The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (read full novel TXT) 📗

‘I’ve been up to my neck in it since I started running the place at Easter. Bad time to be called back, if I’m honest, but can’t do much about that. Can I take your bag off you?’

I instinctively clench the straps of my rucksack and jerk to the side when he reaches for my shoulder. ‘God, sorry. That’s my London muscle memory kicking in.’

‘If I was going to rob you, I wouldn’t have gone to the effort of driving across the firth in that thing to do it.’ Kian thumbs over his shoulder to where a neglected, rust-eaten Jeep straddles two parking spaces. ‘She runs, but only just. In warning: the roads aren’t great around Kilroch, but if you can see the tarmac through the hole in the foot well, we shouldn’t go too far wrong.’

Kian heaves my suitcase into the boot like he’s loading a sack of potatoes. It bounces off the back seat, already scuffed with muck.

I climb into the passenger seat and try and look for a space on the floor that isn’t covered by food wrappers, dried mud, or scrunched tissues. When it becomes apparent that this isn’t a possibility, I swallow and wedge my rucksack between my knees. Kian settles in next to me and tries to smooth his hair down, smiling in apology.

‘I didn’t have time to clean up. Sorry.’ Kian glances over at me as the engine whirrs lethargically to life.

‘Don’t apologise, it’s fine,’ I say.

I open Google Maps on my phone and try to make subtle glances out of the window to check that we’re heading in the right direction and not to a dodgy lock-up unit round the back of an industrial estate. I glance at Kian, who uses a screwdriver jammed behind the steering wheel as an improvised lever for the windscreen wipers. Despite the mucky clothes and faint, earthy smell of animals, Kian doesn’t seem like a farmer. Mind you, my only frame of reference comes from happy days spent watching Matt Baker herd sheep with his border collie on Blue Peter. There’s something about chequered shirts, a shrill whistle, and big arms holding tiny lambs that’s incredibly alluring.

‘I had to come straight from the sows,’ says Kian. ‘Some of the breeding stock aren’t producing enough milk, but I can’t figure out why. I’ve tried massaging their mammary glands, but it isn’t easy as it sounds.’ Kian sighs, exhausted. ‘The vet can sort it out, but I don’t want to call her. It costs a fortune.’

One: it doesn’t sound easy at all; and two: Kian has crushed my farmer fantasy in an alarmingly short time.

He winds the window down and sticks his arm out, motioning at the oncoming traffic to stop. ‘Indicators don’t work,’ he says as he pulls out, the engine whirring in protest.

‘Oh, right.’ I tuck my hands between my thighs to try and warm them up.

‘Know much about pigs?’

‘Err … I’ve seen Babe a few times. It’s the only film that makes me cry.’

‘Oh, aye? Bit soppy, are you?’

I openly scoff. ‘Ha. I wouldn’t say so.’

‘Each to their own. But give me The Notebook and I’ll be howling for days.’

Our laughter fades into titters, then silence, as the wipers hurl themselves from one side of the windscreen to the other. Kian taps on the steering wheel and sucks his teeth.

‘So, is Braehead a family farm?’ I ask. Kian nods vigorously, delighted that I’ve found a way to kick-start the small talk.

‘Yeah, yeah, I guess it is. My granddad ran the place until now. Some of the wholesalers in the area have been dealing with him for the best part of fifty years. I don’t think he ever thought it’d be me coming back to take up the reins, not when I moved to Edinburgh, mind. It should have been Dad, but he passed away when I was wee, so … yeah. Didn’t have much choice really.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. That must have been tough.’

‘Ah, I was young. Can’t remember it. Granddad’s in an old folks’ home now. You couldn’t take him off the farm for love or naught, but he’s eighty-seven with a dodgy back, so it was only a matter of time before something happened. Get the window, will you? Wave your hand a bit so they know we’re turning left.’

‘Right, got it.’ I do as I’m told and stick my hand out into the drizzle. We turn onto a road that takes us out past the town and onto a suspension bridge that runs over the rippled waves of the North Sea.

‘What happened?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘To your granddad.’

‘Got kicked in the head by a bull. The concussion was bad and he never fully recovered.’

‘Oh my God, that’s awful.’

‘You’d be surprised how common it is,’ he says. Kian catches my eye and breaks into a smile. ‘Don’t worry about the bulls. I sold them when I took over the farm. It’s just pigs, chickens, and sheep now. And trout when we get the lake stocked.’

‘I bet you host a killer barbecue in summer.’

‘You’d think so, but I’m not a meat eater myself. Can make a crackin’ hummus though.’

‘You’re a vegetarian farmer?’ I ask, twisting in my seat to face him.

‘Yeah, I know. It makes small talk with the fellas over at the cattle market a wee bit awkward.’

‘I can imagine. I am too. Well, most of the time. Except for fish and chips. And sometimes cocktail sausages, but only if they’re part of a Christmas buffet.’

We climb uphill through a pine forest and emerge between undulating fields speckled with Highland cows who glance at the rattling Jeep from beneath an ombré forelock.

‘They’re cute,’ I say, cringing at how simple I sound. When I glance at Kian, it’s clear I don’t need to worry.

‘Aye. It’s why I can’t eat them,’ he says, his face soft. ‘I used to hate it when Granddad loaded them onto the truck for the abattoir. They knew what was happening, no doubt. I switched