Tangled hearts and black.., p.1
Tangled Hearts and Blackberry Thorns, page 1
Tangled Hearts and Blackberry Thorns
By Laura Briggs
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2023 Laura Briggs
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Cover Image: “Cornish Charm.” Original art, “Various buildings house” by Tastyvector. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dear Reader,
The end is in sight, with only two volumes left in RETURN TO CORNWALL the series. Loose ends will be tied up and future possibilities hinted at—and of course, old friends will drop by for one last hurrah before the series draws to a close.
In this case, we welcome back hen night party planner Teagen, whose wild antics have become a fan favorite from her previous two appearances in Julianne’s world. But clubbing brawls and crazy caravan rides aren’t part of her latest agenda—it’s something much more unexpected that I’m hoping readers will really enjoy watching unfold. Let’s just say Teagen might experience a teensy bit of emotional growth amid the usual chaos she inspires.
Elsewhere, Julianne’s family must face the unthinkable possibility of losing foster son Joel. We know the bond they’ve formed since that fateful October he entered their lives is strong, but what happens next is out of their hands. Meanwhile, Rosie the animal rescuer is faced with a different sort of crisis—will a helping hand from a charming ‘animal whisperer’ provide the answer she's looking for?
It can be emotional to write some character arcs as a book series draws close to an end. The ‘heart’ behind them, the sense that some characters won’t return after this moment, can make it bittersweet. Fortunately, in this case, the story was so much fun to write, and certain moments were both poignant and significant, that there were no regrets for me when the chapters closed. This has been one of my favorites in Julianne’s return, and I think many readers will agree that this might be Teagen’s best appearance yet.
Brew a cuppa if you like and settle in for the next chapter in Julianne’s life, full of heart, humor, and a hint of things to come.
Tangled Hearts and Blackberry Thorns
by
Laura Briggs
Chapter One
The notice for the closure of the old woolery hit me in the gut as I surveyed the notice board outside the hall.
"When did that close?" I asked, feeling my jaw drop.
Jenny, who was putting up the latest bulletins about the church roofing committee, turned my way. "Which place, Julianne?"
"The Tanner place — the arts and crafts centre, where they were raising the prize sheep," I said.
"Oh, a week ago. There wasn't enough money in it for Argus to hold on, especially since he parsed out so much land over the last few years anyway. He sold what was left to someone who applied for a development permit. Council's voting for it, so you know it musn't be the supermarket everybody was hoping for, unless Noreen's dead and word simply hasn't spread."
I held back my smile — the joke was mean, but not without a point, since Noreen Prowse's stranglehold on the council was well documented. "Maybe it's a new cheese factory looking for a spot near a nice Cornish dairy," I joked. "That would suit the local farmers."
"You're dreaming." Jenny posted a flier about the church's autumn harvest fete.
After having turned native in this tiny village of Ceffylgwyn, with its battles over Welsh vs. Cornish spellings and eclectic traditions of forgotten origin, I was as invested in its future as the native-born who had seen the prospects of the English countryside reduced to tourism and 'incomers' and 'emmets' looking for weekend properties — and not just for the sake of raising four children here.
Once upon a time, I had come here as an event planner for the sake of one of the local tourist traps, although one which made a bigger statement in the landscape than the wool crafts centre. Over time, I had left the stately manor of Cliffs House to begin my own event planning business with my former assistant as my partner. Part of a bigger evolution in my life, which included making new friends, learning to eat new foods, and marrying the love of my life who became the father of my children.
The scheduled notice for the upcoming meeting of the local council was posted just below an old fundraiser flier for the local animal haven run by Rosie, which was ever in need of volunteers to clean cat boxes and walk dogs. I gave both a glance before I walked on in the direction of Save the Date, my business, where Kitty would have unlocked the doors to welcome in potential clients.
Front of shop, our window displayed an autumn-themed bouquet courtesy of Kitty's mad skills, with bright reds and russet-streaked yellows and oranges. Twigs awaiting frosting via crystal-like glitter lay spread on the counter, where Kitty had been practicing for an upcoming event, a book publication celebration for a bestselling pictorial guide to Cornwall called Poldark's Footsteps. The publisher was renting our event space, the chic-yet-earthen restored barn, which had room for a sizeable number of guests at any type of party.
"It's me," I called out, as the door's bell chimed. "I'm a little late. It was a difficult morning." I pulled off my jacket and scarf, and made space for my insulated travel cup. This morning I had switched to the comfort of sweet breakfast tea.
"You could've been later if you wanted." Kitty emerged. "There's nothing on, really. So long as someone's here if a potential client walks through, we're all right."
She had pinned her black curls up messily with an office pencil — I could see a little floral fall dress peeking out from beneath the old canvas shoulder-strap overalls that she wore whenever working on tough cleaning projects or doing the kind of furniture-refinishing-to-big-scale-arts-and-crafts kind of project that repurposed old junk we found as elegant statement pieces.
"I didn't have a good excuse for calling in sick," I answered. "Just stress." I sipped my tea. "Anyway, Matt is lecturing all this week at a conference about the charity garden competition. He's doing a workshop on creating floral fountains." I filed away a couple of brochures on renting chocolate fountains which had been left out after Saturday's meeting. Our assistant and part-time employee Paula kept the shop tidied as a general rule, but she must have missed these.
"Rosie called," said Kitty, as she gathered up her twigs.
"About what?" I asked.
"Next month's fundraiser. She reckons she needs some help. She can't hire us, that's pretty obvious, but she wondered if we'd give her a few tips on something that would have a bit broader appeal."
"Nothing with bouncy castles or baking contests, right?" I opened a few envelopes from the post, one of which I knew was the revised bill from the last event's caterer.
"I told her pie-eating contests are always good with the local crowds," answered Kitty, barely cracking a smile.
My mind flipped through possibilities, like a giant picture folder within contained all the typical — and not-so-typical — options we would recommend when someone wanted their event to seem unique. "Maybe attendees who sign up for competitions and challenges could be paired up with animals," I mused. "You know, best-dressed and costume judging events ... obstacle course race. We could get some locals to be judges and referees, and maybe give out bonus points to everybody who donates supplies from the haven's needs list."
"We could let spectators have points for the same thing," Kitty remarked. "You know, that they can donate to their favorite competitors, or let them vote so they can override the judges."
"It's a dog and cat American Idol," I grinned. "Actually, this is pretty good. I'll stop by Rosie's later and suggest some of them."
I opened the latest envelope. "Do you want coupons to the grand opening of something called 'Roxy's Tavern'?" I asked. "It has a two for one for a 'spa and tanning bed super combo experience.'"
"Sounds like the sort of place on the news for giving people rash and lice," answered Kitty, wrinkling her nose. "Bin them. I reckon it's one of those places where everybody's sampled the two for one martinis on triple rounds."
I stuffed the coupons back inside the envelope with the facility brochure, and opened a notice that one of our caterers was changing locations. I pinned it to the reminder board, among the latest event photos I was choosing between for framing in our client space.
The phone rang and Kitty answered it. "Save the Date, meeting all your event's needs," she said. Her expression flattened. "Mum, I don't know what time I'll be home," she said. "Then call one of your mahjong ladies ... what about Uncle Phil? It would do him some good to get off his bum and do something for a change, it's no wonder the boys are lazy gits." She rolled her eyes. "That's not my problem, is it?"
She hung up. I lifted one eyebrow. "Trouble?" I asked.
"Mum's car in the shop. That's the fourth time she's reversed over something or tapped the front into a tree or post box," said Kitty, tersely. "As if I'm her reserve chauffer."
I wanted to ask how things were with Bets's life these days — longtime boyfriend Nigel still out of the picture despite his begging, and a few allusions made to the 'senior dating scene' which had Bets looking for restaurants with sensible menus and atmospheric zones for taking an after-dinner cigarette out of the rain. I held my tongue, however, since this subject never boded well for Kitty's mood.
"If there's nothing pressing here, I might as well go track Rosie down," I said. "Maybe we'll collect a consulting fee. Want a puppy for Tige?" Kitty's little daughter lived in a pets-free house, much like mine, and I knew Kitty had no interest in having to clean up additional messes at present.
"Have her give you one instead," she retorted.
_________________________
A drive out to Rosie's haven for homeless pets took me further inland, along a country lane with high hedges and scraggly-looking timber. Here, amongst the little bungalow shelters and dog runs, I didn't find her in the little barn-like office or her caravan, but found her vehicle at the opposite end of the property, where the little-used field of dandelions and wild onion patches met the wood — a place where she let the dogs run for exercise occasionally.
"Rosie!" I called out, as I passed the 'crazy cat lady' range rover with a small livestock trailer hitched to it.
"In here, love!" A voice called back from the patched-up stone shed by the old sheep's pen at the far end. I climbed underneath the old corral fence and made my way through the overgrown grass gone to seed. Not for the first time, I felt a sneaking gladness that I was not wearing a pair of designer shoes for this, as in olden days. Not without a little wistfulness for those days, however.
The old shed was dark, except for light from the open window shutters. I picked my way inside carefully, although I doubted any sheep deposits had been made this week, much less this decade, but I didn't want to find out the hard way. The floor of the shed was spread with new straw, however, with a feed bucket sitting near the door.
Rosie was just closing the gate of a little stall at the back, quietly latching it. On the other side was a shivering little pony — one of the shaggy kind I had seen pictures of on the moors of Devon, where Sylvia was always begging to go for a family camping trip.
This one wasn't wild, nor was it ready for a tourist's camera's close up. I could see raw patches of skin, missing fur, and ribs jutting through. The bedraggled mane drooped near the floor as it stood despondently in the corner.
"Isn't he sad?" she whispered. "Poor little lovely."
"Where did you get him?" I whispered back, as I joined her.
"From the little place the Tanners were leasing at the back of Argus's last acres. Some incomers trying to make a go of things in the country, I'm afraid, and made a dismal mess of it. He's a little lad bought from an old petting park for kids, apparently. He turned up along with a couple of dogs and some barn cats after they moved on with the sale of the place. Argus spotted something awry with the pony still being in a little corral — he called the police, and Charlie notified me."
It was all too common a story of animal neglect or abandonment like ones in the news on the other side of the Pond, too, from bankrupt farms piled with debts to cruel and indifferent pet owners. I shivered deep, this story of life left to die touching an uncomfortable place in me. "What are you going to do? Find him another home?"
"That's not a possibility right now," Rosie answered. "I'll show you." She unfastened the latch and eased inside. "Here, little love," she called out, softly. In response, the pony bolted, crashing into the wall. Quickly, she backed off as the animal panicked.
"They had to blindfold him to get him out of his old barn," she said. On the other side of the stall again, she latched it closed securely. "They had a devil of a time, Charlie told me."
She stepped back. "I'm hoping with a bit of tender loving care and quiet that he'll improve," she said. "He's afraid of any noise and anybody coming near him. Trauma, I suppose. Some machinery has been down at that end of the property, tearing down some old ramshackle buildings to make room for new construction. He's probably felt trapped for weeks, or longer."
I needed out of the shed. Fresh air would feel good in my lungs right about now. Rosie followed me, leaving open the door. "I want him to have a bit of sunshine and sense of big space," she explained. "In a couple of days, I plan to let him into the old sheep's hold and see if he's calmer. First, I have to treat those wounds before infection sets in, so the vet's coming down tomorrow. Probably we'll have to sedate him."
"Poor little thing," I said.
"At least he's ended up in a better place," said Rosie. "I've seen worse, I expect. Poor dog was coming down with mange, so they're all one happy family in the misery department." She led the way across the field. "I'll have my hands full the next couple of weeks at this rate, because there's always an upwards trend when one lot arrives. I should expect a box of kittens on the doorstep next."
"As luck has it, I'm here to talk fundraiser ideas with you," I said. "At least you can feed them if you can't find homes for them all."
"Aren't you the little saving angel? Shall we have a cuppa? I'm starved, I've spent all morning putting out straw," she said. "I expect I'm festooned in it now." Bits of it were sticking in her wild ginger curls like yellow confetti, which she brushed out with one hand.
Rosie's caravan was a cheery, overcrowded place, packed with all the possessions that used to be in her house before she gave up paying rent this past year. In bad economies, one had to choose between feeding hungry mouths and filling up physical space, she had lamented, choosing the former one.
The old caravan sported lots of framed pictures, funky paintings, and an interesting bit of artistic mural work featuring a pop-art flower field on the walls that wasn't Rosie's creativity but that of its former owner, who had been a traveling artist. But the fun tole painting stencil work on all the built-in cupboard doors was the work of Rosie's hand, adding in a few self-designed stencils of animals in the mix also.
From the cupboard above the sink came two chippy mugs. The teapot on the hob, decorated with grandmotherly roses, was already hot, so she poured two cups, then slipped on a cozy knit to look like a bunny's head before setting it on a nearby trivet.
"Lorrie's promised me a few volunteers from the school, so things have been looking brighter on that score," she remarked, setting the sugar and milk on the table. "A bit more in funds than last time would be a blessing, I assure you. Two wolfhounds dumped in the past month — they eat as much as all the little scruffy ones combined." She tsked. "If only my desperately-gorgeous beauty had resulted in a modeling contract, none of it would be a problem, would it?"
"There's an agency out there that would see your sexiness as an asset," I answered, with a teasing smile.
"Yes, but what would they do about the extra few stone and the laugh lines?" she answered, laughing. "Maybe I should visit one of those nip-and-tuck clinics next time I'm in Newquay. Not that I've been to the clubs in ages. Who has time for a hen night these days?"
"Not me," I answered. "I have time for cuppas in between checking over school assignments. That's usually Matt's department, but I try to take it on whenever he's lecturing. That way he doesn't spend all his time in classroom mode."
"How is the lovely professor of plants these days?" she asked. "I haven't seen his dishy face in the pub in a month now."
"Between the memorial garden and the autumn slate of conferences, he hasn't been around much for the past few weeks," I answered. "I'm not even seeing much of him. Now I'm missing all the gardening clients of summer." My smile was wry. "That should change after this conference is over."
