Cold in the Earth by Aline Templeton Page A

to him by the ties of blood and the needs generated by her own failures. She was demanding, extravagant, possessive and becoming more neurotic with every year that passed. As if his anguish at the thought of losing his own life’s work – the superb black bulls with the same ancient Celtic lineage as the glorious fighting bulls of Spain – weren’t enough, he would no doubt have to cope with what Brett termed ‘one of my petites crises de nerfs ’.
    The first of these had been when her husband, a transparent chancer she’d insisted on marrying against all advice, had decided there must be less costly ways of earning money and walked out. The second was worse, when Jake had signed the papers committing her adored papa to a discreet private nursing home when age had compounded the ravages of absinthe abuse to the point where he was actively dangerous. There had been others over the years, though latterly Jake had come to suspect they were manipulative contrivances directed at ruthlessly forcing her brother or her son into compliance with her selfish demands.
    The sound of a car being driven a little too fast, spurting gravel, cut off Brett’s sobs as if it had triggered a switch. She jumped up, dabbing at her eyes with the end of her scarf.
    ‘That’s Conrad back. He’s the very person who can tell you what to do. I’ll fetch him now.’
    Her departure was a relief. The headache Jake had suffered all day was pounding now and he reached into the desk drawer to take another couple of painkillers, though it was only two hours since he’d taken the last dose and they didn’t seem to be doing much good anyway.
    All day the news had been getting worse. He’d tried telephoning MAFF to point out that the Welsh Black was a rare breed and to offer to put the herd in quarantine along with everyone coming into contact with them, but the only person he had reached was some underling who had just parroted the regulations, then when he lost his temper put the phone down on him.
    And the herd, really, was the only thing nowadays that gave Jake anything recognisable as pleasure – his magnificent beasts, majestic, simple in their needs, honest to their own brute natures. Human relations were ugly and sordid by comparison, a maze of complicated and dangerous paths where you could see no way through – like the maze there at the foot of the garden which he had so deliberately neglected for so many years. He didn’t often allow himself to contemplate the grim wreckage of his life, the failures, the disasters, the terrible secrets, but in the apocalyptic light of present events he found himself contemplating them more and more often. He groaned, shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair, digging his fingers into the base of his skull to try to ease the pain.
    The sound of Brett’s whining tones as she complained her way down the corridor with her son was almost a relief, though there wasn’t much love lost between Jake and his nephew. True, Brett was an unduly possessive mother and far from easy to live with – who knew better than he did himself? – but Conrad treated his mother with cruel impatience and blatant contempt, and even Jake too, in the unguarded moments when his temper got the better of him. Afterwards, he was always obsequiously and unconvincingly apologetic.
    Jake was no fool and Conrad’s strategy, in any case, was hardly subtle. He was desperately hoping to inherit control of the farm – and he probably would, when Jake got around to remaking his will. Conrad had the true Mason feel for the beasts, a good eye for selection, and he’d carry on the tradition of Chapelton champions. Max, though . . .
    It was like pressing on a painful bruise. As always, his mind slid away from the thought of his son.
    He could hear his nephew’s voice now outside the door. At least Jake could trust him over this: the prosperity of the family business was dear to Conrad’s mercenary little black heart. Certainly, as a