Christopher's Medal (3 page)

“All right, Boss.” Dave grinned. “Will do.”

Grace finished putting down the fresh straw, unclipped the horse and peered over the top of the door. Dave had taken them around the corner to look at Allonby, which gave her time to slip out of the box and into the tack room where, at least, she could run a brush through her hair. She hurried along the path and crept into the tack room. The brush had disappeared from its usual place beside the sink and she frantically sorted through her grooming kit for a mane and tail comb.
Bloody marvelous.
A quick glimpse in the cracked and smudged mirror above the grubby sink was enough to make Grace want to crawl back into bed. Dark circles under her eyes, hair messed up beyond redemption and dressed with straw, a nasty greenish smear on her T-shirt…just the look to impress a loyal owner and his breathtakingly handsome guest. Dabbing at it with a wet cloth would just make it worse.

Bugger it.

It wasn’t like she had a chance anyway. She was an Assistant Trainer, hardly the sort of girl who would go to Regimental Balls or Polo Matches. They would have to take her as they found her—cross, grubby and desperate for another coffee.

“Miss Webb’s in the tack room.” David’s voice echoed along the yard. “She’ll be with you in a minute.”

Not even time for a bloody cigarette.

Grace plucked the last visible pieces of straw from her hair and walked out into the yard. Seeing Christopher, Grace felt her breath catch in her throat.

God, he really is something else.

She managed a smile and in spite of the odor of dirty stables and muck sacks, the General kissed her cheek.

“Good morning.” Grace straightened the baggy T-shirt. “It’s lovely to see you both again.” She saw Dave hustling from box to box telling everyone to mount up. One by one, the riders brought their horses out of their stables, saddled and ready for exercise. Grace watched them all while they fidgeted with girths and irons. Dave was last to mount up, springing lightly onto a small, bad-tempered gray filly. The horse jigged about until her rider settled into the saddle and smacked her sharply with his whip. It was the first of the morning’s strings—these horses all had races coming up and were race fit.

“Excuse me for a minute, while I give them some instructions,” Grace told her guests. She crossed the yard and the string walked in a circle around her. “No need to push the horses. Dave, you can lead the way. Take her up at half-speed. If she feels like she’s going to tank off with you, ease her up. The rest of you, just tuck in behind. We don’t want any racing.”

“All right, we’ll see you on the hill, Boss.”

Grace watched the horses file over the gravel toward the horse walk. There was still half an hour to kill before she needed to be on the other side of town to watch them work. She wondered what she was going to do with her guests. Her mother wouldn’t be ready for visitors, so a coffee or tea from her was out of the question until breakfast was ready.

The scent of manure wafted up from Grace’s shirt, reminding her that she ought to change into something clean. She needed caffeine and tried to remember if her cottage was tidy enough for guests. “It’ll be a while before they’ll get over to the Bury side. We might as well get a cuppa.”

She led them across the yard to her house, trying to remember if she’d left knickers drying on the radiator or unwashed dishes in the sink. Given that her supper the night before had been a bag of chips, she decided she was probably safe. The kitchen was too small for three people to be standing around waiting for a kettle to boil so she shooed them into the living room. She noticed that the General immediately sank down onto the settee and made himself comfortable, picking up a copy of
Horse and Hound
to read while Christopher wandered around the room, hands in pockets while he studied the photographs hanging on the walls.

Oh, Christ…not that one, shit.

Grace’s cheeks burnt when Christopher paused before a picture taken at her graduation party, the day she’d picked up her useless history degree. Knickers on the radiator would’ve been preferable to that photograph, the one where she was wearing an ex-boyfriend’s boxers and a T-shirt with the words ‘old slapper’ scrawled across the front. A paper cocktail umbrella was stuck in her hair…
bloody hell.
What was worse was that Christopher looked at it for an agonizingly long time, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She served the coffee then disappeared into her bedroom to find a clean shirt—one that was neither smeared with horse shit nor emblazoned with a dubious slogan.

* * * *

By the time they reached Bury Hill, there were two or three strings, walking in slow circles at the foot of the hill. It was still early enough that
silvery shreds of mist lingered around their feet and the dew glittered on the soft, cool grass. Grace parked the Land Rover halfway up the hill and watched for Dave and the rest of the string. Because they had already received their instructions, it was just a matter of leaning against the rail and explaining to her guests what was happening. She did not dispel the notion that the horses were running up the hill for any serious exercise—the truth of the matter was that a trip to the Bury side, according to her father, was to impress owners. The real work was usually done on the vast stretch of Newmarket Heath where it was almost impossible for owners to see everything that happened.

Grace never tired of watching the horses running up the five-furlong track, their hooves drumming on the soft surface accompanied by the fairy jingle of bits. Grace watched the gray filly, Go Be Bold, carefully. She did need the hill-work because her hindquarters were slow to muscle up. She was by a Bold Ruler mare and that stallion’s progeny sometimes had a habit of developing their front end first, which put strain on forelegs already under pressure. Dave had the filly settled beautifully and Grace could see that she was working well.

“Does she look all right?” Christopher asked when the string eased past with a muffled pounding of hooves.

“She does. We have to be so careful with her. It’s frustrating because she has the potential to be a really good three-year-old. Dad has been knocking himself out trying to talk her owners into saving her until next year.” Grace stopped herself before she ran on. This was one person she didn’t want to bore with racing matters.

“Are the owners listening?”

“So far, yes. There’s been a fair bit of grumbling on their part, but I think they believe him.” She wondered if he was genuinely interested or just being polite. It didn’t matter. He was the nicest sight she had seen on a Saturday morning for a long time. When Grace was satisfied that the head lad had everything in hand, she decided it was time for breakfast.

* * * *

By ten o’clock, breakfast was finished and the tour was over. The second lot had been dispatched to the Round Gallop on the Heath, and Harry was sweeping the yard. Grace walked her guests to their car.

“Thank you so much, dear.” The General kissed her cheek once more. “It’s been very enjoyable.”

“You’re welcome.” She glanced at Christopher out of the corner of her eye. He was busying himself with putting his jacket in the car. She took one long, last look at him and wished she was the sort who would go to Henley and Glyndebourne. Instead, she resigned herself to dodging the advances of randy jockeys and slimy estate agents. He shook her hand and thanked her as the General got into the car. She wished them both a safe journey and headed back to the yard.

She went to check on Allonby. He stood in a corner of his box. His bottom lip drooped while he dozed. She crept into the stable and squatted in the straw to check his legs. They were cool and firm to the touch. He nuzzled her hair and she patted his nose.

“Grace is very silly,” she told him. “You’ll never see her with a velvet headband and pearls eating lunch in Chelsea.” She sighed and rose, leaning against his broad, shining shoulder.

“It’s best that I stick with the likes of you, don’t you think? Plain, old, boring Grace, the trainer’s daughter.” She closed her eyes, rested her head against his neck and wondered why she felt so deflated and insignificant. At least you knew where you were with horses.

“Grace?”

She wheeled around, surprised to find Christopher standing outside the door. “I thought you’d gone.”

God, I hope he didn’t hear what I said.

Grace’s cheeks burned.

“I forgot something.”

Grace gave Allonby a final pat and slipped out of the stable. “You did?” She tried to think what he could’ve left behind.

“Would you mind if I phoned you sometime?”

His hesitancy tugged at her. She took a deep breath. “No, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

He handed her his phone. “I’m useless with these things. Can you put your number in there for me?”

It was warm from being in his pocket. Grace found the directory and programmed her house and cell numbers into it. “Here you go.” She passed the phone back to him.

He smiled and something inside of her flipped over. “Thanks.” He took her hand and kissed her cheek. “I’ll give you a call.”

“I’d like that.” She hoped that she looked calmer than she felt.

“Soon. I’d better go. Richard’s waiting and probably wondering what the hell is going on.”

“All right.” She felt her lips slide into a useless grin. “Safe journey.”

She watched him walk out of the yard, not in the least bit ashamed of herself for admiring the long sweep of his back as he walked away. She had to admit to herself that his backside wasn’t bad either.

Chapter Two

The phone rang in her dream. Grace rolled over and nearly fell off the settee. The television was on, showing the last race from York, and her phone screeched from the floor. She opened one eye, picked up the phone and looked at the caller display. It wasn’t a number she recognized. “Hullo?”

“Grace?”

The last shreds of sleep fell away. When he’d said he’d phone her ‘soon’, she hadn’t expected a call a handful of hours after she’d last seen him. “Christopher?”

“You sound sleepy, did I wake you up?”

She glanced at her watch. “Yes, but that’s all right. In fact, it’s probably a good thing you called. It’s nearly time for evening stables.”

“I can phone back another time.”

“No, no, it’s okay, there’s no rush.” She sat up and groped for her cigarettes. “I’m guessing you made it back to London all right.”

“Yup, back at the barracks.” A sigh followed. “It was nice to see green grass and open sky again. I wanted to thank you for this morning. I really enjoyed it, even though I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I always have trouble sleeping in hotels.” She lit her cigarette with a shaking hand.

“It was nothing to do with the hotel. I spent half the night wondering whether I should ask for your phone number and trying to figure out what color your eyes are.”

Bloody hell, now what do I say?
“You did?” She knew it sounded pathetic, but she couldn’t keep up with this man. He’d obviously taken more in than she’d thought. “For the record, they’re hazel…my eyes.”

“Are you doing anything next weekend? I’d like to see you again.”

Grace wondered if she was still dreaming. She decided to play along with the dream. She would wake up soon enough. “I’d like that too, but next weekend could be difficult, unless you want to spend a day at the races. I’ve got to go to Wolverhampton.”
Bloody racing.
“It’s not a pretty course like Newmarket and I have to drive the horsebox. Plus, there’ll be a lot of hanging around, you won’t be allowed in the stable yard and…the horse is owned by a syndicate of estate agents.” She didn’t want to put him off, but she needed him to know that the all-weather track wasn’t a glamorous venue for a day out. “But I’d love for you to come, if you want.” She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, sending a shower of ash onto her shirt, and waited for the inevitable excuses.

“I’d like that.”

“It’ll be a long day. I have to leave here by nine.” She rose and went to the table, rooting through the pile of papers for the calendar, the one she always kept forgetting to hang on the wall. “He runs in the second race. We’d probably get back here for five or six.”

Stop making it sound so bad. What is your problem?

“So we’d be back just in time for me to take you out to dinner.”

She could hear his smile and she looked at the phone for a few seconds. “That sounds lovely.”

“I’ll let you choose where. I haven’t a clue. Pick somewhere nice.”

“Thanks, I will. It’s really very kind of you.” A day at Wolverhampton had never sounded so good before. She wanted to run around the yard screaming and whooping. She wanted it to be next Saturday.

“What time do you want me to be there?”

Now, right now.
“If you want to come early, I can make you some breakfast, say, about seven. I should warn you, mind, my breakfasts aren’t as good as Mum’s, but I can just about manage scrambled eggs on toast.”

“It sounds perfect. Would you like me to bring anything?”

“Just yourself will be fine.”

Outside, the gates opened with a clang. Grace glanced out of the window and spied Dave’s car. She searched for her shoes, found them then put them on.