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‘And I doubt those women have a farm and wellness retreat to run.’ Rita whipped Jago’s bum with a tea towel. ‘Just go!’

With the dishwasher loaded, she headed to the porch and was halfway through pulling on her wellies when she paused, resting a hand on her stomach as she sat for a moment. She couldn’t deny she was shattered, and completely unprepared to meet the tiny humans they had created. But she also couldn’t deny how much she loved Jago Jenken. They made a good team, and with his steady presence beside her, she knew everything would be OK.

It had been just a scud, a word Hilda, Rita’s mother-in-law, often uttered – old dialect for a brief, sharp burst of rain, and one Rita rather liked using. It had swept through and cleared the air, leaving a crisp October bite behind.

Rita followed the boot-worn path towards the chickens and goats, her wellies muddy from the damp earth. Morning mist hovered low over the fields, and the wind carried the faint tang of salt from the sea beyond High Meadow.

She looked across to the outbuildings. The insurance money from the fire that had decimated the Cosy Café marquee in the spring, had come through swiftly, allowing the new café space to be completed in time for the recent five-day wellness retreat. A solid stone extension now linked seamlessly to the original Nook, creating an inviting haven for coffee, cake, meals, and quiet contemplation.

The chickens clustered at Rita’s boots, indignant and bossy. ‘Yes, yes, it’s coming.’ She began to scatter their feed. ‘Honestly, you lot are worse than me when my pickled onion craving kicks in.’

A tightening low in her abdomen made her pause. She stilled. ‘Oh no,’ she whispered.

She reached into the pocket of her rain mac and pulled out her phone.

One per cent battery. ‘You have got to be joking.’ Rita grimaced.

She stabbed at Jago’s name. ‘No, no, no,’ she cried as the screen went black.

Another wave rolled through her, stronger this time. Not a contraction exactly, more a heavy, grinding pressure that made her knees soften.

‘This is not how it’s meant to happen.’ Her breath was shaky, but talking to herself felt strangely calming. ‘We had a plan.’

Her caesarean was booked. Hospital bag packed. Notes for everyone in a folder on the kitchen table. She was not supposed to be standing in a chicken run in October with a dead phone and no one within shouting distance.

The pressure built again, and this time fear lanced through her. What if something was wrong? Her breath quickened. The world narrowed to the sound of her own pulse in her ears and the frantic clucking around her.

She gripped the fence and lowered herself into the hay inside the coop. Straw scratched against her palms. The hens eyed her suspiciously, one hopping onto the low perch above as if supervising.

As she shouted for help just in case anyone was in earshot, a tear slipped down her cheek. This was not like when Thom and Sennen had come. That labour had been fast but fierce, pain that roared and demanded. This was heavier, slower and terrifyingly unfamiliar.

She pressed a hand to her belly and screamed Jago’s name.

Then, as if a miracle had occurred, a low, familiar growl cut through the wind. The unmistakable sound of his Defender.

Rita’s head jerked up. For a second she thought she was imagining it, some desperate hallucination. Then tyres crunched over gravel. The coop door banged open. Her handsome fiancé filled the doorway, wind-flushed and breathless, eyes already scanning, already calculating.

‘Rita,’ Jago shouted. ‘Shit, Rita.’

Crossing the area in three strides, he took in everything in one sweep.

‘My phone,’ she managed. ‘One per cent. I tried to…’

‘I got one ring.’ His voice remained level. ‘Then it cut off. I knew.’

Another wave hit her and she gasped, folding forward. His arm was around her instantly, steady, solid, warm.

‘This is not like before,’ she whispered, panic slipping through her voice. ‘Something’s not right.’

His jaw tightened but his voice stayed calm and controlled. ‘OK. It’s OK, darling. But we’re not guessing here.’

He pulled his phone from his pocket. ‘Ambulance.’ He spoke clearly when they answered, eyes never leaving her face. ‘Thirty-seven weeks pregnant?’ he questioned. Rita nodded furiously. ‘C-section booked for five days’ time. Forty-seven years old. Please be as quick as you can.’

He gave their location, one hand still anchoring her.

‘You are not allowed to have these babies in a chicken coop.’ He brushed hair off her damp forehead. ‘This is not part of our birth plan.’

A shaky laugh escaped her, half sob, half relief.