Or so the theory went.

Ophelia pursed her lips. “Don’t listen to me if you don’t wish to. I’m just telling you how Harri does it.”

Chase glanced over to the other pen. From where he was standing, it appeared as if Harriet and Stephen, ably aided by Sophia, had already sheared three sheep while Chase, Derrick, and Ophelia hadn’t managed a one.

For the love of Hera, it was ludicrous. He eyed the sheep before him, noting how the animal was eyeing him back, distrust in its black eyes. “Bloody asinine creature.”

“You can’t talk to them like that,” Ophelia insisted yet again.

He turned to glare at her. “Why the hell not?”

“Because they’ll get mad. Sheep are very intelligent creatures. They know every word you say to them.”

“Nonsense. They are completely stupid. You can tell that by looking in their eyes.”

“Harriet gives each sheep a name so they know she’s talking to them. See how they obey her?”

Chase looked over at the other pen. Harriet stood in the center, a stick in her hand, the sheep gradually moving toward the leading pen. “Where is Max? That dog could do this.”

“He’s helping round up strays,” Derrick said.

“He needs to be here, with me. There is no way I’m going to get this”—he pointed his stick at the huge sheep—“in there.” He directed the stick at the narrow gate.

“We have to,” Derrick said.

“How?”

“One at a time. Come on now, give it another go. You don’t want Harri coming over here offering advice, do you? I assure you that she likes nothing better.”

Like hell he wanted that. Blast and double blast. Chase gripped the stick tighter and began trying to get the sheep into the narrow gate. Each time, the sheep would get just beside the opening…and then, with a wild kick or a bleating cry, it would bolt to the other side of the pen.

After another twenty minutes, Ophelia sighed. “I told you to name it.”

“I did,” Chase said grimly.

“What?”

“Pox-Ridden Sow.”

Ophelia giggled. “How lovely. What will you call that one?” She pointed at a very fat, lazy-looking ewe with a black nose and two black feet, which stood peering into the pen with obvious interest.

“Jackass.”

Ophelia chuckled. “And the ram?”

Chase glanced into the other pen, where a very large and angry-looking ram stood stubbornly and silently daring them to try and get him into the leading pen. “I can’t say his name aloud or lightning might strike.”

“How will you call him to you?”

“I won’t. I don’t like him, and so I will never, ever call him. See? It all works out.”

Derrick choked on a laugh. “Come on, St. John. Let’s try and do at least one before lunch.”

Chase rubbed his face, loosened up his shoulders, then hunched down, intent on winning the battle. This time, something went right. He waited until the sheep got close to the pen, then he dodged to the side, knowing that it would do the same in an effort to avoid being herded through the small gate. His abrupt movement startled the sheep and she bolted into the leading pen where Derrick tossed the loop over her neck and tied her tight. Pox-Ridden Sow was right where they wanted her.