don’t think that’s a very good idea.’
Heath’s smoke-blackened face creased in his trademark grin. ‘I’ll run you a bath—’
‘Heath, I—’
‘And I’ll call you when it’s ready.’ She could argue, or she could accept Heath’s kindness for once. She could soak in soapy bubbles, which right now seemed an irresistible option.
She listened to Heath bounding up the stairs and marvelled at his energy. After everything they’d been through she couldn’t have felt more exhausted. She supposed it was the knowledge that everything everyone had worked so hard to achieve had gone up in flames. What was the point—?
She was so wrong, Bronte thought as she caught sight of Quentin’s neatly folded drying cloth hanging on the Aga rail. It was such a little thing amongst the monumental happenings of the night, but it showed Quentin cared. So many people had cared tonight, and if all that goodwill could be harvested there wasn’t the slightest possibility that Herbers Ghyll would go to the wall.
Heath didn’t call downstairs, he came downstairs to make sure she hadn’t changed her mind. ‘And I’m going to stand outside the door to make sure you’re all right,’ he said, ‘and I won’t take any argument. You just yell if you need me.’
‘But you’re tired too,’ she said, gazing up at Heath’s grimy face. ‘You must be. You go and clean up—or aren’t you planning to wash tonight?’
‘It’ll keep,’ he said. ‘When I know you’re safely tucked in bed I’ll take a shower and clean this dirt off then.’
‘Thank you,’ she said softly, meeting Heath’s gaze.
‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he told her as he opened the bathroom door. ‘And there’s no hurry, either. You take your time.’
The hard man had laid out some towels for her, and also one of his robes and a T-shirt, both of which would drown her. She appreciated the gesture more than she could say. He’d even filled the bath with warm, soapy water. She climbed in and sank beneath the surface, wondering if she would ever be clean again.
She washed the filth from her hair and her face, and then took one last quick soak, conscious that Heath must be equally exhausted, however he appeared. Getting out of the bath, she dried herself, and put on the T-shirt and robe, wrapping her hair in a towel.
Heath was waiting as she came out of the bathroom, and, putting his arm around her shoulders, he led her into his bedroom. She was swallowed up in the huge double bed. The pillows were soft and the sheets held the faint scent of sunshine and lavender. He tucked the sheets up to her chin, and kissed her forehead. ‘Sleep,’ he murmured.
She didn’t need any encouragement.
She woke in the night to find Heath lying beside her. Wearing boxers. She smiled. He was holding her in his arms. ‘You cried out,’ he said, stroking her hair back from her face.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ Kissing her again, he drew her close until she fell asleep wrapped in his arms.
Heath had gone by the time she woke up, leaving Bronte to wonder if she’d been dreaming. She’d certainly overslept, she realised, glancing groggily at the clock. And she had work to do.
Heaving herself out of bed, still half asleep, she staggered to the bathroom for a wake-up shower. She wasn’t worried about where Heath was. He’d be here at Hebers Ghyll setting things right. There was nothing more certain in her mind.
When she came downstairs the yard was full of builders’ vans and it seemed everyone from the village had come to help. And driving towards them was the biggest truck Bronte had ever seen, with huge prefabricated wooden sides and struts fixed onto the back of it with ropes. ‘What’s happening?’ she exclaimed with excitement, bursting through the door.
‘Come and see,’ Colleen cried, grabbing hold of Bronte’s arm and dragging her along.
Heath was standing on the girders putting a heavy beam into place with the boys who hadn’t been involved in starting the fire helping him. Apparently oblivious to the cold, he was wearing his old worn ripped jeans and a tight-fitting top that could have been any colour it was so blackened by grime and dust, but he was setting a good example to the boys with his hard hat, work gloves, and steel-capped boots.
Bronte felt so proud as she stared up at him. Everything had come full circle to its rightful place. Everything they had ever talked about flashed through her head—everything they’d ever done together—everything they’d learned about each other. And while that circle had been turning and becoming whole again, she thought about the journey they’d travelled. And the fun they’d had—the rows too, not to mention the frantic, fabulous sex … as well as the slow, sensual love-making. Right up to last night when Heath had held her in his arms as she slept, and had just been there for her, watching over her, silent and protective.
As if he felt her staring up at him, Heath looked down. He hadn’t shaved this morning. Heath was a man on a mission—a man in his most deliciously unreconstructed state. Their eyes met briefly. It was all Heath had time for before he hefted the beam into place.
‘I’m going to go and get breakfast started,’ Bronte told Colleen, who was a gem for bringing her clean clothes from the cottage.
‘Lunch,’ Colleen said with a laugh. ‘It’s almost noon.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘Heath said you should sleep—and everyone agreed. No one worked harder than you last night, Bronte—and no one blames you for sleeping in. No one lost more,’ Colleen added when Bronte started to argue.
‘Heath lost more. You lost more. I don’t think I lost anything,’ Bronte murmured as she turned to take one last look at Heath directing his team. ‘We’ll keep the excess hay,’ she told Colleen as they walked back to the kitchen. ‘We won’t sell it as we’d planned to—instead we’ll use it to restock the new barn.’
Heath was right, Bronte thought as she continued explaining her plans. All businesses suffered setbacks, but what had happened here, however dramatic and irreversible it had seemed at the time, was still something they could get round.
She was back, Heath thought, rejoicing as he towelled down roughly after his shower. Bronte was back, and firing on all cylinders. He’d seen it in her eyes when she came to watch the new barn being raised. She had recovered her fighting sprit. He’d felt it then, and he felt it now, that huge surge of something he now accepted was love. He’d fought it, ignored it, scorned it, and trampled it—whenever he’d got half a chance. But now he craved it. He wanted Bronte. He wanted Bronte to love him as he loved her, and he wanted to build a lot more than a barn with her.
The fire had been a terrible disaster, but out of it had come a reckoning of things that were important in life—things that could be rebuilt, regenerated, or reclaimed, and those that could never be. If Bronte had been harmed in any way he would never have forgiven himself. If the worst had happened, which he wouldn’t even think about, no amount of determination in the world would bring her back to him. And now they had got to know each other all over again he doubted Bronte’s nature could be ruined by anything—even him, because there was steel beneath that quirky daintiness, and fire beneath those caring, dreamy eyes.
