Tame Your Heart: A Small Town Romance (Bounty Bay Book 6)

by Tracey Alvarez

  Kyle shrugged and tipped the brim of the stockman’s hat he wore. But he didn’t gather the reins and guide the big chestnut away. Instead, he remained straight and easy in the saddle, a cowgirl’s fantasy in a pair of buckskin-colored pants, checked shirt with rolled up sleeves, and dusty riding boots. Watching her. Waiting for her to screw up—kinda like Henry or her brothers would’ve if they’d been here.

  She leaned over the saddle and scratched Storm’s neck. “What say we girls show him how it’s done, okay?”

  With a snort, Storm tossed her head. Yeah, she wasn’t so sure about their prospects either.

  Hyperaware of Kyle behind her, Tui clicked her tongue and guided the mare toward the water’s edge, intending to hug the shoreline away from the cows until she could come up behind them.

  Storm had other ideas. She wasn’t a trained stock horse or a young colt anymore, but the mare had always loved the water, and it’d been a while since anyone had ridden her along the beach. Storm bolted into the waves, splashing like a toddler let loose. Tui swore, but her mount was bigger and more determined, and all she could do as the sea lapped at her running shoes and then submerged them was laugh.

  “This was always our thing, wasn’t it? Swim first, then we’ll tackle the dumb cows.”

  A sharp whistle pierced the air and hoofbeats sounded on the hard-packed sand. Tui managed to angle Storm around in a sloshing circle in time to see Kyle’s horse canter past, two streaks of black and white fur running close to the ground in behind the troublemaking cow. The two other bovines, having spotted the dogs, had already turned and trotted back toward the gate.

  My God, the man could ride.

  Both horse and rider moved as if linked with some sort of spooky Avatar connection. The troublemaker lurched right, but the dogs blocked her. She trotted toward the line of shells and driftwood by the high-tide line, but man and horse headed her off. Stomping a hoof, she dipped her enormous head and apparently had second thoughts about further rebellion as she swung her stocky body around toward the open gate. The two other cows were sauntering through, tails twitching.

  “Go on, then, lady,” she heard Kyle call in a soft voice. “Follow your friends.”

  The eldest Griffin must have been some sort of cow whisperer as the troublemaker began to walk then trot—with the two dogs keeping pace—to the gate. Kyle followed at a distance on horseback. She tried not to be impressed and a little aroused by the long, lean lines of his legs and the rear view of his butt, which was pure poetry in motion. Spoiler alert: she failed.

  The three animals sauntered through the gate, disappearing into the thick undergrowth and crowded trees either side of a dusty track. She’d followed the track down earlier, up the steep winding part at the rear of the farm, across a windswept plateau above the ridge, and then down another twisty path that provided spectacular views of the Tasman Sea.

  Kyle slid off his horse and secured the gate after the cows, dropping his hat on a convenient gatepost. He whistled for the dogs, who ran over and plopped themselves down in the shade. Then he leaped back into the saddle.

  The big chestnut trotted over to the froth of waves lapping against the golden sand. It whinnied, and Storm, being a generous old lady who appreciated manners, whickered a reply—an invitation Tui guessed. Man and horse loped into the water, wading alongside her.

  It briefly occurred to her that she should thank him and ride briskly away before they complicated everything by talking. Only Storm didn’t seem in any hurry to leave the cool water, and the becoming-familiar grin on Kyle’s face made complicating things just a little bit tempting. It also occurred to her that he was trespassing again, but since he’d probably saved her one hell of a headache from chasing stubborn bovines up and down the beach, she’d zip her lips on that account.

  “This is Storm,” Tui said, stroking the mare’s neck.

  “Red. My brother Matt’s horse.” Red stomped a hoof, sending a plume of salt water over Kyle’s boots. Then he did it again with more effort, achieving some sort of equine satisfaction since Kyle’s pants bore the brunt of the splash. “He’s like a kid who needs a play at the park to burn off some energy.”

  “Storm’s like a kid’s cool grandma who’ll race them to the swing set.”

  He chuckled, the gruff sound skimming over her skin like his palm once had. She prickled and burned under her shirt, remembering his touch, remembering his addictive kisses. Remembering.

  Like maybe he was, if the heat of his gaze on her bare legs was any indication.

  “You ride well,” she said. “For an Aucklander.”

  “I spent my early years in Bounty Bay, and a lot of them in a saddle. Most kids get a Tonka truck or Lego for their third birthday; the Griffin boys got horses.”

  “Subtle hint that Griff intended to make horsemen out of the lot of you?”

  “There was nothing subtle about my grandfather. He was a hard-nosed bastard, and once he got his mind set on something—”

  Like his desire for Ngata land.

  “—there wasn’t anything that could talk him out of it.”

  “Stubborn,” she said. “Family trait?” Her stomach gave a little quiver at the unreadable glance he shot her.

  “Probably,” he said amicably enough. “But I’m nothing like Griff.”

  “You left the family fold and made a life for yourself in the big city. Guess that makes you more of a black sheep than Griff’s sacrificial lamb.” She clicked her tongue and gently tugged on the reins when it looked as if Storm was planning to wade into deeper water. The mare blew out an exasperated breath and stopped dead.

  Kyle drew Red to a halt and twisted in the saddle. “None of us are sacrificial lambs. My brothers wanted to stay because they’re good men who are loyal to their family. No one, not even Griff, forced them to stay against their will.”

  Privately, Tui wasn’t so sure about that. She’d heard the murmured stories from her parents and aunts and uncles. Four brothers, a father who died a slow and painful death, a mother distraught and finding comfort in a bottle, grandfather more pissed off than grieving that he’d lost one of his right-hand men and desperate to find a replacement no matter what the cost. The eldest grandson at nineteen who refused the responsibility. And the boys’ maternal uncle who’d taken the on position instead, until he’d died six months after Kyle’s father.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t assume to know anything about your relationships.”

  “It’s okay. You can’t choose your family, right?”

  “Right.”

  Tui shuddered, the splashes of water on her legs suddenly feeling like they’d come straight from Antarctica. Hell, and she’d thought she’d had a rough time growing up as the Ngata family baby.

  She slanted a glance at Kyle under the brim of her father’s hat, unwanted sympathy briefly closing her throat. Curiosity burned beyond the sympathy, wanting to know who the real Kyle was. Because Rarotongan Kyle and this man—this clearly complicated man whom she had been raised to view with suspicion and dislike—seemed to be two separate people. And she found she no longer trusted her own instincts about him.

  So she’d tackle a less sensitive subject. “What is it you do in the big city?”

  The tense line of his shoulders relaxed, his mouth twitching up in the corner. “I own a small architecture company specialising in designing eco-friendly, sustainable houses. I was wearing one of my T-shirts in Raro.”

  She scrunched up her face, trying to picture any one particular clothing item he’d worn. As opposed to what he wore under that clothing. The winged lion T-shirt on the snorkeling trip! Ah. Now she got it. “I thought that was some sort of Harry Potter logo, but it was a griffin, wasn’t it?”

  “You know your mythology.” He cocked his head. “That tattoo on your wrist. It’s not just a bird, it’s a tūī.”

  “Bingo. Top points for observation. You looked nothing like what I imagined an architect would look like.”

  “It was the Hawaiian shir
t and flip-flops. They’re my surfer-dude disguise.”

  She found her lips peeling back in a wide grin. “A true surfer wouldn’t wear ugly end-of-season orange swim shorts that were a size too big. You’d be asking for trouble. Instant fail.”

  “And you’d know this how?”

  “Because my two big brothers made me learn to surf. Dude.”

  He lifted his jaw, angling it toward the breaking waves farther out from the beach. “And the three of you with your own private beach to learn on. Is it any good for surfing?”

  “When the conditions are right it’s good for beginners, but better for swimming because it’s so sheltered. Stand-up paddleboarding and kayaking, too.”

  Red must’ve had enough frolicking in the water as he switched directions and cut in to shore. Storm, possibly deciding she liked this handsome younger man, followed.

  “I’m surprised,” Kyle said as the horses plodded side by side along the hard-packed sand, “that no one in your family is running private tours out here. There’s certainly a market for it.”

  She slid him another narrowed glance. “Dad won’t allow four-wheel bikes or motorbikes on the track from our place as they’d scare the cattle, and it’s too dangerous for inexperienced riders. Plus there’s the small problem of having to cross over Griffin land if we wanted to access the beach from Bounty Bay.” Not to mention her dad was now unable to ride over their land’s steep and hilly terrain.

  “Ah. Forgot about that.”

  Tui sucked in her cheeks and pinned them with her back teeth—the only way to keep her mouth under control. She doubted the gorgeous stretch of beach and thick native bush trapped between two blocks of Griffin land were that easy to forget. Griff had been bugging the Ngatas to sell off the beach section of their property since Tui’s grandparents’ time. Before Griff’s wife died and he got greedy—her dad’s words—the two families had been reasonably neighborly, with a mutual gentleman’s agreement that allowed Ngatas access across Griffin land and vice versa.

  After the fire, though…

  The horses came to a stop near the metal gate, the two dogs rising to their feet with wagging tails, grinning up at Kyle with canine adoration. Were dogs to be trusted as good judges of character?

  She slipped her foot from the stirrup, but Kyle was faster, dismounting with an ease that was pure cowboy.

  “I’ve got this.” He dipped his chin at her and strode over to the gate, snatching up his hat and settling it on his head at a rakish angle.

  He unlatched and pinned the gate open, his eyebrows lifting, disappearing into question marks under his hat when she hesitated. But Storm knew what an open gate meant and walked sedately toward it, her tail whisking from side to side.

  As they passed by, Kyle touched the hat brim, which shaded the expression in his eyes but not the wicked smile beneath it. “Ma’am.”

  Her belly did a triple flip and landed in her throat. She couldn’t speak, suspected she’d forgotten basic communication 101. Tall, dark, lean, and lonesome. She really needed to stop with this hot cowboy crap. He was an architect, for goodness’ sake—and let’s not forget, a Griffin.

  It didn’t stop a hot quiver arrowing straight to her core or prevent her poor aching thighs from clenching tighter against the saddle. Storm, bless her heart, mistook the pressure for a direct order and picked up the pace.

  Tui managed to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “Thanks for your help,” she called as Storm broke into a trot.

  “You’re welcome.”

  With a show of willpower, Tui kept her gaze locked forward onto the narrow track winding through the trees. If she looked back at him, if he smiled at her again, she’d melt into a puddle of want.

  “Home, girl,” she said between gritted teeth.

  She wasn’t a fairy-tale-believing child anymore. She didn’t believe in Prince Charming. Or that Māui literally pulled a giant fish from the ocean with his bone hook that later became Aotearoa’s North Island. Or that if you wanted something badly enough, the universe would find a way to grant you that wish—with no consequences.

  Because continuing to want Kyle Griffin? There were consequences.

  Chapter 8

  Kyle followed the easy track that wound over a plateau covered in mānuka trees and would end at the honey buildings. Matt and Eric had told him to saddle a horse, take the dogs, and piss off to check the fence line up on the ridge.

  Apparently, he was more of a liability than an asset when it came to painting the main building, so he’d left them to it. And then he’d spotted Tui and her horse on the beach.

  He could’ve turned away and left her to it; she’d have corralled the three strays eventually. Only he couldn’t seem to turn away from that woman. Dammit. He grimaced and clicked his tongue at Red. The faster he got away from Tui, the faster he could stop thinking about her. Yeah, right.

  Over the first gentle rise of the land came an endless looping hum from his right. Bees. Congregating around one of the many groups of hives that dotted the family land. From his vantage point on horseback, Kyle could see over the flowering mānuka to the head-to-toe-white-suited figure moving slowly around the blocky hives. The figure spotted him and lifted a hand in greeting.

  Their around-the-farm rough truck was parked a short distance away. Kyle bit back a smile. He wasn’t the only bossy one in the family, and likely their two younger brothers had revolted against Dave’s endless orders badly disguised as advice. He returned the wave and, on impulse, dismounted and left Red beside the truck. He whistled for Max and Bud, the dogs at once racing toward him from where they’d been loping ahead.

  He followed the rutted track and the soothing insect buzz, stopping to watch Dave checking the hives. Over the years—mainly his younger years when his dad had been alive—he’d worked side by side with his brothers and Griff come harvest time late every summer. Long, grueling hours that required muscle and teamwork to extract the frames from the hives. All the while keeping your cool around thousands of justifiably angry bees.

  How would his brothers cope without Griff overseeing the busiest time of a beekeeper’s year? Dave would have to step up. It was the only option.

  His brother wandered over, a few stray bees clinging to his coveralls.

  “Come to check up on me?” Dave said, but he took the sting out of the question with a sharp grin behind the net veil.

  “Not at all.” Bees were the ultimate little architects, their work ethic impeccable. They’d always fascinated him.

  A few bees winged around him, but Kyle held his ground, unflinching at the soft touch of their tiny bodies landing on his arm. Bee motivation he understood—guard the queen, protect the hive, store honey for the winter. Dave’s motivation, not so much.

  “How’re they looking?” Kyle nodded at the cluster of hives.

  “Shaping up.” Fisting his hands on his coverall hips, Dave scrunched up his face and gazed out over the rows of planted mānuka trees. Below and around them the star-shaped pink and white blossoms spread out into the distance, a stunning contrast to the clear blue sky and deeper blue ocean below. Every year a team of workers would plant new mānuka saplings. More mānuka meant the possibility of more honey harvested, and stockpiling honey during a good year was the only way to survive a bad one.

  Dave flicked him a side-eye. “Heard you goofing off with the Ngata girl down there.”

  This particular group of hives had a partial view of the Ngatas’ private beach. Kyle tried not to feel guilty for enjoying himself with the thin pretense of rescuing a damsel in distress.

  “She needed help with some strays,” he said after a moment.

  “Uh-huh. And that’s your problem how?”

  “It isn’t a problem to help a neighbor out. For Pete’s sake, when are we all going to move on and just get on with it?”

  “We are getting on with it.” Dave’s jaw jutted into a harsh angle. “Just fine. Thanks for bloody asking. But the fact remains, any Ngata would love
to watch our business burn to the ground. Maybe even literally.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Griff believed it, and Mum still does.” His brother blew out a breath and shook his head. “I dunno. Maybe you’re right. Maybe now Griff’s gone we can repair those burned bridges and let bygones be bygones.”

  “Think you’ve got a shot at convincing Pete to sell?” Kyle found himself holding back a breath.

  Dave snorted. “Not a chance. We couldn’t afford it now anyway.” He tipped his head toward the hives again. “Going to be a better harvest this season with any luck, but we’re not out of the woods.” Slanting another glance over in Kyle’s direction, Dave half turned toward him, folding his arms across his chest and rocking back on his heels. “You seem to have gotten a foot in the door with Tui. Maybe she could convince her parents to at least lease us a few acres up on their plateau?”

  Money for nothing but access to the Ngatas’ sprawling property where a huge section of it was flat and covered in naturally growing mānuka—a tree which thrived on often rubbishy, unfarmable land.

  “I could broach the subject in an initial meeting with her and her brothers.”

  Dave pursed his lips. “You think there’s any real chance of them agreeing? What’re they going to want in return—other than a lump sum once a year?”

  Kyle’s mind zigzagged through his earlier conversation with Tui, and a sudden 3D blueprint of the two properties dropped into his head, melding with his off-hand suggestion of a tour.

  “Access,” he said.

  “What?” Dave frowned. “Where?”

  “Across the G1 block at the coast. Then up here to the honey plant.” As he pictured the landscape, images of stunning views, kayaking, and even his mother’s hobby of honey-based beauty products flashed into his mind on different points of that internal map.

  “Hang on a moment. Why would the Ngatas want access to our land? And more importantly, why on earth would we let them?”

  “Mutual benefit.” It could work. Could being the operative word.