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had a couple of approaches from people he's ridden for,' Grantham said
    mildly. 'What's odd about that?'
    She bit her lip. 'Approaches are one thing, firm offers are another.' She
    looked at him anxiously. 'Dad, don't go overboard, will you?'
    He shook his head. 'I had a heart attack, my girl, not a brain seizure!'
    Natalie wasn't particularly reassured. She said, 'If— and I mean if—these
    extra horses come, where the hell are we going to put them?'
    'In the new extension.'
    'But that's only at the outline planning stage,' she protested.
    'Not any more.' He poured himself some more coffee. 'I set the architect on
    preparing detailed drawings last week. Permission'll be a formality.'
    'And financing?' she asked huskily. 'We're still paying off the
    accommodation block and...'
    'And I've got a partner now. A partner with money.' He gave her a genial
    wink. 'This is going to be his pigeon, not mine, so stop panicking.'
    The conversation had only served to bring home to Natalie with increasing
    emphasis how potent a force Eliot Lang was going to be at Wintersgarth.
    Oh God, she thought savagely as she got into bed, why can't there be some
    sort of time slip? Why can't we go back to the time before Grantham had his
    heart attack, when everything was normal—and safe?She switched off her
    light and settled herself for sleep, but it proved elusive. She found she was
    being tormented by vivid mental images of Eliot Lang locked together with
    his voluptuous blonde in some Harrogate hotel room.
    When she did at last fall asleep, for the first time in many months she
    dreamed of Tony, and woke in the morning to find tears on her face.
    The internal phone in the office rang and Natalie answered it, her mind still
    fixed on the farrier's bill in front of her. 'Yes, Beattie?'
    'The removal van's arrived,' her stepmother announced triumphantly. 'Do
    you want to join me in a good pry?'
    Natalie stifled a sigh. 'I—I haven't really got time.'
    'Well, never mind.' Beattie sounded disappointed but cheerful. 'He's going to
    ask us to dinner when he's sorted himself out a bit, so we can see everything
    then.'
    Hurrah, Natalie thought bleakly, as she replaced her receiver. The date on
    the calendar had been circled in red for quite some time now. There was no
    way she could forget that today was the day Eliot finally moved into
    Wintersgarth.
    He'd been up several times in the intervening period, staying at the pub in the
    village. He had attended the planning hearing when permission for the
    stabling extension tfad been given, without problems as Grantham had
    predicted. He had checked on the progress of the decorators, and the firm
    he'd employed to install a new kitchen.
    'I've seen the drawings,' Beattie had disclosed, awed. 'It looks more like the
    deck of a space ship than a kitchen!' She'd given the Aga an affectionate pat.
    'I'd be afraid of pressing the wrong button!'
    Natalie wasn't the world's greatest cook, and the culinary arrangements at
    the fiat had been basic to say the least, but it still galled her that he was
    making such sweeping changes. But then everything he did seemed to find
    some raw spot, she thought ruefully, particularly as so far he hadn't seemed
    to put a foot wrong. She was ashamed to acknowledge that she'd harboured a
    secret hope that Wes and the lads would resent him, had looked forward to
    seeing him cut down to size in some subtle way. But it hadn't happened. He
    seemed to have hit the right note with them, as with everyone. Except
    herself.
    She went back to the farrier's bill, but she couldn't concentrate. All she could
    think of was that the flying visits were over. Eliot was moving in, for good.
    And she would have to start thinking seriously about moving out.
    She had dreaded having to face him again, after those few searing minutes in
    the tack room. She'd expected some pointed reminder, a look, a drawled
    remark. She'd been on edge waiting for it. But it hadn't happened—yet.
    Perhaps Eliot had