mere

playthings. When had all that changed?

She flinched away from too close an examination of

her new feelings. That she no longer bristled at the sight

of him was sufficient food for thought at the moment.

The goatherd’s hut was built of warm creamy stone,

rough and unfaced, but as solid as the rocks beneath it.

The one small window was shuttered and the door

closed.

There was no answer to their knock, so Marc pushed

the door open and shouted. No reply came. The small

room beyond was empty. A wooden ladder led up into

the tiny attic bedroom, from which wisps of straw

protruded, leading Kate to conclude that it was a hay

loft as well as a bedroom.

Marc went out again and walked round the hut,

shouting. Then he came back, shrugged. “Nobody in

sight. I’ll get a fire going. There’s an outhouse with

plenty of dry wood stacked up.” He opened a large

wooden cupboard which took up the whole corner by the

fireplace and produced a thick oiled wool sweater, which

he flung to her, telling her to put it on while he got the

wood.

Gladly she slipped out of her wet clothes and into the

sweater. It was obviously intended for a huge man, and