Morrison turns his head slightly, takes us in with a half-second glance, and turns back to the dogs. "I know who you are."
"I've left youseveralmessages." Isabelle's chef voice has kicked in. "And I understand you're considering another buyer in San Francisco. I'd like to discuss that."
Morrison is quiet for a moment. One of the dogs, the smallest, cuts left and pushes a stray ewe back into the flock withnothing but an eye and a low crouch. Morrison makes a small sound, something between a click and a word, and the dog drops into a down.
"I'll be straight with you," he says. "San Francisco called a few days back and offered more. I wasn't going to take it, I've got plenty of buyers. But I've been turning over our phone call last week. Ma'am, you were rude. Frankly, snobby. Talked to me like I was beneath you, threatened me even. And I don't appreciate being talked to that way."
Isabelle's mouth falls open. "I'm sorry,what? I never threatened you. I was direct about what I needed for the residency, but there's a difference between being direct and being rude."
"At the end of the call, you told me you expected every animal to hit your spec, and if they didn't, you threatened to take your business somewhere else and never work with me again. Out here I build relationships with the people I sell to. I want to know the chef, I want to hear about the menu, I want to shake a hand. You made it clear you didn't want any of that."
Isabelle draws in a breath and I can see the whole thing about to come off the rails, so I decide to step in before she says something we can't walk back.
"Mr. Johnson, do you mind excusing us for just a moment?" I ask, stepping forward with what I hope is a disarming smile.
Isabelle shoots me a look that could strip paint off a truck. Morrison glances between us then grunts and turns his attention back to the dogs like we've already left. I touch Isabelle's elbow and walk her toward the corner of the barn, out of earshot.
"What on earth do you think you're?—"
"Hey. We are about to lose this deal, which, in addition to being bad for you, is also bad for me." I keep my voice low. "Now. Did you say all of that to him?"
She crosses her arms tight. "Yes, and maybe I'm a little direct, but I'm from the East Coast. It's not my fault he's a crybaby whocan't handle straightforward communication. If he thinksthatwas bad, he should hear how my father speaks to suppliers." She shakes her head. "I'm going to march back over there and tell him to shove his contract where the sun doesn't shine. He's probably sexist and doesn't like hearing a woman tell him what she needs."
"I have no doubt," I say. "But then we lose the protein, and I know you can't afford to do that this close to opening. And this is the best lamb guy in California. We can’t just stop at Wal-Mart on the way home for what you need."
“I wasn’t even being rude though!” She hisses.
"Yeah. Okay. You weren't trying to be rude. I believe you." I nod. "But East Coast bluntness doesn't always translate out here. These guys do business on relationships and handshakes. So we need to fix it before he sells it to San Francisco. Sometimes you have to make nice with people who rub you the wrong way.”
She glares at me for a long second. "Are you serious?"
"Listen, I really don't like our mushroom suppliers back home. They're unreliable and they never answer their phone. But they find the best damn mushrooms in the state, so I smile and work with them on it. Because the end result is worth swallowing my pride for fifteen minutes. So let's go back over there and not blow this whole thing, alright, Princess?"
"Stop calling me that, you absolute bastard."
"It's an affectionate term. And at the moment the boot fits." I nudge her gently back toward the fence. "Just give me a few minutes with him, alright? And try not to murder anyone in the meantime."
"No promises."
"That's the spirit."
She mutters something in French that I'm pretty sure is wildly unflattering, and I take that as close enough to a yes. We walk back to the fence together. Morrison hasn't moved, hisattention still on the dogs working the flock. I step up beside him, Isabelle behind my shoulder.
"Sorry about that," I say. "We just needed to get on the same page about a few things."
Morrison waves a hand without looking at us. "No trouble."
"We'd appreciate the chance to talk it over a bit more,” I say, “if you've got the time.”
"My mind's made up," Morrison says, his tone flat but not hostile.
I lean my forearms on the fence rail, settling in like I've got all day. "Fair enough. Can't fault a man for knowing what he wants." I watch the dogs work for a moment and nod toward one of them. "That's a hell of a dog, by the way. I couldn't help but notice her while Isabelle and I were talking."
Morrison glances at me sideways, and there's a long pause before he answers. "That's Pip. She's four."
"Bred her yourself?"
"And her mother. Grandmother before that." He shifts against the fence, settling in. "The line goes back to one my father brought down from Oregon in seventy-one. Pip's the best I've had."