Fingers of mist drift low in the valley, ensnaring trees and bushes in a gentle, transitory embrace.
Ailsa hurries forward, biting her lip as the sharp frost eats into her fingers, drumming relentlessly into her arthritic knuckles.
The barn is empty, the wood-shed locked. He surely can’t have gone far?
Panic rises, like bile in her throat. She’d better phone for help.
Back at the farmhouse, Joe hunches over the kitchen table, jaws manipulating a chunk of soda-bread, sausages sizzling on the hob.
“Anything wrong, love?”
She folds into the chair opposite.
“Everything’s fine, dear. Just stretching my legs.”
A lovely morning here today, brilliant sunshine, contrails criss-crossing clear blue skies, and the builders back at work in the mud-bath outside our kitchen door, with no reason to expect an early finish… yay! Thanks to Rochelle, the first lady of Friday Fictioneers for all her hard work.