It was half past ten already, he still had a mile to go, and the sheep were really beginning to be a problem.
One large ewe was nuzzling his elbow, while what he presumed was her lamb rubbed its fuzzy head against his knee. And the rest of the flock – about three dozen, most white except for one or two black – were edging ever nearer, eager to get to know him as well. A large ram was eyeing him beadily, but had yet to approach.
Charles backed against the closed stile, cursing himself and the woolly creatures at the same time. So much for saving time by taking a shortcut through the pasture.
It had seemed such a good idea, particularly since the clouds were getting thicker and darker, and thunder was rumbling in the distance. But there he was, unable to get into the lane behind him because the maddening creatures were blocking the stile. Even if he was able to shoo enough out of the way, there was a chance some would wander out into the lane with him, and he had neither the strength nor the inclination to round them up and push them back into the pasture.