Page 102 of Not Just for Christmas

I could have wept with frustration. The line was cutting in and out, and we were speaking over one another.

‘I do want you here for Christmas,’ I yelled. ‘Very much.’

He laughed. ‘No need to shout, but that’s the best news I’ve had all day.’

‘Actually, not just for Christmas,’ I blurted out. There was silence on the other end. ‘Hello?’

‘I’m going into a tunn—’ Dylan’s voice sounded very faraway and crackly.

I gripped the phone tightly as the line went dead. I redialled but it went straight to voicemail and seconds later, he sent me a text.

Sorry, terrible mobile signal here. Working now until late – I’ve got an all-night session at a recording studio. Car booked for lunchtime. See you at Merrydown tomorrow afternoon. Love Dylan x

‘Hurry home,’ I murmured. Because despite how hopeless it was, I couldn’t help myself falling in love with him.

Chapter 43

The winter sun, pale as clotted cream, peeked from behind fluffy white clouds in an otherwise blue sky as I tipped cattle feed into troughs for the pregnant cows. The animals shuffled forward, tails swishing to the gentle noises from the milking parlour next door. The air was rich with the familiar blend of hay, warm cows and the ever-present tang of the sea in the distance. Sam zipped back and forward across the yard on his scooter, singing ‘Jingle Bells’ at the top of his voice while Gus scampered after him, barking excitedly and trying to steal the mittens dangling from the sleeves of his coat. Watching over us from the holly tree was a robin, its red breast matching perfectly with the red berries which glowed like little jewels among the waxy green leaves.

It was Christmas Eve, possibly my favourite day of the holiday, when the farm seemed to hum with anticipation and excitement, and we dashed through our chores, doing extra today so we could take it easier tomorrow.

In theory, keeping busy was also helping me from thinking about Dylan’s return in approximately eighty-six minutes’ time. It wasn’t entirely successful.

I looked up as Pete, at the wheel of the tractor, returned from the top field, where he’d taken a trailer-load of turnips for the heifers. The tractor was flying along over the bumps at speed. Someone was in a hurry. Not that I blamed him. It was early afternoon already and he was probably looking forward to finishing work and joining his family for the start of the festivities.

He came to an abrupt halt in front of the barn and jumped down from the cab.

‘Where’s the fire?’ I shouted to him.

‘Desperate for a cuppa,’ he yelled, jogging over to me. I didn’t think I’d seen him jog before.

‘Me too, please,’ I said. ‘There’s some gingerbread men in the biscuit tin, bring those out if you fancy one?’

‘I do!’ Sam Radar-ears Oakley piped up.

‘Tell you what, I’ll finish this.’ He took the bucket of feed from my hands. ‘Then you can make it, perhaps Sam could go in with you, and I’ll join you in a few minutes?’

‘I can’t go in yet.’ I produced a tube of udder mint from my pocket. ‘One of the ladies has signs of mastitis. My next job is to apply this cream to her sore bits.’

‘Bugger.’ Pete tugged at his beard. ‘Just do me a favour, love, and go inside, just for twenty minutes. Please.’

‘Peter.’ I folded my arms. ‘What have you broken? You’re trying to hide something from me, I can tell. Come on, out with it.’

‘I’d make a useless spy,’ Pete grumbled. ‘Couldn’t keep a secret if my life depended on it.’

‘What secret?’

‘I give up.’ He threw his hands in the air. ‘All right, fine. I promised Dylan I’d make sure you were inside when he gave me the nod. He’s just given me the nod.’

‘Is he here already?’ I gulped. Not that I was vain, but I’d rather not greet him with bits of straw in my hair and splashes of cow muck up my jeans.

‘Nope.’ He tapped his breast pocket where he kept his phone. ‘Just messaged me.’

‘But why do I need to go in?’ I demanded.

‘Sam and you,’ he corrected. ‘It’s a Christmas surprise from Dylan.’

The sound of a large vehicle came rumbling up the lane towards the farm.