Jackie Braun - By Request Collection 1

‘That’s not it at all.’

‘Then why don’t you smile and be happy for me?’

‘I am happy for you, Heath.’

‘And you think we could work together?’ he said with a mocking edge to his voice.

‘I’d find a way.’

‘That’s big of you,’ he said coolly. Most people would be champing at the bit for a chance to work with Heath Stamp, Bronte realised, turning her back on him as she returned to her packing. She could only hazard a guess at the number of applications Heath would receive if he decided to keep the estate on and threw a recruitment ad out there. Everyone loved a success story in the hope that some of the gold dust would rub off on them—and Heath had gold dust to spare. His story read like a film—the poor boy rejecting a hand up from a well-meaning uncle who just happened to be one of England’s biggest landowners, only for the boy to achieve success in his own right and then go on to inherit the uncle’s estate anyway. No wonder it had made the headlines. But was she the only one out of step here? Heath had always been open about his dislike of the countryside—everything moved too slowly for him and things took too long to grow, she remembered him snarling at her when she had begged him to stay.

So, could she work with him?

Good question. The thought of seeing Heath on a regular basis might send a warm dart of honey to her core, but when her imagination supplied the fantasy detail, which included a doting lover called Heath and a compliant young girl called Bronte, she knew it was never going to happen, so she just said coolly, ‘I’ll stay in touch.’

Heath Stamp, Master of Hebers Ghyll? However much Heath teased her with the prospect, she just couldn’t see it.

The years had moulded and enhanced Bronte—brought her into clearer focus. She was still the same dreamer who steadfastly refused to learn the meaning of the word no. She was every bit as stubborn and determined as he remembered—if not more so. Only Bronte could come up with the crazy notion that by camping inside the gates she could scope out the new owner of the estate—potentially waylay the new owner, and then insist they consider her for the job of estate manager. Nerve? Oh, yes. Bronte had nerve—and she had never been short of ideas, or the brio to back them up.

‘Go away, Heath,’ she snapped when he went to give her a hand with the groundsheet. ‘I can do this by myself.’

‘I don’t doubt it. I just want to make sure you don’t leave anything behind.’

‘So I have no excuse to come back?’

Looks clashed. Eyes darkened. Something else for him to think about. ‘Just do it, will you?’

‘Don’t worry—I’ve got no reason to hang around here.’ She threw him a disdainful look. ‘Why on earth would I?’

A million and one reasons, Bronte thought, feeling all mixed up inside. She didn’t want to go—she didn’t want to stay. It didn’t help she’d brought so much stuff and it was taking so long to fit it back in her rucksack. She could feel the heat of Heath’s stare on her back. And low in her belly the dreamweaver was working—

‘Come on. Get a move on, Bronte.’

‘Yes, master—’

‘Less of it—and more packing,’ Heath snapped.

She was seething with frustration. Was this the same girl who had the right training for this job, as well as great qualifications? The girl who had worked her way round the world to make doubly sure she would be ready to apply for a job on the estate when she got back? And with the biggest job of all on offer, was she going to blow it now because she couldn’t see further than Heath? Bite your lip, Bronte, was the best piece of advice to follow. There was too much at stake to do anything else. She should have rung the lawyers the moment she was back in the country and avoided this meeting. She should have approached things in the usual way.

Could anything be usual where Heath was concerned?

If she had given him warning of her intentions, her best guess was Heath wouldn’t have turned up—or he’d make sure to be permanently unavailable at his office. But Hebers Ghyll needed him—needed Heath’s golden touch and his money. She had to put her personal feelings to one side and persuade him to keep the estate together and not to sell or demolish any of the old buildings in the ‘so called’ name of progress.

‘You won’t be very comfortable without this,’ he observed, toeing the edge of her groundsheet.

As she started to roll it up the scent of damp earth stirred her memories. Her parents had met and fallen in love at Hebers Ghyll, which gave it a sort of magic. The freedom of the fields when she’d been a child—somewhere to curl up with a book and lose herself—all the things that had made her feel safe and secure had gone, because every last inch of this damp, sweet-smelling ground belonged to Heath now, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

‘Why did you bring all this?’ Heath had come to stand very close.

She lifted her head and stared into the critical gaze, wishing there were some warmth in it—some recognition that they had been friends once. ‘I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait for you,’ she said truthfully.

‘You were only sure that you would,’ Heath commented without expression.

‘That’s right,’ she said, blazing defiance into his eyes.

‘Nothing changes, does it, Bronte?’

‘Some things do,’ she said. Let him know how she felt. ‘With the future of the village at stake I had no alternative, Heath. No one sleeps on the ground out of choice.’

She could have bitten off her tongue. Heath’s success had been forged out of a combustible mix of fiery determination and uncompromising poverty. He knew very well what it was like to sleep on the ground. Uncle Harry had told her once his parents used to lock him out when he was a child while they went to the pub, and if they were home late or not at all Heath had to do the best he could to find shelter. ‘Heath, I’m sorry—’

With a shake of his head he closed the subject.

Sleeping on park benches to escape the violence at home had done nothing to soften him, Bronte reflected, returning to her packing. And that stint in jail must have knocked all human feeling out of him. Yes, and what would a man like that know or care about the countryside—or the legacy he had inherited? ‘Heath,’ she pleaded softly, sitting back on her haunches. ‘You will give this place a chance, won’t you?’

He surveyed her steadily through steel-grey eyes. ‘I’m here to see what can be done, Bronte. And if I want to do it.’

‘That’s not enough.’

Heath huffed. ‘It’s all you’re getting.’

‘If you even think of turning your back on Hebers Ghyll I’ll fight you every inch of the way.’

‘Bare knuckle or Queensberry Rules?’

She stared at him intently for a moment. She hardly dared to hope that was a flicker of the old humour, but in the unlikely event that it was she wasn’t going to cause a storm and blow it out.

‘What about those cooking pots, Bronte?’ Heath demanded. ‘Am I supposed to clear them up? If you don’t get a move on I’ll fetch the tractor and shift them myself.’

‘The tractor?’ she repeated witheringly. ‘Here is a man,’ she informed the trees, ‘whose knowledge of the countryside would fit comfortably on the head of a pin with room for angels to dance in a ring. Heath Stamp—’ she introduced him with a theatrical gesture ‘—creator of imaginary worlds contained in neat square boxes—computers that can be conveniently switched off, and don’t have to be milked twice a day.’ She turned to Heath. ‘What would you know about driving a tractor?’

‘More than you know.’