A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage: A brand new heartwarming grumpy/sunshine romance with a seaside se

Chapter One

“At the next junction, turn right.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m not driving up there.”

“Turn right.”

“Oh, shut up, you silly bitch. Have you seen it? It’s just a track. It’s all potholes and mud.”

“Turn right.”

“If you don’t shut up I’ll swap you for Stephen Fry.” Vicky threw up her hands in exasperation. “Oh, Lord, I’ve really lost it now! I’m sitting here arguing with my satnav.”

“Turn right.”

“Okay, okay, I’m turning right.”

This was going to be tricky. Potholes and mud were the least of it — there were deep ruts in the lane as well, as if something heavy had regularly been driven over it, and it sloped steeply uphill. Her nippy little hatchback was a city-bred car — it wasn’t accustomed to coping with that kind of thing.

“If this goes pear-shaped,” she snarled at the annoying gizmo sitting on her dashboard, “I’m never speaking to you again.”

Satisfied, the satnav lapsed into smug silence.

At least the ruts suggested that the lane led to somewhere. According to the naggy voice of the satnav, it led to Bramble Cottage, which was where she wanted to get to.

“Ah, well — here we go.”

Keeping her fingers crossed that the underneath didn’t bash on the ruts, she eased her foot on the accelerator and the car edged forward reluctantly. Replacing a dinted catalytic converter would be a nightmare inconvenience at the moment.

Jolting and squelching, she managed to inch the car up the slope. The lane might be rubbish, but the view was spectacular — gently rolling hills of lush green grass, squared off with thick flowering hedges and stands of trees. And off to the left, the shining blue of the sea.

When she was little, she had come down here every summer with her parents to stay with Aunt Molly for a couple of weeks. Well, Great-Aunt Molly to be more accurate — Dad’s aunt. After he died, they had gradually lost contact with her, except for birthday and Christmas cards — always with a five-pound note tucked inside.

After her mum had married again, holidays had become Spain or Greece — much more exciting than South Devon, and you could always rely on the sun.

But now she was remembering how much she had loved Bramble Cottage. And Sturcombe, the little seaside village just down the hill. And Aunt Molly, with her soft white curls and the sweet scent of roses that had always clung to her.

And now the cottage was hers . . .

She had reached the crown of the slope, still with her foot on the accelerator — and squeaked in alarm, the tyres slithering on the mud as she braked too sharply. The lane ahead was blocked by a herd of black-and-white cows, ambling slowly down the hill.

To make matters worse, the mud had been churned up by the cows’ hooves. She was helpless to stop the slide — and those swaying black-and-white rumps weren’t going to shift out of the way.

There was only one place to go. She swung the wheel and with a graunch — which sounded expensive — the car tipped into the ditch at the side of the lane.

A large black-and-white head turned towards her, the wide pink nose so close that the side window was misted with warm cow breath. A pair of liquid brown eyes gazed at her in mild curiosity, then the animal turned away and strolled after her sisters.

“In five hundred yards, you will have reached your destination.”

“Thank you for nothing.”

She reached out and jabbed the ‘off’ button on the satnav, and for good measure slid the thing out of its bracket and tucked it away in the glove compartment. Then she surveyed her situation.

Not good. The car was tipped at an angle of around thirty degrees, one front wheel in the ditch, both back wheels off the ground. She wasn’t going to be able to simply reverse out.

With a sigh she switched off the ignition and sat back, closing her eyes. Okay, serves you right for not taking out that rescue service membership. Now she was stuck with trying to find a local garage — which could be a problem. She had no idea where the nearest one was.

But those cows were heading somewhere — further down the hill, and through a gate in a long stone wall.

A farmyard. And where there was a farmyard there was likely to be a nice big tractor. Maybe the farmer would be willing to tow her out of the ditch.

A vague memory stirred in her brain of running up the lane from Aunt Molly’s to visit the calves, or sitting at the big scrubbed wooden table in the farmhouse kitchen eating home-baked scones still warm from the oven.

Her memory of the farmer was even more vague. A nice, jolly dairy farmer with a ruddy face and a warm South Devon accent, who’d called her ‘my luvver’ and given her a glass of milk fresh from the cows.

Though with the luck she was having today her recollection was likely to be well off. He’d probably turn out to be a grumpy old man with a face like a prune and droopy corduroy trousers held up with a bit of frayed rope.

Well, whatever, she needed to ask for help, even if she got her head bitten off for it. Hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, she pushed open the car door.

It was awkward to struggle out of the car — the angle of tilt meant that the door kept swinging shut again. But she managed it — only to land both feet in a deep muddy puddle that swamped her shoes and didn’t want to let go.

“Damn, damn, damn!”

Leaning against the car for support she managed to drag one foot out still with its shoe, but the other resisted all attempts. In the end, she had to slide her foot free and then reach down into the cold puddle to extract the shoe — leaving her with a wet, muddy hand as well as two wet, muddy feet. And nothing to dry it on except her jeans.

The cows at least had reached their destination, turning into the farmyard ahead, followed by a pair of sleek black-and-white collies. One of them ignored her, the other spared her a single look in passing. A look that Vicky had no difficulty in recognising as utter contempt.

It was only fifty yards or so to the gate. In spite of the discomfort of her squelchy feet, she had to stop and gaze in delight. Yes, it was just as she remembered it.

On one side of the wide yard stood a long, low farmhouse, built of the local grey stone, with a grey-slate roof and dormer windows along the upper floor. Bright geraniums and aubretia tumbled out of window boxes and large pots on each side of the red-painted front door.

The second side was stables, which seemed to be mostly used as garages and storerooms, and on the third was a large steel-roofed barn. And, yes, there was indeed a tractor in the yard — large, green and muddy.

The cows were filing into the barn, ushered by the busy collies. She followed — and stood gazing around in surprise. This certainly wasn’t the Old MacDonald’s Farm she had painted into her childhood memories. It was all concrete floors and stainless-steel rails and festoons of rubber piping, starkly lit by strip lights in the high roof.

The air was sharp with the smell of industrial-strength disinfectant mingling with the pungent aroma of cow dung. One row of cows were plodding into their places in the stalls like obedient schoolchildren, as the row on the other side plodded out at the far end.

The two collies had trotted off after the cows that were leaving, presumably to return to their field, and a small, scruffy brown-and-white terrier was snuffling busily around a pile of feed sacks in the corner.

A lanky teenager was shovelling dung into a wheelbarrow. Two men were working their way along the rows of stalls. The one on the right, checking the rubber pipes, looked to be in his late twenties, with a pleasant face and ginger hair that stood up like a brush.

The other . . .

Scrub the jolly cartoon farmer. This one was a hunk — at least from the back. She’d guess at over six feet tall, with wide shoulders and thick, curling dark hair. And the way he was moving with brisk efficiency along the row of cows suggested that he was rather less than middle-aged.

“Excuse me.” She stepped forward. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Huh?” He glanced over his shoulder.

“I’ve had a bit of an accident. My car’s in the ditch, just up the lane. I wondered if you could help me?”

He shook his head. “Sorry — You’ve picked a bad time. I’ll be busy here for a while.”

“I didn’t mean right now.” She tried a friendly smile but didn’t get one in response. “I can see you’re busy. But could you help me when you’ve finished? Or is there a garage I could call?”

“There’s a couple, but you’d probably have to wait even longer. Weekends they tend to be kept occupied up on the moor.”

“Oh . . .”

He had come to the end of the row and turned to the steel water-trough in the middle of the barn to wash his hands. “I’ll be another half hour, if you want to wait that long.”

“I don’t seem to have much choice,” she conceded wryly. “Thank you.”

“Sit down, then.”

“Thank you...” He’d already gone, striding down to the far end of the milking shed. There had been no ‘my luvver’, no answering smile. He looked as if he didn’t know how.

But he certainly was a hunk. His eyes were dark beneath dark, level brows. The hard line of his jaw was shaded by a hint of stubble, and in the open collar of his plaid cotton shirt she had caught a glimpse of rough, curling hair at the base of his throat.

He was wearing brown oilskin dungarees — hardly the most elegant of garments, but they did nothing to detract from his hunkiness. There was something uncompromisingly male about him. It was in the easy confidence in the way he moved, the air of someone completely comfortable in his own skin.

She couldn’t say that he had been impressed in return — the cool glance that had flickered over her had registered nothing but indifference. She really couldn’t blame him for that. She must look as if she’d dropped in from another planet, in her slim-fit designer jeans and the flat scarlet pumps she wore for driving. Both caked in mud.

She probably had a couple of smears of mud on her face, too. And her hair, which her stepsister frequently disparaged as ‘not-quite blonde’, had fallen from the neat twist on the top of her head to tumble untidily over her shoulders.

Not that she was bothered what he thought of her — no matter how good-looking he was. She was only here for a few days — a week at most — to clear out Molly’s things and check out any repairs or renovations needed at the cottage before she put it on the market.

Then she’d be off back to London, to her career and her fiancé. And this guy wouldn’t figure in her memories at all.

She glanced around, but there was nowhere to sit except for a bale of hay. Well, that would have to do. The brown-and-white terrier came to sniff around her feet and jump up with his paws on her knees to say hello.

At least someone was friendly.

She stroked his soft head and tickled behind his ears, and his tongue lolled out, his warm brown eyes conveying pure ecstasy. Then he was off, back to sniffing and snuffling around the feed sacks — probably looking for rats. A new group of cows were ambling in from outside, ushered by the efficient collies into the stainless-steel pens. Vicky watched, fascinated, as the farmer worked his way steadily along the line, wiping their swollen pink udders with some brown liquid and fitting the rubber tubes. It was almost like a well-coordinated dance.

The shed was warm, and she was growing accustomed to the smell. The contented mooing of the cows and the rhythmic click and clang of the milking machinery spun a strange melody, a lullaby...

* * *

“Okay, are you ready to go?”

Vicky sat up sharply, startled awake. She hadn’t intended to fall asleep. Had she been sleeping with her mouth open? Or worse, snoring?

“Oh . . . yes, right. Thank you.”

She scrambled to her feet as he walked away. The mud had dried around her shoes, making them even more uncomfortable than when they had been wet, but there was nothing she could do about that now.

She followed him as he strode across the farmyard. He walked with an easy, athletic stride, the little terrier scrambling around his feet. The dungarees had gone... and what was she doing, admiring his butt in those well-worn jeans?

He swung himself up into the cab, the dog jumping up behind him, and held his hand out to her. She regarded the height of the cab with some misgiving.

“Jump up.” Yes, he could smile. “Unless you’d prefer to walk?”

“No . . . um . . . okay — thank you very much.”

She put her hand in his and found herself hauled bodily up into the cab. There was a narrow seat next to the driver’s seat — but the dog was sitting on it, a look of smug possession on his furry little face.

The farmer laughed and clicked his tongue. “Come, Rufus.”

Instantly the dog scrambled up and disposed himself around those wide shoulders, gazing alertly out of the windscreen, ready to give directions.

The farmer brushed a hand over the seat, though it had little effect. “I’m afraid it’s a bit mucky.”

“That’s okay — these jeans are probably beyond salvation already.” The little dog turned his head to study her with those quick dark eyes. She tickled one floppy brown ear. “He’s a cute little thing.”

The farmer laughed dryly. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He thinks he’s a Great Dane.”

So — he had a sense of humour after all? Vicky laughed too. “You’re probably glad he isn’t if he makes a habit of sitting on your shoulders.”

“Oh, that’s far from being his only bad habit.” He tickled the little dog under the chin, inducing a look of sheer bliss. “Bring any more half-dead rats into the house, Rufty Tufty, and you’re for the dog pound, you horrible mutt.”

Clearly the mutt wasn’t remotely intimidated by the threat, turning his head to lap his long pink tongue up his master’s cheek.

“I’m Tom, by the way.” He fired up the tractor’s ignition and it rumbled into life like some giant Transformers monster.

“Vicky. Thank you for your help. I hope I’m not keeping you from your work.”

“No — only from my tea.”

“Oh . . . I’m sorry . . .”

“No problem. This won’t take long.”

He turned the tractor out of the farm gate and up the lane. The ride was bumpy and she had to cling to the sides of her seat to stop herself being thrown around.

“How did you end up in the ditch?”

“I had to swerve to avoid your cows.”

“You mean you didn’t see them until the last minute?” He arched one dark eyebrow in lazy amusement. “They’re pretty big.”

“I know.” She smiled wryly. “But it was muddy and the tyres wouldn’t grip. I slid pretty much the whole way down the slope.”

“What were you doing on the lane anyway?” His arm brushed against hers as he changed gear — and yes, those muscles were as hard as they looked. “It’s just a farm track — cars hardly ever use it.”

“It leads to Bramble Cottage, doesn’t it?”

“It does. But if that’s where you’re heading why did you turn off down Haytor Avenue? You’d have been better to keep on the main road and take the next left down Church Road.”

“I was following my satnav.”

“Ah. Your satnav.” She couldn’t see it, but she suspected that he had rolled his eyes. “Anyway, why are you going to Bramble Cottage?”

“I just inherited it from my Aunt Molly.”

“Molly was your aunt?” His voice had suddenly chilled. “Funny, I didn’t know she had any family. I must have missed your visits. Regular, were they?”

“No...” She’d been feeling a bit guilty about that since she had found out about the will. She had been Molly’s only living relative — she should have at least made some kind of effort to check that she was okay.

And now her aunt had left her the cottage and all its contents, as well as the contents of her bank account. “I haven’t been down for a long time. We... more or less lost contact after my dad died.”

“Really? And yet she was here all the time. You wouldn’t have had to hire a private detective to find her.”

His sarcasm put her on the defensive. “It wasn’t my fault,” she protested awkwardly. Her conscience bit back. Yes, it was.

He returned her only a brief, withering glance.

Fortunately they had reached the car. He manoeuvred the tractor behind it, jumped down and took a rope from the back. She watched as he stooped beside the back of the car and clicked off a plastic panel from the bumper.

“Oh... I never knew what that was for.”

“Well, you know now.” Any trace of friendliness was gone. With swift efficiency he threaded the rope through the tow loop and tied it in a secure knot. “Right. Take off the handbrake and turn on the ignition.”

She did as he instructed. He climbed up into the tractor again and put it in gear. The tow rope tightened and, bit by bit, the car was dragged clear of the ditch. It bounced and jolted back onto all four wheels.

Anxiously she looked around it. The front nearside wheel didn’t look right.

“It’s out of alignment,” Tom advised grimly. “You’ll need to get it fixed before you try to drive it anywhere.”

“You said I’d have difficulty getting a garage to come out.”

“I’ll give you a number. Ring them first thing in the morning — you can probably catch them before the tourists on the moors start flapping. I’ll tow it down to Molly’s for you.”

“Oh.” She was slightly surprised at the offer, after his earlier disapproval. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“I need the towing hook.”

“The . . . towing hook?”

“It’s probably in the boot, under the spare wheel.”

“Oh . . . right . . .”

She opened the boot, fumbling clumsily to remove the screw holding the spare wheel in place. With an impatient grunt he moved her aside — it was the most fleeting touch, but it sent an odd little shimmer of heat over her skin.

Steady girl— what was that about? Just because he had hard muscles and sexy eyes. And a judgemental attitude.

He swiftly unfastened the screw and lifted the wheel out, and located the metal hook in the tray beneath. In a few moments he had re-tied the tow rope and returned to the tractor.

It looked worryingly as if there wouldn’t be room to turn the big machine around and get it past the stranded car, but she shouldn’t have underestimated him. He bounced the thick wheel over the ditch on the opposite side of the lane, and eased round to the front of the car.

Rufus jumped up and wrapped himself across his shoulders again, and he held out his hand to help her up into the cab. Sitting beside him again, she was all too aware of the raw male power in those wide shoulders, the strength in his hands on the steering wheel.

She clenched her fists in her lap, the diamond ring on her finger digging into her palm. Okay, she could acknowledge that he was an attractive man — just thinking that wasn’t being disloyal to Jeremy. But he clearly didn’t like her.

Besides, there’d probably be a farmer’s wife in the farmhouse on the far side of the yard.

They passed the entrance to the farm. The lad was hosing down the muddy yard, supervised by the two collies who lay side by side in the entrance to the barn. Rufus didn’t even deign to glance in their direction.

A little further on they rounded a slight bend in the lane, and the cottage came into view.

It was a lot smaller than she remembered. It was tucked into a dip, with a rough patch of lawn running down to the front door. Built of the same grey stone as the farmhouse, it didn’t look as neglected as she had feared. The grey-slate roof tiles and square brick chimney looked sound.

An overgrown hedge bordered the frontage. Tom manoeuvred the car into the gateway so that it was clear of the lane. “It’ll be okay there until the garage can come and pick it up.” He held out his hand. “Give me your phone and I’ll put Barry’s number in for you.”

“Thank you.”

He keyed a number into her phone and handed it back to her. She jumped down from the cab, and Rufus scrambled down after her and set off to explore the patch of lawn.

Tom unfastened the tow rope and coiled it up, tossing it into the back of the tractor, then stood and studied the cottage, his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans.

“What are you planning to do with it?” It wasn’t friendly curiosity in his voice — there was more than a hint of suspicion.

“I don’t know yet — that’s why I came down to look at it for myself.” She strolled slowly down the gravel drive, pausing to tug at a flourishing weed. “It’s probably going to need a major renovation project.”

“And then?”

“Well — sell it, I suppose.”

“Why not sell it as it is, so someone local could afford it and do it up themselves?” he suggested.

“There’s a greater profit margin if you sell it after it’s been renovated.” Uh-oh — she sounded just like Jeremy.

“And of course that would be the most important consideration.”

She turned sharply, stung. “That’s not fair. You don’t know me — you don’t know anything about me.” She drew in a steadying breath. “Look, I appreciate your help with the car, but I’m not going to discuss my business with you.”

“Fine. Have a nice day.” And without another word he turned his back on her and whistled to Rufus, scooped him up and deposited him in the cab of the tractor, then swung up into the driver’s seat. Putting the machine into reverse he drove away up the lane to the farm.