winter lamb (part one)
SUMMARY: An unexpected stranger arrives on George Hardy's doorstep.
WARNINGS: age gap. domestic violence (NOT involving George!)
WORD COUNT: 2.7k
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I fell in love with George Hardy after watching The Sheep Detectives and was inspired to create this series. Please note that I haven't read the book and I don't remember every detail of the movie (like what the interior of his trailer looks like lmao) so some creative liberties will be taken. I hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
George nearly doesn’t hear the knock over the rain hammering against the tin roof. When he pulls the door open, the wind tries to tear it from his grip. There’s a girl there – no, a young woman – soaked through and trembling like a deer in headlights. Your cheekbone is split open, blood mixing with rainwater trickling down your jaw. But it’s the ewe that stops his breath. Lily. She’s supposed to be in the barn with the others, but she’s standing right beside you, pressed against your hip like she’s protecting you.
You look up at him, your eyes red-rimmed and puffy. There’s smudges of black beneath your lashes but the rain has washed away most traces of any makeup you had been wearing. You don’t look like you’re from around here.
“Please.” Your voice is quiet but hoarse. “Can–Can you help me?” Your gaze flickers down to the sheep, then back to him. You sway slightly, as if the mere effort of speaking exhausts you. “I need help.”
George steps back without a word, just enough to let you in. He may have a reputation in town for being a grumpy old shepherd, but that doesn’t make it true.
The rain follows you inside, puddles forming beneath your steps on the floor. George glances at Lily once more, giving her a nod, his subtle way of telling her she did good. He waits until she turns to retreat to the barn before closing the door.
He crosses his arms against his chest, his eyes drifting over you as you stand awkwardly, your shoulders hunched and your eyes turned down. You’re shivering, but there’s something else to your posture. Fear, like you’re expecting him to change his mind and turn you away. Maybe you’re used to that.
“Help with what? Are you lost?”
Your teeth start to chatter, making it hard for you to form words. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to stop the shivers, but it’s no use. The cold seems to have seeped into your bones.
“Yes. I’m l-lost. My b-boyfriend…he took my ph-phone. And m-my bag.”
You look down and George follows your gaze. Your knees are scraped and bloodied, and small little marks sprinkle over your thighs. His jaw tightens. He’s seen a lot of men like that in his lifetime. Quick with their fists, slow with their apologies. He looks at your scraped knees, the forming bruises that look like fingerprints pressed into your flesh, then back at the gash on your cheekbone. Something serious happened to this girl, he thinks.
When he looks back at your eyes you’re already looking at him. “Y-Your sh-sheep found me. She b-brought me here.”
Lily’s never led anyone astray. If his ewe brought this girl here, it’s because she knew she needed shelter. But his property is a long way from town. The fact that you made it this far on foot, injured and alone, tells George everything he needs to know about how desperate and scared you must be.
“You’re lucky she did,” he says. He nods towards a small table at the end of the trailer. “Sit down, before you fall down.” He moves past you, grabbing a dry towel from a hook near the stove.
You don’t argue. He imagines your legs must feel like they might give out anyway.
You make your way to the table on unsteady feet, pulling out a chair and sinking into it. You take the towel from him, pressing it against your bleeding cheek. He picks up a quilt from his bed, tossing it over your shoulders.
“Thank you,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. You focus on the wood table instead, tracing the patterns in the grain with your gaze. It seems to calm you, just a bit. “I’m sorry f-for intruding. I d-didn’t know where I was g-going. There’s n-nothing out there. Just mud and d-darkness.”
He grunts, turning his back on you to rummage through a cupboard. The apology, though appreciated, hits him wrong. You say it like you think you need to be sorry. Like it’s just an instinct for you to show gratitude that someone would bother with you. A low self-esteem like that doesn’t happen all at once. Whatever happened to you tonight, George has a feeling it isn’t the first time.
He pulls out a well-worn tin box filled with medical supplies.
“It’s not intruding if a member of my flock brings you to the door,” he says. He places the tin on the table with a soft thud. He grabs a kettle and fills it, setting it on the hot plate of the stove. He pulls up a chair opposite to you. “That cut needs cleaning. Let me see.”
You flinch when he moves in. Not dramatically, just a small tightening of your shoulders, a brief squint of your eyes. More instincts, he imagines. Learned responses to be weary of the world around you.
You lower the towel from your cheek with shaky hands. The gash is about two inches long, running along the prominent edge of your cheekbone. It’s not deep enough for stitches, but it’s angry and still oozing sluggishly. The skin around it is already darkening into a bruise.
Your eyes search his, your voice coming out small. “Is it…is it bad?”
George leans in closer, tilting your chin gently with his thumb and forefinger so he can get a better look in the dim light. The cut is nasty, but it’s clean. No dirt in it, probably thanks to the rain.
“No. It might scar, but I’m afraid you’re gonna live,” he says. His attempt at lightening the mood doesn’t go unnoticed, a small smile tugging at your lips. He lets go of your chin and reaches for the tin, popping open the lid. He takes out a sterile wipe and rips it open. “This will sting. Hold still.”
He dabs the antiseptic onto the wound carefully, working from the center outwards. He watches your face, expecting tears or a whimper, but you just squeeze your eyes shut and bear it.
Though he doesn’t miss how your hands grip at the edges of the chair, knuckles bleaching.
When he finishes, you let out a long breath. Your eyes stay closed for a moment before fluttering open. He can’t help but notice what a pretty colour your eyes are.
He tosses the used wipe aside and grabs a small strip of gauze and some medical tape. He works quickly, efficiently, securing the dressing over the cut. His movements are practiced, steady. This isn’t his first time patching up a wound.
“There,” he says at last, leaning back in his chair. The kettle starts to whistle, a piercing sound in the small space. He gets up, placing a tea bag into two mugs before pouring the boiling water over them. He places one in front of you. “Drink that. It’ll warm you up.” He sits back down, his large hand engulfing the side of his mug. “What’s your name?”
You wrap both of your hands around the mug, letting its heat seep into your frozen fingers. Steam rises from ceramic, curling in the air. You take a careful sip, wincing slightly when the warmth hits your chilled throat.
You tell him your name, your voice quiet. “I’m f-from New York. I’m on a trip with my–” You stop abruptly, staring at the wall behind him. George can practically see every muscle in your body tensing. “...boyfriend.”
George takes a long swallow of his tea. “America.” He grunts. “Long way from home.”
You nod. Your shivering has started to ease, though your shoulders remain hunched. “What’s your name?” You glance at him, then quickly away again, as if holding eye contact for too long is dangerous.
“George,” he says. “George Hardy.”
He sets his mug down, ceramic clinking against wood, bringing forth another flinch from you. She’s got the same skittish energy of a wild thing that’s been cornered one too many times, he thinks.
“That boyfriend of yours, did he do that to you?”
Your grip tightens on the mug. Your gaze lowers, fixing on the tea, watching the steam rise and dissipate. When you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper.
“Yes. H-He gets angry sometimes.” Your thumb traces over the rim of the mug, a nervous, repetitive motion. “I thought…I thought if I was just better, if I didn’t make him so upset…but tonight…” You shake your head slowly. “He pulled over and told me to get out. I didn’t want to, so…” You touch the gauze on your cheek, then drop your hand. “He broke my phone. Threw my bag in a ditch. Drove off.”
He grips his mug tighter, the heat burning into his palm. His jaw clenches so hard it aches. There’s a storm brewing inside of him, one he’s felt before when he’s heard stories like this – stories about men who think they can take their anger out on those who trust them.
He lets out a slow breath, trying to ease his own tension. “No man who treats a woman like that is worth a damn. You can stay here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll go looking for your bag.”
Your eyes widen, a flicker of surprise crossing your face before you quickly look down again. You nod slowly, realizing you have no other choice. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if your sheep hadn’t found me.”
“Lily’s got a good heart. She knows a stray when she sees one.” He pauses. “Just like I do.”
Your lips curve into a small, tentative smile, and it’s like a flicker of light through this storm. Though it quickly fades as you glance back down again, and George wishes you would’ve held onto it for just a bit longer. But he understands. On a night like this, it’s hard to find much to smile about.
“She…seems like a good sheep. And I mean it. I don’t know what I would’ve done. It was so dark…” You sniffle, not from the cold. “I was so scared…”
George glances out the window. The rain continues pouring down in sheets, the night as black as the bottom of a well. The thought of you out there, alone and hurt, abandoned by someone who was supposed to take care of you – it makes him see red.
“Lily’s more than just a good sheep. She’s got a sense for humans.” He gives you a small smile when you risk a glance at him. “And for what it’s worth, you don’t have to be scared anymore. Not tonight, at least.”
He glances around, suddenly realizing how sparse and unwelcoming the trailer probably looks to you. There’s only one bed, a kitchenette, a small bathroom, and the place you’re currently sitting in. It’s hardly the five star hotel he imagines a girl like you is used to, but it's home.
“Your home is nice,” you say softly, as if you could tell what he was thinking. “Thank you again. For everything. I don’t know how I can repay you.” Your hands fidget with the hem of your damp shirt. “I really don’t want to be any trouble. If there’s anything I can do…to help, I mean…”
George waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about repaying anything.” He nods towards the small bed in the corner of the trailer. “You can sleep there tonight. It’s not much, but it’s dry and it’s warm.” He stands up, taking the empty mugs to the sink. “Speaking of which, I’ve got some clothes you can change into. They might be big on you, but you’ll be dry.” He rummages through a drawer, pulling out a pair of sleeping pants and a t-shirt that’s seen better days. “Bathroom’s right behind you.”
“W-Where are you going to sleep? I don’t want to take your bed. I can sleep on the floor or…or anywhere. I don’t mind.”
He turns to face you, leaning back against the counter. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, placing the clothes in front of you before crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve slept in worse places. Besides, I can set up this table into a cot. It’ll do just fine.” He nods towards the bed again, emphasizing his point. “That one’s yours tonight. No arguments. You need the rest more than I do.”
Your eyes search his face, as if trying to gauge how honest he’s being. Finally, you nod, though your expression remains concerned.
“Okay. Thank you, George. I really don’t know what I would have done if…” You trail off, your gaze dropping to the floor. You stand up from the table, wrapping the quilt around your shoulders. Your movements are slow and careful, like you’re still trying to process everything that has happened. “I’ll…I’ll just go clean up a bit then.”
George nods, watching as you make your way towards the bathroom. The door closes with a soft click, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
His mind drifts to the events of the night – the unexpected stranger, the sight of Lily standing so protectively beside you, the raw fear in your eyes. It’s been a long time since he’s had someone in his space like this, and it feels weird, unsettling even. But there’s something about you that tugs at him, a vulnerability that reminds him of the winter lambs he cares for, the ones that need extra protection from the harshness of the world.
The bathroom door creaks open after a few minutes, and you step out tentatively. You’re wearing the shirt he gave you, oversized on your smaller frame, and the sleeping pants hang low despite your best efforts to tie the waistband tight. Your eyes are red – he supposes you started crying again – but your expression is calmer now, less tense.
You hesitate for a moment, glancing at the bed in the corner, then back at George. “I…I think I might try to sleep now. If that’s okay.”
He nods, watching you carefully. The weariness in you is unmistakable, and he can tell you’re fighting just to keep yourself upright.
“Go ahead,” he says. “Get some rest. You’ve been through enough tonight.” He gestures towards the foot of the bed where a dry quilt is folded neatly. “If you need anything else, I’ll be right here.” He tries to keep his tone light, but he can see the hesitation in your eyes. You’re still on edge, wary of trusting anyone after what you’ve been through. He can’t blame you for that.
Your fingers tighten in the fabric of the shirt. “Thank you,” you murmur. You stop for a moment, as if you want to say more, but then seem to think better of it. Instead, you turn and make your way to the bed.
He watches you settle, your body immediately swallowed by the quilt as you throw it atop yourself. He turns down the wick on the lamp beside you until it’s barely more than an ember, just enough to keep the darkness from feeling absolute as he shuts off the rest of the lights.
He assembles the cot – an easy task, simply throwing a mattress over the sitting area. It creaks as he lowers himself into it, the thin foam offering little cushion against the wood beneath. He meant it when he said he’s slept on worse. Haylofts. The cab of his truck. The cold ground during lambing season when an ewe needs watching.
He lies on his back, hands folded across his chest, staring up at the ceiling. The rain has slowed to a steady whisper against the roof. He can hear your breathing – shallow at first, then gradually deepening as exhaustion claims you.
He lies there in the dark, listening to the rain and the soft sounds of your breathing. His mind drifts back thirty years, to another woman he couldn’t protect. The grief hits him still, sharp and familiar, like a knife in his chest.
But tonight was different. Tonight, he was able to do something. He opened the door. He cleaned the wound. He offered shelter.
Lily knew. With her bright eyes and her stubborn heart, Lily knew you needed someone. And maybe, he thinks, turning his head to look at the dark shape hidden beneath the quilt, maybe he needed someone too.
