Trust Me (Trust Me, Find Me 1)

The recovering ewe is now nuzzling one of her babies and my heart’s about to burst.

It’s not a bad life here.

Feeling extremely thankful and more than a little smug, I wander back across the yard to the gorgeous man who is fast asleep in my bed.

CHAPTER 20

-----------?----------

I’ve made us a special meal that evening, as a celebration for saving the ewe and her triplets.

After more glucose and some general TLC, she’s on her feet the whole time and feeding again. The triplets are still strong too.

I thought he’d be happy about it.

And I’ve tried to make an effort. I’ve cooked us fillets of salmon with hollandaise sauce, some asparagus and new potatoes. I’ve even found a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio.

But Jac is still out of sorts, and is sitting in a sulk, moodily eating his food.

That’s it. I’ve had enough.

Taking a good gulp of the chilled dry wine, I launch in.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s up, or do I have to put up with your smacked arse face all evening?”

“Leave off, Annie.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Maybe, we have spent too much time together over the last weeks. It doesn’t help that we’re both working from the crack of dawn all day, and getting up in the night. When you think of it like that, I reason trying hard not to cry, it’s not surprising he’s grumpy. We’re both way beyond tired.

I push my plate away.

“Alright. I’ll do the feeds tonight. Gotta do something to improve that foul mood of yours.”

He takes a drink of wine.

“What is it, Jac?”

A tear escapes despite my best efforts.

“Tell me what’s up?”

He plays with the stem of his wine glass.

“It’s you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. Is he ending it? How have I not seen this coming?

“What’ve I done?”

“Nothing.”

He glances up, surprised to see me upset.

“Hey, Annie. What’s up, hun? Just ignore me, I’m knackered.”

“Is it over between us?”

“God! No.”

He stares at me shocked.

“How could you think that? I want to be with you always.”

“You do?”

“Yeah…I can’t imagine my life without you.”

“Nor me.”

I swallow a sob of relief.

“What is it, then, Jac? Tell me what’s wrong. What’ve I done?”

He stares at the straw-coloured wine and takes a drink.

“You’ve not done anything. It’s… I…”

He struggles to find the words.

“That ewe could’ve died. They all could’ve had listeriosis. And I didn’t have a bloody clue.”

His bitterness makes me shudder, and I stretch my hands across the table, finding his.

“Jac, it’s alright. How could you’ve known? I spent most of my childhood in that shed. There are loads of things you’ve done on the farm that I could never do.”

“Like what?”

“Like, all that fencing for a start. And the stock rotation. The work you’ve done on improving the grass. You’ve researched it, you’ve found better ways of doing things. I’d never have done that.”

He shrugs.

“And those new rams?”

“I guess… But, I couldn’t have done the lambing without you.”

“We make a good team.”

I get up and take our plates over to the sink, wiping my tears away.

He comes over to give me a hand, more relaxed now. I scrub the pans, his words echoing in my brain.

This is the real deal, and it hurts.

“Have you heard from Sion?”

“No. Nothing. Still on that job, I reckon.”

Jac wipes the saucepan dry.

“Before Sion went, he asked me if you’d be interested in him renting the cottage? How d’you feel about me moving in here properly?”

“Makes sense. You spend all your time here anyway.”

His clothes are hanging up in the wardrobe and he’s commandeered one of the chests of drawers.

He puts the pan on the worktop and looks at me steadily.

“Are you sure, though? That you want me here? Like, permanently?”

“Are you sure, Jac?”

He draws me to him. The bubbly suds from my hands cling to his jumper.

“I love you, Annie. It’s a big step, though.”

His hands slip around my waist.

“It’s your farm, it’s your decision.”

“No, Jac… it’s our farm now.”

Enveloping me in his arms, he gazes down at me.

“But how is that a good deal for you?”

I try to speak the words that are singing in my heart.

“I love you and I want us to be together. That’s the deal… You cool with that?”

Leaning down, he kisses me deeply.

“I’m cool with that,” he answers huskily. “Lucky I opened that letter.”

“That’s not quite how Sion remembers it.”

???

The pub was packed with a sea of red football shirts. It was derby day. Wrexham had a midweek evening cup draw, playing an arch enemy. It was a classic rivalry. Red versus blue. Wales versus England.

When such honour was at stake, tensions were high; and a little trouble inevitably spilled out between the diehard fans. Even with the heavy police presence around the ground, it was the perfect backdrop for Sion to carry out his mission.

He scanned the crowd. Everyone wearing the same thing made it difficult to spot the dealer. His mark.

Sion was wearing a red and white striped football scarf over his leather jacket, especially for the occasion.

The long, thin misericorde was sheathed and taped to his shin, and a flick knife secreted in his coat, in case of any upfront bother.

His burner phone pinged in his pocket, and his stomach lurched. He was a professional, but still, he’d never done this before.

Death by stabbing.

His hands covered in blood. Literally.

‘I’m at the table by the window. Where are you?’

Si

on spotted him. In the far corner; he was sitting on his own in a booth, staring meanly into his phone.

In front of him was a table of used pint glasses, and beside him a pile of coats, dumped by the punters who preferred to stand.

His mark clocked Sion jostling his way out of the throng of the footie fans.

“About bleedin’ time.”

Sion held out his hand and gave him a disarming smile.

The mark stared at it and reluctantly shook hands.

Shifting the coats, Sion sat down, across from him in the booth.

“So, where you from?”

“Out West. The coast.”

“What? Got no suppliers there, then?”

“Yeah. Plenty,” Sion bluffed. “But I’m building my range. The punters these days, they’ve got more diverse tastes. Coke ‘n doves don’t cut it no more.”

“What you after?”

“Lemon drops?”

“Yeah, easy. I can do you M-cat, Ket, Monkey Dust, Meth… whatever, man.”

“Sweet. You got samples?”

“Yeah. But not here. Bogs in two minutes? Second stall from the door.”

The mark grabbed the zipped bag beside him, and gulping the last of his lager headed without another word through the crowd to the toilets at the back of the pub.

Sion watched the football fans parting, letting him through, sometimes with a nod of acknowledgement. Sion was on this dude’s turf.

The next moves were critical.

He had visualised it so many times, but it was an entirely different thing to do it for real.

His gut twisted again. He wasn’t a hand to hand fighter; he was a sniper.

So, do what you always do before you take the shot, he told himself.

Regulate your pulse. That’s it, slow and steady breaths.

He took his time, breathing in and out, visualising his next steps.

Retrieve the blade.

Open the door.

Spring him.

Grab him and hold his neck fast from behind.

Then stab.

Go on, do it. Do it quickly before he can wriggle out of your grasp.

One blow. Powerful. Precise. Straight through the base of his skull and up into the brainstem.

That’s it. Do it - boom!

Now, stop fannying about, he told himself.

Go get him.

Revved up, Sion sliced swiftly through the crowd to the back of the pub, cutting across to the door by the toilets, pushing through into the corridor.