Cold in the Earth by Aline Templeton Page A

childhood, loved their size and their power and the sweet, heady smell of their grass-fed breath. But working here would have meant taking his orders from Jake and then – the ultimate indignity – from that wimpish little sod Max when his turn came to crack the whip, because though Brett had a half-share of the inheritance she’d been left with no status on the business side.
    Oh, it was reasonable enough. Grandfather Edgar might have been barking but he’d have had to be baying at the moon to let his daughter within a mile of an executive decision. He might have considered her son, though. Surely Conrad could have expected a guaranteed future in the farm or at least a trust fund to let him walk away to set up his own? No such luck.
    Still, he was pinning his hopes on Max’s long absence, his silence, even, since as far as Conrad knew he hadn’t communicated with his father since he left home. Surely Jake must have disinherited him by now: the dynasty of the Chapelton Welsh Blacks was important to Jake and Max would barely know a stirk from a heifer. Conrad, on the other hand, had always been careful to show his interest, taking leave for the Royal Smithfield Show and getting himself known in the Welsh Black Society. He didn’t have to fake it; bull-worship was orthodoxy in the Mason family and the romance of it was deep in Conrad’s soul.
    He had reached the solid metal bar-gate to the nearest of the in-fields and stopped to lean on it, a habit which had started when he was barely tall enough to see over the top bar. And there, cropping at the tufts of grass rising clear of the snow with that familiar, rhythmic, tearing sound, was the bull Conrad had watched more than twenty years before, when this was the most promising bull-calf they’d had in years. They’d honoured him with the name Minos, held by the first Chapelton Champion, and he hadn’t disappointed.
    Champion Chapelton Minos II, commonly known as Satan, was still a superb beast though long retired from stud duties and on Jake’s orders living out an honoured old age. A hardy breed, brought inside only in the most extreme of winter conditions, Welsh Blacks are large, solid beef cattle and Satan’s size was at the upper end of the standard, well over four feet at the withers and not far off a ton in weight. His horns were forward-pointing, sharp and widely placed, and he had a nature as evil as his nickname suggested. He’d killed his man once, years ago – ‘Stupid bastard,’ had been Edgar Mason’s only reported comment on the tragedy – and they’d had to buy off another stockman too, more recently, who’d only just escaped with his life. But Edgar, Jake and indeed Conrad himself would have paid whatever it took to protect this living proclamation of raw, untamed brute nature.
    Satan was looking at him now, blunt, powerful head raised, eyes small with suspicion as his jaws rotated. Conrad finished his cigarette and threw away the butt. ‘Satan!’ he called. The bull stopped chewing for a moment as if assessing the voice, then dropped his head to graze with what almost looked like calculated contempt.
    Conrad hadn’t really expected recognition but the animal’s magnificent indifference irked him. ‘Satan!’ he called again. This time the bull did not even raise his head.
    Why was it that being ignored always got to him, made him feel young, small, a nothing, of no account? Conrad felt the flush of rage mounting to his face. As he rattled the gate, yelling a string of obscenities, Satan’s head did come up, but with what looked like only mild curiosity, his jaws still moving rhythmically. Still in the grip of temper, Conrad swung himself up on to the gate.
    That was different. He had placed himself within the bull’s established territory and Satan was suddenly, dangerously still. Then he snorted, turning to face the challenge squarely, his eyes fierce with baffled courage, the mark of the bull’s uneasy relationship with man down the