Darkest by Ashe Barker Read Free Book Online Page B

not to let spill. I squeeze her hand as I press the receiver back to my ear.
    “I guess it’s all sorted? What did you say to her?”
    “Yes, it’s sorted. I told her she’s the closest I’ve come to a mother in years. Rosie loves her, we all love her, and as soon as the hospital chuck her out she belongs at home with us. That’s what a family’s for. So she’s coming home. I’ll text you details of the nursing agency I used before—would you mind ringing them and arranging cover for a couple of weeks.”
    “Brilliant. I’m on it. I knew she’d listen to you. Thanks.”
    His voice is low again, seductive. “No, thank you , babe. You’re the one holding it all together there for me. I really do appreciate what you’ve done. What you’re doing. I just wish I could finish up here and get a flight out.”
    “Me too. But it won’t be long now, hopefully. We all miss you…” My voice trails away as I realise that Grace is listening intently, all her matchmaking instincts on red alert.
    “Phone me tonight, babe. I’d like to thank you properly.” That soft, caressing tone is full of promise. I hang up, trembling in anticipation. Grace just smirks.

Chapter Four
    I’ll never tire of this moody, untamed landscape, ever-changing from one moment to the next. A fireburst, an eruption of vivid colours—vibrant reds, oranges, golds, greens—glittering and sharp, brought to life by the bright sunlight sparkling through wispy clouds. And as the clouds shift this is transformed before my eyes to become a gently smudged, muted blend of greys, blues and browns, layered in the hazy half-light. Only to burst into life, the moors once again awash with glittering, hectic frenzy, glowing with summer freshness as the skies clear and bright sunlight streams back over the heather and gorse.
    And the wildlife is as changeable, as sharply contrasting as their volatile home. The grumpy chatter of jackdaws squabbling with the raucous squawk of wild ducks, their wings graceful as they glide across the tarn, their long necks outstretched, following their leader. Even the sheep are rugged, resilient, independent little souls, nibbling their unhurried way across coarse meadow and through rough bracken. Their hooves scramble carelessly over the remains of ancient walls now tumbled into piles of hard, black stone, the best pieces long since carried away to be reshaped, timelessly recycled, resurrected.
    The three of us—me, Rosie and Barney—have covered miles on foot these last few days. Rosie knows every inch of these rolling hillsides, which surround her home, and has shared them with me—all her favourite places. I’ve dropped pebbles in a gently babbling stream crossed by an ancient stone bridge, and crouched behind a rushing waterfall, fierce and overflowing from the recent rain. I’ve walked through ancient ruined farmsteads, dignified in their echoes of a life long gone, and I’ve leaned over new garden walls to admire tastefully designed barn conversions, gracious modern living reborn from the heart of traditional moorland stock. Rather like Black Combe.
    We’ve climbed, panting, up the towering grassy slopes to stand at the top of the world, to gaze across miles and miles of unbroken wildness. We’ve turned our faces to the far horizons, often hazy, frequently obscured by mist, but sometimes glowing in the late afternoon sunshine. And always beautiful in all her moods, always grand, timeless and solid. I look forward to seeing this landscape changing with the seasons—watching the moors shift from autumnal auburn shades to a wintry platinum blonde. Then to burst into golden life again as spring creeps back across the hills.
    This is our last day of just the two of us—three if Barney counts. And I suppose he does. Grace is coming home tomorrow. She’s due at four, and the agency nurse is lined up to arrive at two o’clock. We’ve prepared a spare room for the nurse, but we got Tom to help us move things around in