Chapter 2

      Philippa Keelan put the brush down and watched as the wagon pulled into the yard. Rory, as male chauvinistic as ever, was behind the steering wheel; Lottie had her long legs stretched out on the dashboard with a terrier balance precariously on her thighs. The second, older terrier was sat sensibly between driver and passenger, and the third one was galloping back and forth along the back of the seat trying to peer out of the windows and barking with excitement at being home.

      Pip felt the broad smile spread across her face and knew, deep in her heart, that coming here had been good for her. She’d never thought of herself as a country girl. By the age of fifteen she’d been screaming to get out of the small Welsh village where she’d been unceremoniously ‘dragged up’. But after years of city life, here she was, stuck deep in the Cheshire countryside with a mix of horsey heroes, grumpy farmers and a smattering of WAGs.

      From the first day her mother had shoved pencils and crayons in her direction, to keep her out of mischief, she’d been hooked. From the moment she’d learned that the hieroglyphics spread before her made up words, and the words made up a magical mystery story, she’d become an addict. Words and make-believe were far more interesting than the rolling Welsh hills and dirty sheep. Her wellies had been tossed aside in favour of a good book or, as she hit her teens, a girlie magazine. Pip was born to be a journalist, and a damned good one she’d become.

      Her move to study in London had been the start of a new life, and apart from returning to Wales for the occasional daughterly duties of birthdays and Christmas, she’d never looked, or stepped, back.

      Success had not come cheaply, social life was an enigma as she’d kept her head down and chased every lead and story she’d been offered until she hit the top, her dream job. Interviewing the stars, travelling the world. Pip didn’t want a desk job, an editor’s position, she wanted to write. And write she did. Until she met Lottie on a Spanish beach.

      She’d finished an assignment and was spending a couple of days ‘chilling’ as her editor had suggested, well, told her to. But it was a foreign concept and after three hours she’d been champing at the bit to get back to what she thought of as real life, until she’d hooked up with Lottie and her boyfriend. Until she’d listened to the self-deprecating stories that Lottie told about her famous father and her frequent spills from the saddles of his top horses. All of a sudden Pip felt jaded, lost in a sea of words. She needed a reality check. A kick up the arse. Some real people, rather than the endless stream of sycophants and stars.

      And so, with the promise that Lottie would find her some work ‘no probs as long as you don’t mind some shit shovelling’, she told her editor she was taking a sabbatical. She agreed to work freelance. And now she was here. With a curly-haired loveable rogue called Rory, the madcap, irresponsible Lottie, who she was sure was desperately seeking security, and a bunch of horses that were more than one step up the ladder from the Welsh ponies she’d been brought up on. Although, as she well knew from past bruises, a Section D cob could be just as hot-headed as a thoroughbred, when it could be bothered to put the effort in.

      ‘Well, is it true?’ Lottie was out of the cab, pushing the gates shut before the lorry had halted, with the dogs tumbling out after her and fanning across the yard like an army patrol on search duty.

      ‘Hi, to you too.’ Pip waggled the bottom of her polo shirt to let some air in and wished she had shorts on like Lottie, minus the red-wealed thighs from a wobbling terrier. It had been cool when she’d started work, but now it was surprisingly close for an April day.

      She cut a striking figure, but didn’t quite realise the impact she’d had on the men or the place since landing in Tippermere a few months previously. Her neat bob of blonde hair was almost permanently pulled back into a severe ponytail, but it showed off her fine cheekbones and bright blue eyes, and to the onlooker she was the picture of London sophistication, not a Welsh country girl. Which was exactly the image she’d set out to project. Pip always achieved what she wanted, even if her soft tone and seemingly laid-back approach belied it. She had an iron will and the determination of one of Rory’s terriers. Which was how she’d got to the top of her career path and how she kept her trim figure and perfect complexion. Pip worked hard at whatever she did. Quietly. Which scared men off. Completely. Until she’d come here and found that the horsemen that Lottie shared her life with were a hundred miles from the city slickers she’d been sharing her bed and brain with for the last God knows how many years. She hadn’t decided yet if that was a good thing or bad. Here, taking a gentle hint was an alien concept, ‘no’ had to be said very loudly, accompanied by something bordering on GBH. And when they got it, they just laughed and moved on. No fragile egos and over-sensitivity here.

      ‘Pip, you can be so bloody annoying when you want to be.’ Lottie started to lower the ramp of the lorry with the ease of someone who’d done it a billion times.

      ‘Says the girl who stood me up last night so she could lorry hop.’

      Lottie coloured up. ‘I only went with him because you said you couldn’t. You’re the one who grooms for him, not me.’

      ‘Touché. Yes, then.’

      ‘Yes, what?’

      Pip jumped as Rory grabbed her from behind and landed a loud smacker of a kiss on her bare neck. ‘Yuk. That is so gross, can’t you keep him under control, Lottie?’ Lottie shrugged, with a grin flickering briefly across her worried features. Control wasn’t something she was overly bothered about.