"Just tell me what you want me to do."
She pursed her lips to hide a smile and nodded. The day was definitely improving as it went along. "Okay," she said agreeably. "All the ewes will lamb over a period of about three weeks. It’s hard to keep a close watch on so many, so to cut the odds, I divide them into groups—first week, second week—"
"Okay, I got that." He gave her a sideways glance. "You, uh, don’t figure this out by the sort of hands–on examination I witnessed yesterday? I hope?"
She shook her head. "No, that’s for the final sorting. I go by the numbers. Breeding records." She took a folded piece of notebook paper from the pocket of her windbreaker and held it out to him. "Those are the numbers of the ones I’ll separate out today. They should all lamb during the first week."
"Numbers?" Luke was scanning the list. "What’s this red 104? Purple 9l2?"
"Ear tags." She climbed the fence, and paused with one leg over the top to look down at him. "Coming?"
He gave a pained sigh and followed, but took more time and care. When he landed lightly in the dusty pen, several ewes lying in the immediate vicinity chewing their cud lurched to their feet and stood stamping at the intruder in their midst.
"You can man the gate," Delilah told him as she moved off through the milling flock. She could feel him following, moving gingerly.
"Can you be more specific?" he asked.
She explained with exaggerated patience that he was to hold the gate to the pasture, opening it to let out unwanted animals, and closing it to thwart the escape of the ones she chose to keep.
"Think you can handle that?" Okay, she knew she was deliberately taunting him, but in fact the job wasn’t as easy as it sounded. She was beginning to look forward to the morning’s work.
"I think so," Luke said dryly, refusing to be goaded. He handed her the list.
"You keep it. I’ll call out the ear tag numbers to you, and you can tell me whether they’re on the list or not."
"Okay, sure."
"Ready?"
He lifted his shoulders and grinned. Delilah grinned back. "Okay, city boy—let’s see how it goes."
It went well. Surprisingly and disappointingly well.
Luke had good reflexes and enough strength to wield the heavy wooden gate with a degree of precision that Delilah couldn’t have managed. Time after time she would shout, "Let that one go!" and watch the gate swing open at just the right moment, only to slam back in the nick of time to frustrate the head–down escape run of the animal right behind. By midmorning she was covered with dust and sweat and was thoroughly out–of–sorts, and Luke was lounging against the gatepost looking as gorgeous as ever and handling his job with his usual grace, and even with a certain flair.
Delilah kept throwing him glances, more of frustration than of grudging admiration. His comeuppance was not proceeding as planned.
Just before noon, with only a few animals yet to be culled from the flock in the holding pen, Delilah paused, frowning, to wipe sweat from her forehead with her shirtsleeve.
"What about 907, Luke? Is she on that list?"
"Yeah. With a question mark."
"Right. I remember now. I don’t have a date on her, but when I checked her yesterday I thought she seemed to be showing some development. I’m going to check her again, just to be sure."
But the canny Suffolk had learned something from the previous day’s experience. Once Delilah had a grip on her, she displayed a degree of intelligence rare in sheep, and directed her charge straight into the heart of the milling flock. A short, placid Hampshire set a perfect screen, and Delilah, trying to maintain her grip on one animal’s neck while leaping over the other, tripped and fell face down in dust and well–trampled sheep manure.
Sheep are very sure–footed. Delilah wasn’t trampled, and nothing was hurt except her dignity. Before she could even shake herself, she felt hands on her waist, back, shoulders, hair; heard Luke’s voice, taut
She pursed her lips to hide a smile and nodded. The day was definitely improving as it went along. "Okay," she said agreeably. "All the ewes will lamb over a period of about three weeks. It’s hard to keep a close watch on so many, so to cut the odds, I divide them into groups—first week, second week—"
"Okay, I got that." He gave her a sideways glance. "You, uh, don’t figure this out by the sort of hands–on examination I witnessed yesterday? I hope?"
She shook her head. "No, that’s for the final sorting. I go by the numbers. Breeding records." She took a folded piece of notebook paper from the pocket of her windbreaker and held it out to him. "Those are the numbers of the ones I’ll separate out today. They should all lamb during the first week."
"Numbers?" Luke was scanning the list. "What’s this red 104? Purple 9l2?"
"Ear tags." She climbed the fence, and paused with one leg over the top to look down at him. "Coming?"
He gave a pained sigh and followed, but took more time and care. When he landed lightly in the dusty pen, several ewes lying in the immediate vicinity chewing their cud lurched to their feet and stood stamping at the intruder in their midst.
"You can man the gate," Delilah told him as she moved off through the milling flock. She could feel him following, moving gingerly.
"Can you be more specific?" he asked.
She explained with exaggerated patience that he was to hold the gate to the pasture, opening it to let out unwanted animals, and closing it to thwart the escape of the ones she chose to keep.
"Think you can handle that?" Okay, she knew she was deliberately taunting him, but in fact the job wasn’t as easy as it sounded. She was beginning to look forward to the morning’s work.
"I think so," Luke said dryly, refusing to be goaded. He handed her the list.
"You keep it. I’ll call out the ear tag numbers to you, and you can tell me whether they’re on the list or not."
"Okay, sure."
"Ready?"
He lifted his shoulders and grinned. Delilah grinned back. "Okay, city boy—let’s see how it goes."
It went well. Surprisingly and disappointingly well.
Luke had good reflexes and enough strength to wield the heavy wooden gate with a degree of precision that Delilah couldn’t have managed. Time after time she would shout, "Let that one go!" and watch the gate swing open at just the right moment, only to slam back in the nick of time to frustrate the head–down escape run of the animal right behind. By midmorning she was covered with dust and sweat and was thoroughly out–of–sorts, and Luke was lounging against the gatepost looking as gorgeous as ever and handling his job with his usual grace, and even with a certain flair.
Delilah kept throwing him glances, more of frustration than of grudging admiration. His comeuppance was not proceeding as planned.
Just before noon, with only a few animals yet to be culled from the flock in the holding pen, Delilah paused, frowning, to wipe sweat from her forehead with her shirtsleeve.
"What about 907, Luke? Is she on that list?"
"Yeah. With a question mark."
"Right. I remember now. I don’t have a date on her, but when I checked her yesterday I thought she seemed to be showing some development. I’m going to check her again, just to be sure."
But the canny Suffolk had learned something from the previous day’s experience. Once Delilah had a grip on her, she displayed a degree of intelligence rare in sheep, and directed her charge straight into the heart of the milling flock. A short, placid Hampshire set a perfect screen, and Delilah, trying to maintain her grip on one animal’s neck while leaping over the other, tripped and fell face down in dust and well–trampled sheep manure.
Sheep are very sure–footed. Delilah wasn’t trampled, and nothing was hurt except her dignity. Before she could even shake herself, she felt hands on her waist, back, shoulders, hair; heard Luke’s voice, taut
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