Free Competition Can Be Murder by Connie Shelton Page A

the quick head-shake she sent toward Ian. Don’t preach, she seemed to be warning him.
    “All right, folks,” her perky voice said. “Come with me to the fenced area. We have some other demonstrations and you can feed some of the animals if you’d like.”
    Everyone scrambled off their rock seats and followed her, glad to avoid the sermon they’d nearly received. I lingered, watching Ian pick up his tools and the ball of wool. He stomped off toward the barn while the crowd trailed behind Ramona.
    This was the second angry outburst I’d heard from Ian on the subject of the government’s unfairness toward the sheep industry. Perhaps the third considering his voice was probably one of those I’d heard outside our window Tuesday morning. Did that anger extend to a personal vendetta against one member of the Scottish parliament—Robert Dunbar?

Chapter 11

    Ian appeared to have shed his anger once again when he came out of the barn and joined the tourists. I stood by for a little while as he demonstrated how the youngest puppies are taught herding techniques using ducks. I had to laugh as I watched some of the little collies work around ducks that were larger than themselves.
    Ramona mingled among the visitors, smiling and chatting, making up for some of Ian’s taciturn ways. I caught up with her during a free moment. It looked like the tourists would be staying awhile. I decided I’d question Ian another time about being at the edge of the woods during the fire in the crofter’s hut.
    “I better be getting home,” I told Ramona. “Tell Ian I really enjoyed the dog show. And do plan to come over to our place for a visit sometime.”
    “Sure, Charlie, I will.”
    Drake was still out when I returned to the cottage and I realized this was the first afternoon I’d had to myself in a couple of weeks. I stretched out on the sofa with the clan book Sarah had loaned me. Before I knew it, I was completely engrossed and began taking notes on the Davidson Clan history. Somewhere around four o’clock I must have dozed off because I came awake with a start when Drake opened the door at six.
    “Hey, what’s this?” he teased. “Sleeping on the job?”
    “Um . . . no job for me today. I’ve taken a lazy afternoon off.” I stretched and pulled myself off the sofa. “How about you? Did everything go okay at the airport?”
    “I stayed in and made phone calls. We didn’t have any flights scheduled out to the rig, luckily.”
    “Any word on Meggie?” I asked as I opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a bottle of White Zinfandel we’d opened a couple of days earlier.
    “She’s back at home, with her mother fussing over her. The doctors told her she had a mild concussion. They kept her overnight and let her out first thing this morning.”
    “They weren’t worried about that long period of unconsciousness?” I asked, pouring two glasses of wine.
    “I asked her that. Apparently the doctors didn’t think she’d probably been out that long. We may have come back right after the intruder left.”
    We raised our glasses in a quick toast. I tried vainly to remember every detail about the Air-Sea offices when we’d come in from our own eventful flight. Had there been any strange cars around? Anyone who didn’t belong, lurking? I just couldn’t pull up an image.
    “Anyway,” he said, “Meggie should be back at work in another day or two. Brian had called her and talked her into not quitting her job.”
    I scanned the contents of the refrigerator for dinner ideas while we talked. “Are we both flying tomorrow?”
    “That’s the plan. We’ll take both ships and keep an eye on each other.” He watched as I took a couple of chicken breasts out and stirred up a marinade for them.
    Thirty minutes later, over dinner, I filled him in on my day with Ian and Ramona Brodie. We also mapped out our flight plans for the next day, then went to bed early.
    By ten o’clock the next morning, my JetRanger was tracking