Join the small community of Summerfield in this warm-hearted, charming romance about trying not to fall in love – and failing – from an award-winning Australian author. For readers of Stella Quinn and Fleur McDonald

Mackenzie Henry is happy enough with her life in the small town of Summerfield. She loves her work as a saddler, the bushland surrounding her home, and the feeling of safety her beloved grandfather brings her. She doesn’t want anything-or anybody-else.

So when her grandfather asks her to lead the fight to rehabilitate land destroyed by an open-cut mine, and work in front of the camera with a Norwegian documentary-making team, Mackenzie fears her life will be tipped on its axis. And she’s right. The documentary not only reignites old resentments but unearths secrets that threaten her family’s reputation and her own safety. To make matters worse, the enigmatic scientist, filmmaker and adventurer Kit Thorsen is a threat to the heart Mackenzie has kept safe.

Handsome, arrogant and infuriating (read: Viking), Kit is in equal parts as fascinated and frustrated by Mackenzie’s mix of independence and vulnerability as she is by his. Given the demons in both of their pasts, they should run a mile. Will the compulsion that brings them together unite them or tear them apart?

‘A rural story that has it all … simmering romance […], a complex heroine and a swoon-worthy hero. What’s not to love?’ Karly Lane, bestselling Australian author

---

The fields shimmer gold and clouds smudge the sky as I lower my Akubra and gather the reins. When Athena, a silver-grey mare with dapples on her rump, prances and tosses her head, I bring her back to our marker.

‘We wait by the posts,’ I tell the mare as, a hundred metres away, nine thoroughbreds with necks stretched out and tails like banners, charge past a water tank fringed with red-rust rings. There are no riders on these horses, no bridles, saddles or other restraints. Firefly, on the outside, brings the other horses round and they gallop through a stand of ironbark trees. Phoenix, a powerful thoroughbred with a vivid white star, is the first to pass the shack with a tall brick chimney.

When I tighten Athena’s reins, the leather, hand stitched by my grandfather, is soft against my palms. If Grandpa was still at the saddlery, if I could have kissed him goodbye as the sun came up, he’d have taken my hand and smiled. ‘Keep a rein on your spirit, Mackenzie,’ he’d have said. ‘Get yourself home in just the one piece.’

Three members of the film crew dart across the field, cameras and other equipment bouncing with their steps. Drones with cam-eras, a flock of metal birds, buzz and swoop above us. Leo, the lead horse trainer, standing at the marker between me and the yards, raises a pole topped with a screen. I keep my eyes on the numbers as the countdown begins. Ten, nine, eight … Athena’s hindquarters bunch beneath her, but I keep her close to our marker as the numbers continue to light up the screen. The numeral two comes up and then number one, but …

When Leo briefed me an hour ago, he told me I shouldn’t give Athena her head until Phoenix was less than ten seconds behind us. I count down another five seconds before leaning forward, drop-ping my hands and loosening the reins.

‘Go!’

The air trembles with hoof beats as Athena takes off and Phoenix follows. Nostrils flared, neck extended, within seconds he’s at our heels. Adrenaline fires through my body as the ground blurs beneath me. My heart thumps, my eyes water. Like the other horses, Phoenix has been trained to gallop from marker to marker. This scene in The Dragon Slayers movie—the wild black stallion pursuing the smaller grey mare with the boy on her back—is only a chase in theory. Except …

Phoenix has thrown away the script. Unlike the other horses, he’s not looking to the trainers for direction. Did Leo see some-thing I missed? Is that why he signalled that I should start early? The thoroughbred should have backed off but he only has eyes for Athena.

Phoenix is a gelding, not a stallion. He has no interest in adding Athena to his herd. But he’s an ex-racehorse and has reverted to what he was trained for—finishing out in front. Which is why, instead of staying a metre clear of Athena’s side and at least a metre behind, he’s drawing closer to us and further away from the other horses.

The drones flit above us. Crew members pop up like daisies. They’ve been briefed on what should happen—they see there’s a problem.

Leo is holding up a long black whip, signalling that the horses come to him. When he lowers the whip, signalling that the horses slow to a canter, all of them but Phoenix follow his direction. Athena is under my control; she waits for my command. I shorten a rein and increase the pressure of my inside leg to change her trajectory.

‘Stay with me, girl.’

After a moment’s hesitation, Athena responds, but Phoenix comes with us. If he had a halter, I could grab it and shake some sense into him, but as it is I have half a tonne of thoroughbred breathing down my neck. I shoot a glance at Leo, now stand-ing on a railing and waving the horses in. If I pull Athena up now, where will that leave Phoenix? He’s set on his course. He’ll take time to settle. There are twenty or thirty people between us and the yards—not only Leo’s horse-wise team but actors, extras, make-up artists, wardrobe and catering. Some people are already running for cover, but what about those who won’t get there in time? If I end the chase, Phoenix could gallop over them. Even if he didn’t, he could get hurt himself.

‘Mac!’ Leo sweeps his arm in an arc. ‘Get Phoenix out of here!’

Astrid Meyer, the movie director, whippet slim with straight fair hair and dressed in black, shouts out too.

‘Take him to the river!’

‘Onto it!’

My words are taken by the wind as Phoenix, eyes wide, nostrils flared, gallops alongside Athena. The men with cameras remain dotted around the field. Some are still filming; others run for cover. The Akubra, guaranteed by wardrobe to stay on through thick and thin, flies from my head and my hair streams out behind me. Athena is tiring. The river, marked by a long straggly line of red river gums, is a few hundred metres away.

Unlike every metre of ground between the markers—the water tank, iron bark trees and tumbledown shack, the posts where I waited with Athena and the finishing point at the yards—this land hasn’t been combed for rabbit and wombat holes or other hidden dangers. We plough through a thicket of thistles, leap over a ridge of rock. To our left is an upright post. A dilapidated fence? If there’s one post, there’ll be others, and maybe wire as well. A kangaroo hops up the banks of the river, stills for a heartbeat and then bounds away. Fight or flight: he knows what to do.

We’re a couple of hundred metres clear of the yards—enough time for the crew to run clear if Phoenix doubles back. When I shorten the reins, Athena responds but Phoenix, eyes wild and hooves thundering, cuts across us.

Athena loses her footing. She stumbles.

When I throw myself to the side to correct her balance, she scrabbles but stumbles again.

My feet fly out of the stirrups.

Losing the reins my grandfather stitched, I catapult over her head. Are the cameras still whirring? Am I falling in slow motion? Are they drones or vultures high in the sky? Athena is below me and then she’s behind me and then, as I wrap my arms around my head and roll and roll and roll, she’s far above me and blocking out the sun.

*****

Get yourself home in just the one piece. I’m twenty-seven. I don’t parrot Grandpa’s phrases like I did when I was a child, but his favourite expressions—like his knowledge of dogs and horses and leather—are hardwired into my mind.

I’m on my back and unless a horse (or an elephant) is sitting on my chest, I’m winded. Breathing is painful but I can wiggle my fin-gers and toes. I bend my elbow, struggle onto my side, bring up my knees. There’s a lot of yelling going on. There’s also a deep throaty rumble. Or is that a sound in my head? The film crew vehicles are parked behind the yards. They’d have to drive to the road and take a circuitous route around the paddocks to get to me here. It’ll take a while, but that doesn’t worry me. By then I’ll have my breath. I’ll sit up, brush myself down and—

The rumble gets louder. A motorcycle engine, a powerful one, cuts out. Like the numbers on Leo’s screen, the images in my mind are perfectly clear. Twisted limbs. Broken neck. The saddler’s son is dead.
A whimper explodes from the cramp in my chest. I open and shut my fingers again. I blink a few times, focus on the browns and the greens. A cockatoo screeches and others join in. I turn my head, feel the roughness of the dirt against my cheek. The saddler’s granddaughter lives.

Heavy footsteps. A long stride. Then, ‘Don’t move.’

Deep voice. Two very large and dusty boots. I straighten a leg. Hard-baked earth beneath my knee. I bring an arm under the side of my face.

‘I said don’t move.’ He’s crouching over me now, blocking out the sun. Isn’t that what Athena did?

I breathe in. Not too painful.

He places a hand on my arm. ‘Astrid called an ambulance.’ Shallow breaths. Don’t push it. I roll onto my back and—Piercing blue eyes. A crease between his brows. Well-defined cheekbones. A firm mouth and a square jaw. Scruffy well-cut dark blond hair.

He’s a Viking.

When a horse whinnies, he looks towards the sound.

‘The horses.’ My voice is a croak.

‘The grey is on her feet.’ His pronunciation is sharp. An accent?

‘The black has bolted.’

I roll to my left side, planning to sit. ‘Oh!’

His hand skirts up my arm to my shoulder. ‘What?’

‘Give me a hand.’

He’s young, early thirties, but the line between his brows appears to be permanent. Does he stand on the prow of his ship and frown into the sun? His stubble and brows are darker than his hair. A scar, a faint white line a centimetre long, cuts across his chin. He opens his mouth as if to deny me but when I wedge my boot against a clump of grass, he holds out an arm.

Get the book here