Chapter 1

January, Kilmahog (near Callander), Stirlingshire, Scotland

Despite being only fourteen, young Donald McGregor (Donnie to family and friends) had already been putting in long shifts on his father's farm for the past four years. The boy loved everything about farming – he loved managing the soil so that it was productive and he loved the animals. He especially loved being close to nature in all her glory and found something to marvel at every single day.

Every school holiday and weekend was a test of his strength and endurance and at harvest time he was used to working late into the evenings – but he loved it all. The hard work showed in the breadth of his shoulders and the solid muscle on his already five foot eleven frame. His blue-grey eyes hinted at a quick-wit, intelligence and the warmth of his personality. At that moment they were screwed up against the biting January wind that threatened even more snow.

"Take the bike and check the herd on the lower slope," ordered his father, Douglas McGregor. "I'll walk up the hill and check there."

The 'lower slope' was a familiar term they used to describe the pasture on the lower reaches of Bochastle hill. 'Up the hill' meant up Craig Bheithe, the hill that rose behind the farmhouse and which gave the farm its name.

Creag Bheithe Farm was just to the West of Callander. The majority of the land was hilly and only suitable for sheep farming, but the McGregors did also grow thirty or so acres of wheat, barley and oats.

Donnie sighed and not for the first time wished that his brother, Keiran, wasn't away on a school trip so that he could share in the farm duties. January was showing her teeth on the hills, with a good 12-18 inches of snow already on the ground. The snow and ice were also being whipped around by the strong wind. More snow was forecast for the late afternoon and the sky was already a dramatic, angry, pewter grey. It was this fresh snow and the threat of more that was forcing father and son to check that the livestock were safe and sheltered.

"Be careful," Donnie advised his father as he pulled the woollen hat tighter onto his head, totally concealing the sandy brown hair. He wrapped his scarf round the lower half of his face and pulled goggles into place to protect his eyes. Crossing to a quad bike ATV, he whistled for his trusty companion.

"Rory!" he shouted, to back-up the whistle.

A series of excited barks preceded the appearance of a black and white Border Collie from inside one of the barns. Mounting the bike, Donnie waved once to his father and twisted the throttle smoothly, all the while keeping an eye on where the dog was. Used to working with the vehicle, Rory loped alongside it happily, seemingly impervious to the biting cold wind.

Donnie had the further distance to travel. He had to navigate through the farmyard and then along a long approach road before finally meeting the A84 public highway. Turning left onto this road, he made his way through the little village of Kilmahog before taking the bridge over the River Teith that gave him access to the Bochastle Hill portion of the farm.

Even the public roads were deep in snow and it was only the fact that the ATV was four-wheel drive that stopped the journey of three miles or so being treacherous. Once over the bridge, he had to stop momentarily to open the gate back on to McGregor land proper. He drove through and then ensured the gate was secure behind him before carefully driving forward up the slope of Bochastle Hill.

This part of the farm was roughly twenty acres in size with the land near the foot of the hill split into parcels of approximately an acre square. The pasture on the 'lower slope' was deliberately interspersed with sections of pine forest to provide shelter for days just like this one. Each parcel was fenced off with barbed wire fencing and entry controlled through a series of gates. Higher up the hill there was no fencing as such and in summer the livestock were allowed to graze freely. In winter, they were moved to the lower fields where the tree plantations gave them shelter.

Donnie made for the field where he knew the sheep has been pastured. It was only a half a mile from the first gate, but called for him to skirt two sections of wood before he would be able to see the livestock.

Driving past the second stand of pine, he knew something was wrong immediately. The field was two-thirds covered in deep snow with the other third still showing grass where it had been sheltered by one of the stands of pine. Donnie had expected to see the herd of sheep sheltering up against this wood, taking advantage of the available pasture, but all he could see was the gate at the far end of the field blowing open in the wind.

Donnie scanned the ground for clues as to where the sheep might have gone but the fresh snow had drifted with the wind and that ensured that there were no tracks to follow. The open gate was the most obvious explanation and he knew he would need to track the sheep down to ensure they were safe.

"Rory, FIND!" he called to the Collie and then twisted the throttle on the bike to follow the dog which was already running fast for the open gate.

Donnie had to dismount to secure the swinging gate before he could follow, and by that time Rory was already out of sight. However, once out of the shelter of the trees the snow was thick and the fresh paw marks were easy enough to see. Donnie followed their lead, the ATV engine complaining as the bike struggled to forge through deeper snow.

It was fully half an hour later before Donnie heard the sound of the sheepdog barking. It was faint at first, the wind all but drowning it out, but he estimated it was coming from much higher up the hill. Glancing at the depth of the snow and the gradient of the hill, Donnie decided he would need to proceed on foot for safety's sake.

Despite how fit and strong he was, Donnie found the going difficult and he cursed whoever had left the gate open thereby allowing the sheep to escape.

"What idiot goes out walking in fields that are a foot deep in snow?" he thought to himself as he forced one foot in front of the other. "Even worse, what idiot leaves gates lying open on a working farm?"

Gradually Rory's barking grew louder, but still Donnie couldn't see the Collie. By now he had managed to climb as high as the Clachan an Diridh – a medieval stone circle – and he knew he was only a few hundred feet from the summit of Bochastle Hill.

"Rory! Rory! That'll do!" he cried. 'That'll do' was the handler's signal for the dog to return.

Donnie grimaced behind his scarf when he saw the dog emerge from where he knew there was a deep ravine.

"Shit! If the sheep have wandered over there then we might have lost some," he thought, trying to force his legs to hurry.