"You can tell. I've seen working dogs up in Dark River, mostly for cattle, but I've never seen one work sheep like that. She's doing more with a look than most dogs do with a full run."
"You raise stock?" Morrison shifts against the fence, glancing past me to where Isabelle is now standing a few feet off my shoulder, watching the paddock.
"No, I run a restaurant back in Washington state, a town a few hours west of Seattle. But I buy from a family on the Olympic Peninsula who've been breeding Katahdin crosses for four generations. They've got a couple of Kelpies, but nothing like her."
Morrison grunts. "Katahdin's a good breed for up there.Hardier. We run Dorper crosses here, mostly. They finish well on the grass we've got."
I nod, watching Pip circle out wide and press two stragglers back into the main flock, and then I turn my head slightly toward Morrison.
"So mind if I ask about the San Francisco place? I know the restaurant Isabelle mentioned you were talking to. They're a bit corporate for this kind of sourcing."
He snorts. "Well, at least they treated me with respect on the phone." He gives Isabelle a sidelong glance.
I can feel her stiffen beside me and I wave her off with the smallest movement of my hand to stop her from saying something that's going to make this worse.
"Listen, Mr. Morrison, I think there's been a misunderstanding," I say. "Isabelle's from the East Coast, and out there people are direct in a way that can sound harsh if you're not used to it. But we both care about the food and where it comes from. Your ranch is on her printed menu by name. I know that place in San Francisco, and they don't do that because they don’tcareenough to."
Morrison is quiet for a moment, watching Pip work. His jaw works slightly, like he's chewing on what I've said.
"She's passionate about this menu," I add. "That passion means she's willing to drive out here and stand in your barn. That should count for something."
Morrison doesn't answer right away. He makes a small sound to Pip and she adjusts her position, pushing the stragglers closer to the main flock.
Finally, he glances at me. "The way she talked to me on that phone call, it didn't feel like passion. It felt like I was getting ordered around by someone who thought I was beneath her."
I glance over at Isabelle. She's standing there rigid, her mouth pressed into a thin line. I give her a look hoping my face conveyshere's your opening, don't waste it. She steps forward, fistsclenched, but her face looks pleasant enough. Dare I say even a bit remorseful. I'll take it.
"Mr. Morrison," she says. "I owe you an apology. I meant no disrespect. I get… intense when I care about something, and I care about this menu more than anything I've ever cooked. What you raise here is a big part of why. I know you’re the best, that’s why I sought you out and why I’m standing here now. I'd really like the chance to work with you. As for the attitude, I do not believe you're beneath me." She pauses. "I'm just from New York and France, so I come off blunt."
She adds the last part like it's the obvious explanation and I suppress a chuckle. Morrison is quiet for a long moment and whistles to Pip. Isabelle shoots me a look that makes it clear how much she didn't want to apologize and how this is entirely my fault. I smile widely at her, which only deepens her glare.
Pip trots back to his side and presses against his leg, her work done. He looks down at the dog, then back at Isabelle.
"Well," he says slowly. "I appreciate you driving out here, ma'am. Most folks wouldn't have made the trip. I can respect a chef who cares about her sourcing. Hell, that's half the reason I'm still doing this at my age." His mouth lifts slightly at one corner. "And I suppose that says something about how you see this operation."
Isabelle exhales, relief visible across her face.
"I'd shake your hand," Morrison adds, "but mine's covered in sheep."
Isabelle lets out a small laugh. "That's alright. Mine's usually covered in worse."
"Reckon it is." He tips his head toward the porch. "Come on up to the house. I've got cold water and better manners up there than I'm showing out here. Let's talk about Thursday."
He starts across the yard, Pip at his heel. Isabelle turns her head and looks at me. Her eyes are huge, and slowly a grin spreads across her face. I bite back a laugh of my own andsweep my hand toward the porch in a mock-gallant gesture.After you.
She rolls her eyes and starts after Morrison.
An hour and a half later we're pulling out of his gravel drive with the deal confirmed for Thursday morning.
Isabelle doesn't say anything for the first mile. She drives with both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road.
"Thanks, by the way," she says eventually, breaking the silence. "For your help back there. I was about to lose the deal and I was getting pissed off about it. Istillthink I was in the right for the most part, but he's actually a nice enough guy."
I lean back in my seat. "To be fair, I think he overreacted and should have honored your agreement. But you can be completely correct and still lose the argument, because the argument isn't really about who's correct. It's about whether he wants to do business with you."
"Hmm. My father would have done what I did," she says. "Gone in with the contract, demanded compliance. He would have won, too, because he's Jean-Pierre Beaumont and nobody says no to him."
"Maybe," I say with a shrug. "But I'm not so sure about that. As respected as your father is, I think there are also a lot of people who don't want to work with him for that very reason. It doesn't bother me personally, but I get why some people chafe. And it's not how I like doing business myself."