Who Needs Mr Willoughby?. Katie Oliver

you send a car to pick me up?” she asked.

      “It’ll be a while, miss. The only squad car’s gone off to Carywick to check on a reported robbery.”

      “It’s probably mine,” Marianne snapped, and rang off. “Idiots.”

      Another growl of thunder rumbled overhead.

      She’d barely finished the call when rain began to fall, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Within seconds – déjà vu all over again – she was wet through and shivering, her hair plastered to her head.

      At least the slime-sucking, lying bastards who’d stolen Lady Violet’s car hadn’t got her handbag…or her mobile.

      But how, she thought with a sinking feeling, was she to get back to Barton Park now?

      Marianne was about to turn around – to do what, exactly, she had no idea – when a pickup truck, battered and faded, approached and slowed down. Three dogs – border collies, one black, one reddish-brown, and one white and tan – occupied the truck’s bed.

      She froze and eyed the vehicle warily as the driver let his window down. He had rumpled brown hair and wore a quizzical expression on his face.

      “Having a bad day, are you?” he inquired in a broad Northumberland accent.

      “I’ve had better,” Marianne retorted, and kept walking.

      The truck kept pace and drew alongside her once again. “It’s not the right sort of weather for a walk today.”

      “Do tell,” Marianne snapped.

      “What’s happened? Did your car break down? And if it did,” he added, frowning as he surveyed the road behind and ahead of him, “where is it?”

      “Yes, my car broke down. A lovely man named Brian stopped to fix it,” she informed him grimly, still walking, “and after he started it up, he stole it right out from under me.”

      “Did he, now?” His eyebrows shot skyward. “So did you call the police?”

      “I did,” she said. “But there’s nothing they can do, apparently, aside from filling out forms and making excuses, and they told me their only squad car’s out on a robbery call.”

      “Aye,” he nodded, “that’ll be the hardware store in Carywick, I reckon. Someone threw a wrench through the front window this morning and broke in.”

      “Was one of them driving a yellow Hyundai?” Marianne asked. “If so, they’re the same bastards who stole my car.”

      “I don’t know about that,” he said. “Did you call a petrol station?”

      Her feet were beginning to ache, but she kept walking. “Yes, I did,” she snapped. “I called all two of them. No one answered.”

      “Well, the one in Lambert’s closed, now that I think of it. Bobby’s wife just had their sixth this morning. Six kids!” He shook his head. “And if you call the Endwhistle station, you need to hang on the line for at least seventeen rings before old Malcolm’ll hear and answer the phone.”

      “Good to know,” she gritted.

      “I’m headed to Endwhistle now. I can give you a lift if you like. If you don’t mind sitting in the back of the truck with the sheepdogs, that is,” he added.

      She stopped. “Why should I have to do that? Why can’t I sit up front?”

      “I’ve a passenger already.”

      She peered past him. “But I don’t see anyone –” Just then, she glimpsed a small, black-faced sheep curled up on the seat beside him.

      “Oh, how cute! Who is she?” she asked, and lifted her brow as she met his gaze. “Your girlfriend?”

      His eyes darkened. “That’s Emily,” he said shortly. “She often rides with me.”

      “Well,” Marianne said, trying hard to hold on to her temper as the rain plastered her shirt to her skin, and uncomfortably aware that her bra was plainly visible through the thin cotton, “do you think you might make room for the both of us?”

      He grunted and heaved Emily into the center of the bench seat, and Marianne, wet and shivering (not to mention highly annoyed), pushed the wellies on the floorboard aside and climbed in.

      With a reproachful look from Emily and a slight, bemused shake of the head from the driver, they set off.

      ***

      “I hope the police find my car,” Marianne said.

      “I wouldn’t bank on it,” he informed her. “Those lads – and your car – are probably long gone.”

      She turned to glare at him. “Thanks so much for your reassuring words of comfort.”

      He shrugged. “Better to face reality than believe in fairy tales, I always say.”

      “You would,” she retorted. “Listen…do you think you could take me to Hadleighshire instead? I don’t have enough money for a taxi back.”

      “Hadleighshire?” He let out a snort of disbelief. “But I’m not going to Hadleighshire. I’m not a taxi service, you know.”

      “It’s only sixteen kilometres. More or less.”

      “Only sixteen kilometers, she says!” He scowled. “Petrol’s expensive, in case you didn’t know. And I’ve got the dogs.” He reached out to ruffle the lamb’s ears. “And Emily.”

      “At least it’s stopped raining,” she pointed out. “The dogs can dry out on the way.”

      “And tell me – why should I go so far out of my way for you?”

      She glared at him. “Because you’re obviously such a kind, considerate person.”

      “If – and that’s a very big ‘if’ – I decide to take you there,” he said after a moment, “I’ll have to charge you.”

      Marianne’s eyes widened in outrage. “Charge me? Are you serious? Well, so much for north country hospitality.”

      “Twenty-five pounds. Take it or leave it.”

      She gasped. “Twenty-five pounds to drive me sixteen kilometres? That’s outrageous!” Furious, she reached for the door handle and flung the door open. “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

      She slammed the door; she was certain he’d apologise, and tell her to get back in the truck.

      “Suit yourself.”

      And with a shifting of gears, he gave a shrug, and drove off.

Chapter 8

      Walking downhill on gravel in a pair of kitten heels was not, Marianne soon found, an easy thing to do.

      Nevertheless, her fury at farmer what’s-his-name propelled her onward. What an arsehole. What a rude, money-grubbing, inconsiderate arsehole.

      “‘Better to face reality than believe in fairy tales, I always say,’” she mimicked him under her breath. “Well, you’ve certainly helped me to face reality, you – you sheep-loving jackass!”

      She was nearly at the bottom of the hill when she heard it – the rumble of an approaching vehicle.

      Marianne walked faster. She hoped it was him. She hoped it wasn’t him. She never wanted to see that smirky, jaded face of his, ever again –

      The truck drew alongside of her. “Get in,” he said gruffly.

      She kept walking. “I won’t, thank you all the same. I can’t afford it.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous.