“Tavish, how does one go about… dating when they’re a vampire?”

The gruff old man looked at her in annoyance as he pried a stone from his prize cow’s hoof. “You’re asking me? About courting?”

They were standing outside in the misty night air. Brigid had been forced into helping Tavish since his favorite herding dog had a broken leg from getting kicked by one of the bulls. A few spring calves already dotted the hills. Brigid took a deep breath. The calves smelled far better than the grown cattle, but Tavish gave her dirty looks every time she mentioned taking a sip from one of his babies.

“What’s courting? I’m talking about dating. Seeing people socially who you’re interested in on more than a friendly level.”

Tavish just gaped at her. “Are you daft, girl? What makes you think I know anything about dating? Or that I even care, for that matter?”

“Well…” That was a good point. Why was she asking Tavish? Oh yes. “I’d ask Anne, but she’s gone. I can’t ask Max because he’d immediately call Deirdre to gossip about it. And Cathy—”

“No explanation needed there. She’d probably tell you to leap on the first lad you come across and just keep trying till one tickles in the right spot. Heathen.”

She blinked. “Well, I wasn’t going to put it that way, but—”

“She’s a different temperament than you, Brigid. Temperament’s important.” He stood and looked over the hills, dotted with the shaggy, russet herd. He squinted into the night. “You know, I probably do have some advice.”

“Really?” Brigid didn’t actually expect him to give her any insight. Frankly, she’d been avoiding thinking about both Patrick Murphy and… other people that she shouldn’t be thinking about, but the subject kept circling her brain. “So, what’s your advice, Bovine Casanova?”

“You may joke, but look out there.” Tavish nodded to the herd. “That’s not purebred Highland Cattle there. That’s a healthy hybrid lot. There’s no mistaking the strength of this herd. I’ve built a very strong bloodline over the years.”

“So, what you’re saying is you can give me advice on dating because you’re good at breeding cattle.” Brigid squeezed her eyes shut. This was ridiculous. Where were the sheep? She’d round them up and bring them in, then go to her room and hide under her covers in embarrassment.

“It’s all the same basic idea.”

She started to walk away. “It is not. Never mind.”

Tavish grabbed her shoulder. “It is, Brigid.”

“Fine. Enlighten me.”

The vampire frowned. “It’s all about finding the right match. Find the right partner. The one who fills in the weaknesses in yourself and you do the same for them. This bull is hardy, but stupid. That cow is delicate, but keener. Together, their calves will be strong and keen. Same idea. I don’t know about foolish things like dating—ridiculous modern concept—but cows. Vampires. Both need to find the one that makes them better. The match that fits best.”

Brigid’s mouth had fallen open right about the time he’d motioned to her while mentioning the cow. Still… “Tavish, that’s surprisingly insightful.”

“Told you. It’s all about crossbreeding for hybrid—”

“Stop while you’re ahead, old man.” He tossed the pebble he’d pulled from the cow’s hoof at her head. “Ow!”

“Who are you thinking about dating, anyway? The be-flowered one?”

Her eyes popped open. “Wh—what?”

“My sire. The vampire who asks about you when he calls to speak to Max. Which is far more often than normal, I might add.”

She couldn’t blush, could she? Still, she could feel her cheeks warm at the thought. Carwyn wasn’t—couldn’t be—interested in her that way.

Could he? She ignored the thump of her heart, wishing Tavish couldn’t hear it. If he did, he ignored her. “Carwyn’s a priest. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re such a Catholic.”

“And you’re such a Presbyterian. What does it matter?”

“He was married before.”

“And hasn’t been married since.”

He shook his head. “Well, maybe he just hasn’t found his match yet.”

“In a thousand years?”

Tavish shrugged and slapped the side of the cow he’d been standing near. The giant animal lumbered off. “Some bulls are very, very stupid. You have to put the female right in front of them and just hope they figure it out.”

“Please, let’s not continue this comparison any longer. Please.”

“And by ‘bull,’ I mean—”

“I get it, Tavish!”

He nodded and pulled on her arm. “Good. Now, enough of this girlish chitchat. Let’s get the sheep in. You’re getting better with the commands. Almost as good as Rufus.”

Almost as good as the dog? With Tavish, that was as effusive as it got.

The next night, she was staring at the ceiling. She’d found a poster in the back of one of the spare room closets. A sunrise over the ocean. It was tucked behind a pile of coats and blankets, as if the sunny reminder had been retired with the out-of-season clothes. She’d stolen some tape from the kitchen and somehow attached it to the ceiling, the bored wolfhound cocking his head as he watched her.