Cut Throat (17 page)

He headed for the horsebox and met Ginger coming in the opposite direction, but instead of being led by Danny, Lindsay was riding her.

‘Hi, I thought you'd be about ready for her.' Lindsay smiled and swung down, her blonde hair, unconfined by a crash hat, bobbing on her shoulders.

‘I'd rather you didn't ride Ginger,' Ross said, his tone a little sharper than usual from the mild shock of seeing her playing unconsciously in the lion's jaws.

‘Why ever not?' Lindsay asked, taken aback. ‘I was only walking her. She's a dozy old creature.'

‘She can be difficult if anything upsets her,' Ross warned.

‘You're joking!' Lindsay quizzed him, laughing.

‘I'm not.' Ross was exasperated. Why couldn't she just accept it? He didn't want to draw attention to his unease over Ginger because of the inevitable comparisons people would make with events in the States. So easy to conclude that he was influenced purely by fear.

‘Well, well. Old Ginger has hidden depths, have you, old girl?' Lindsay patted the chestnut neck, still not convinced.

‘She's only eight,' Ross reminded her.

‘Yes, I know.' Lindsay wrinkled her nose at him. ‘But she always acts old.'

‘Damn Danny!' Ross exclaimed. ‘I particularly said I wanted her in a dropped noseband.'

‘Shall I fetch it?' Lindsay offered. ‘I don't think it was his fault. Leo was tacking her up.'

‘No, never mind. I don't suppose it'll make much odds. She does look half-asleep.' With Leo in mind, he swiftly went through the checks that were becoming second nature to him lately.

Lindsay watched him; half-frowning, half-amused. ‘My, we
are
safety-conscious these days, aren't we?' she observed. ‘This isn't the Ross I used to know.'

The Ross you used to know didn't have a budding saboteur for a groom, he thought darkly.

‘Maybe I'm getting old,' he joked.

Lindsay laughed, but as she watched Ross mount the chestnut mare, her expression grew thoughtful.

By now, he had other things on his mind.

Ginger was in a mood.

He could sense it at once. Whereas that morning she had been unenthusiastic but obedient, now he felt open resentment radiating from her. She had never felt quite like this before. On the two previous occasions she had thrown a tantrum there had been no warning and Ross didn't know whether this unwillingness presaged another irrational fit or whether it was just a sulk. He did know that his own mouth was dry and he was aware of a growing tension in his muscles. That wouldn't help. Horses are quick to sense the mood of their rider. He concentrated on relaxing.

As he rode round the collecting ring he saw Lindsay watching him intently from the ropes with James at her side. He smiled brightly at them as he went by, projecting a confidence he was far from feeling. They both smiled back.

The collecting ring was filling up with competitors wanting to make use of the practice jump before they went into the ring and Ginger was flattening her ears at any who passed too close. Ross put her at the single-pole fence once and she clicked her toes over it with the minimum possible effort. He found a corner and let her stand.

Fourth to go in the class, Ross didn't have long to wait. He rode into the ring acutely aware of Robbie Fergusson's piercing, analytical eyes watching him from the grandstand.

Ginger felt mulish.

‘Next to jump we have number one hundred and fifty-four, Ross Wakelin on Mr R. Fergusson's Red Queen.' The loudspeaker whined and popped and Ginger jumped nervously.

Ross wondered if Harry Douglas had finished tormenting him for the day. He shortened his reins, and with seat and heels bullied the mare into an unwilling canter. As soon as the buzzer sounded he headed her for the first fence, intending to give her no time to think. It was an undemanding rustic pole over brushwood, but she proceeded on stiff legs and barely slithered over it, clicking her toes on the top as she did so. The second fence followed quickly and Ginger was bustled over it before she knew where she was.

Two down, nine to go, Ross thought to himself as he swung Ginger round the bottom of the ring to the third.

She would have none of it.

As she passed the entrance to the collecting ring she slowed dramatically and Ross knew all the wayto the third that he was fighting a losing battle. Her head came up, her stride grew shorter and shorter, and she stopped abruptly at the base of the fence.

Ross swore under his breath. He knew from her demeanour that she had made up her mind and he hadn't a hope of changing it, but he also knew that he had to give the appearance of trying. He turned the mare away to get a second run at it, and she bolted.

Furious, he put both hands on one rein and pulled her round. After two or three tight circles she stopped, head high and eyes showing white. Ross considered slapping her with the end of the reins – he never now carried a crop on the mare – but almost immediately decided against it. She was just a hair's breadth away from berserking and the memory of those screams, those terrified faces moving too slowly, flashed across his inner eye.

It couldn't happen again. It must not.

Ross touched the brim of his crash hat, glancing at the commentary box, and turned Ginger back to the collecting ring, hating to give in but fearing the consequences of the alternative. The audience produced a smattering of applause and lost interest, looking to see who would be next in. Ross wished he could forget it as easily but he doubted if he would be allowed to.

‘Ross Wakelin and Red Queen have retired,' the loudspeaker announced. ‘Back to the drawing board with that one, I feel. Better luck next time, Ross.

‘Next we have number ninety-six, Mick Colby on Mrs Colby's very good mare . . .'

Ross reached the collecting ring on a still-twitchy Ginger and dismounted, keeping his face averted so that nobody could see the fury he felt sure must show. Fury at the patronising tones behind the public-address system; at fate for having put him in this impossible situation; and irrational fury at himself for having failed to keep the mare going, even though he didn't know what else he could have done.

He ran the stirrups up and loosened the girth, preparing to lead her back to the lorry.

‘She
has
got a stubborn streak, hasn't she?' Lindsay appeared at the mare's head. ‘I've never seen her like that before.'

‘She's dangerous,' he muttered, darkly. ‘Completely crazy.'

Lindsay came round to Ross' side, catching sight of his expression for the first time. ‘Wow! She's really got to you.'

‘It wouldn't have mattered so much if Fergusson hadn't been here,' he said. ‘She
would
choose today.' He glanced across to the grandstand and saw Ginger's owner pushing his way through the crowds in the members' enclosure below.

‘Let's get out of here,' he suggested. ‘I'd prefer to be bawled out in a less public place.'

The horses were loaded and ready to travel by the time the Colonel and Bill finally reached the lorry. Somewhere along the way they had shed Fergusson, for which Ross was deeply grateful.

‘All ready to go?' the Colonel asked.

Ross nodded, searching his employer's face for some clue as to his mood. The Colonel gave nothing away. Bill was looking rather less than ecstatic, though. Lindsay had already left, swept off by James in his powerful Mercedes some twenty minutes earlier, having been assured that there was nothing further she could do.

‘Are you all right, Ross?' the Colonel asked suddenly. ‘You could change places with Bill, if you wanted. He wouldn't mind taking the lorry home.'

Ross hesitated, tempted. His leg ached dully and his head had begun to throb in sympathy but he didn't particularly want to spend the lengthy journey home hearing what Fergusson had had to say about his performance that afternoon.

He hesitated too long. The Colonel made the decision for him and within moments Ross was sinking into the passenger seat of Preston's Jaguar. Any fears that he'd had were laid to rest when the Colonel remarked that it had been a very encouraging weekend and he proposed having Ross and Bill up to the house the following evening to discuss plans for the future careers of the horses currently in training. Relieved, Ross leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, letting the waves of fatigue wash over him.

He woke with a start as the car turned into the gravel drive of the Oakley Manor yard.

‘It would seem to be a good thing you didn't drive the box,' Colonel Preston remarked dryly.

Ross apologised, feeling even more exhausted and heavy-eyed than he had before.

Sarah emerged from the tackroom followed, Ross was surprised to see, by Darcy Richmond. As news of the day was exchanged and congratulations given and received for Bishop's win, Ross noticed that the shy teenager was far more animated in Darcy's company than she had ever been in his. He could see that he was going to have to do something about the deplorable flaws in his own character.

Presently Darcy excused himself, reminding Sarah as he did so that he would pick her up at half-past eight. The girl positively glowed.

Understanding dawned.

The Colonel departed for his evening meal and Ross went in search of a cup of coffee before the horsebox and its attendant workload arrived.

It was two o'clock in the morning when Ross jerked awake from his familiar nightmare and sat up in bed. He was sweating freely in the warm night air, despite having kicked the covers off the bed, and his muscles were trembling.

As so often in the dark hours, his spirits were low and he hadn't the energy or the willpower to raise them. The dog slept on at the foot of the bed, apparently unaware that he had woken.

Ross found it hard to believe that a dream of such violence and noise could be enacted entirely within his head. The screams, his own desperate cries of warning, how could they be silent? And the chestnut mare that crashed through the rails night after night . . . it had become impossible to tell any more whether it was the American horse or Ginger.

Ross rubbed his eyes and slid off the bed, trying to banish the images from his mind. He wandered across the wooden boards and paused, looking out of the window. Then froze.

In the middle of the yard, with his back to Ross and lit from all sides by the security lighting, stood a man.

Shit!
Ross' heart missed a beat. What to do for the best?

He had his mobile phone but who should he ring? Who could come in time? Should he let the dog out? The man must be mad, standing there in full view.

Then the figure turned.

Ross let out breath he hadn't been aware of holding in a deep sigh of relief. The ‘intruder' was Roland.

Looking up suddenly, as if aware of being watched, the Colonel's son saw Ross at the open window and bowed extravagantly, sweeping off an imaginary hat.

Ross touched his forehead in a mock salute and turned back into the room. He couldn't imagine what Roland was doing there but standing in the fully lit yard as he had been, it was ridiculous to suppose he had intended any harm to the horses.

Ross returned to his bed, hoping for deep, untroubled sleep.

UK NEWCOMER UNIMPRESSED WITH BRITISH TALENT.

Ross groaned aloud at the headline on page five of the
Sportsman
. Bill had passed the paper over wordlessly as they sat down to breakfast on Monday morning.

The
Sportsman
was a weekly publication covering a wide range of sports and offering a comprehensive run-down of the previous week's results. It prided itself on being first with the news of the weekend's events and indeed, its staff obviously worked throughout Sunday night to produce the paper in time for a Monday distribution. A copy was regularly delivered to the Oakley Manor yard. It lay open now at the start of the equine section, which contained news and reports from all the biggest shows, along with other articles of interest.

Ross poured himself some coffee and read on. The article started as it meant to go on, with a misquote:

The article went on to discuss the performancess and merits of various other horses and riders at the show, before giving a round-up of results.

Ross smarted at the injustice of the piece. Even if he had known to whom he was talking, he doubted he could have escaped Douglas' vindictive distortions.

Bill was watching him over a forkful of bacon and fried bread.

‘Not too clever, I guess,' Ross admitted, ruefully. ‘If I'd known who he was . . .'