Cut Throat (34 page)

‘Bravo!' Roland murmured almost inaudibly. No one took any notice.

‘Is the horse lame?' Fergusson snapped.

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘Then what?'

‘I can't say, exactly. I just know he wasn't happy.' Ross didn't even begin to try to explain to Fergusson, who could know nothing of the special bond between horse and rider, just how a horse could communicate its discomfort to its jockey.

‘More likely
you
didn't feel happy,' Fergusson suggested. ‘I think that Douglas man was close. You lost your bottle after seeing that other bloke being stretchered off.'

‘That's not so,' Ross asserted quietly.

‘No? Are you trying to tell me that it didn't affect you at all?'

‘No, of course not. I'm not stupid. I don't like seeing anyone get hurt, least of all a friend, but it had nothing whatever to do with the way Bishop behaved.'

‘Robbie . . .' The Colonel decided it was time to intercede. ‘Ross has another horse to jump. Couldn't this wait until we've all calmed down?'

‘One minute.' Fergusson shrugged the Colonel's hand off his arm. ‘What about Red Queen?' he demanded of the American. ‘Why was she scratched? Another bad feeling?'

Ross' heart sank. He could smell defeat. Damn Ginger! Why today, of all days? He stared at Fergusson steadily, aware that anything he could say would only plunge him deeper into the mire.

‘Well?' Fergusson barked the question like an irate schoolmaster.

‘Ginger's different . . .' he began, and it sounded feeble even to his own ears.

‘She won a class this morning!' Fergusson almost shouted. ‘And this afternoon, for no reason at all, you pull her out of a class for which
I
– I'll have you remember – paid the entry fees.' He leaned closer. ‘If you're not up to the job, Mr Wakelin, why can't you at least find the guts to say so?'

A number of possible replies occurred to Ross, none of which would tactfully defuse the situation. He remained silent. The Colonel, he could see, was bristling indignantly but it was Roland who spoke.

‘I think,' he said diffidently, into the awkward silence, ‘that this gentleman would rather like us to move. I believe we are somewhat in the way.' He indicated a hovering steward who thanked him and looked apologetic.

‘Of course.' The Colonel seized on this diversion as an exhausted Channel swimmer might seize on a lifebelt. ‘I think enough has been said for now. Let's get the horse back to his box.'

Fergusson glared at him and then glared at Ross again for good measure. ‘I'll be leaving now anyway,' he said. ‘No sense in staying. I'll ring you in the morning to make arrangements about the horses,' he added significantly to the Colonel as he turned away.

The steward, who was still hovering, looked relieved as the remaining three men and the horse began to move towards the lorry park. Several other people in the vicinity watched the group curiously as they left the collecting ring.

It wasn't surprising, Ross thought dispiritedly, Fergusson had hardly been discreet. The gossips and backbiters would have fuel for weeks to come. He supposed that within minutes everybody would know he had all but been given his marching orders. He wondered miserably who would get the ride on Bishop.

Not Stephen Douglas. That would be
too
much. It wasn't likely either, he reflected more sensibly, as he had reportedly fallen foul of Fergusson too.

‘Awfully upset, wasn't he?' Roland said thoughtfully to no one in particular. No one in particular answered him.

Out of the thinning crowds Danny appeared riding Woody. He looked worried. ‘I heard,' he said, ‘over the loudspeakers. Is Bishop all right?'

Ross sighed. ‘Something wasn't right, Danny. Maybe he hurt himself when he slipped earlier on.'

The Colonel looked sharply at him.

‘Do you think that was it, Ross?' he asked. ‘Why didn't you tell Fergusson?'

‘I'd forgotten it,' he said truthfully. ‘Not that it would have made any difference. He wasn't looking for answers.'

When Ross entered the ring on Woodsmoke some thirty minutes later for the jump-off against the clock, he was in no mood for taking prisoners. Thirty minutes of other people's carefully averted eyes, thoughts of his own crumbling career and bitterness at the way events seemed to conspire against him had combined to harden his resolve to granite. Woodsmoke would jump round that course if Ross personally had to pick him up and carry him.

Old campaigner though he was, Woody was not immune to the messages being transmitted to him. He jumped as he had never jumped before. Ross was fairly early in the jumping order and the time to beat was not yet desperately tight, but Woody smashed it.

Riding with more verve than sense, Ross cut corners impossibly close, pushed on where he should have steadied and took two whole strides out on the gallop to the last fence. The crowd gasped, as with an indignant grunt, Woodsmoke flung himself at the final wall, his front legs reaching forward to clear it, and landed way out on the other side.

When Ross pulled him up, the old horse was snorting with excitement and his ears flicked to and fro in agitation. He danced from the ring, dripping with sweat, unable to settle. Ross patted his brave old neck.

‘That's our new leader, Ross Wakelin on Mr Franklin Richmond's Woodsmoke, with a time of thirty-five-point-oh-four seconds. That's the time to beat, ladies and gentlemen.' Harry Douglas obviously felt he had made enough mischief for one day. Ross felt like giving the commentary box the finger but didn't feel it would advance his cause.

He was touched by a twinge of guilt as he dismounted and saw the trembling, heaving flanks of his mount, but the round had done more for Ross' flagging spirits than any amount of reassuring words could have. It had done the trick where the competition was concerned, too, although that had become of secondary importance to him. Nobody came near to beating him. He won the jump-off by two clear seconds from the redoubtable Derek, with Danielle in third place.

Ross limped back to the horsebox with Peter Richmond's excited congratulations ringing in his ears, along with the rather more reserved praise of his father. Ross' mood was not lost on the businessman, nor had his eyes missed the hyped-up condition of his horse.

At the lorry, the Colonel greeted him with a certain coolness. ‘I daresay you feel better for that,' he observed. ‘And I hope you've got it out of your system – because if you ever ride any of the horses in my yard in that way again, it will be the last time you ride for me.' He spoke quietly, stating a fact. ‘That was beyond competitive. That was stupid!'

Ross knew the reproof was justified.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘It won't happen again.'

The night following the Berkshire show was one of the longest of Ross' life.

Though both mentally and physically fatigued, neither his mind nor his body would relax. He kept going over the row with Fergusson in his head, wondering if there had been anything else he could have said, or anything he
had
said that he shouldn't have. The Colonel had not exactly taken his side, but then again he hadn't backed the Scotsman either.

Ross supposed Colonel Preston had to keep on the right side of the other owners as far as he could, as he relied on the money coming in from them to help balance his own outlay.

Damn Ginger! he thought for the thousandth time.
Should
he have taken her into the ring?

In his mind's eye he saw again the children in wheelchairs with their happy, trusting faces, and knew that he couldn't have.

Ross tossed and turned, tension keeping him wide-eyed and staring into the gloom. His left knee ached with a grinding intensity which gradually developed into a throb. It hadn't been this bad since he'd left hospital.

The pain nagged, adding to his worry. The surgeons had hinted that it was possible there could be a chip of bone they had missed, which, should it prove troublesome, might have to be removed at a later date. Ross was becoming more and more convinced that this was the case. On some occasions it would catch him with a stab of pain sharp enough to take his breath away.

Right now, though, it was just pounding monotonously. The three-quarters-full bottle of whisky on the shelf across the room began to exercise a powerful attraction.

He ignored it successfully for four long hours, trying to force his restless mind to relax, to release the tension in his tired muscles.

It was hopeless.

In the still, dark hours of the early morning, despair began to creep in. His career was on the rocks again and it mattered even more this time than last. This time he had had a taste of the success he had been working for. He had been given good horses, wealthy backers, a second chance – and somehow he had blown it. People had been prepared to believe in him and he had let them down.

No matter that he couldn't see how he could have played it any differently. He had failed when he had been given every chance to succeed.

He frowned in the darkness.

Was it possible he
had
lost his nerve? Could somebody imagine confidence to conceal a lack of courage even from themself?

Surely his final round on Woodsmoke was not that of a nervous rider? But then he had been stung into recklessness by frustration and disappointment. Maybe anybody could ride like that if the provocation was great enough – even a nerve-shattered has-been. Fergusson's comments came back to haunt him in the darkness.

Had he lost his job – or just the ride on Black Bishop? Ross didn't know, or particularly care if it came to that. Bishop was the horse of a lifetime and without him, prospects for the yard, in Ross' present black mood, seemed bleak and unexciting.

As he heard the clock in the village strike three o'clock, Ross decided enough was enough. Rolling off the bed, he limped across to the bookshelf and reached for the bottle. Without giving himself time to think, he removed the cap and tossed back three long pulls, coughing slightly as its fire burned his throat.

A comforting warmth began to spread through his body. He wiped his watering eyes and regarded the remaining liquid with a longing that dismayed him.

Oblivion, albeit only temporary, was a temptation but it provided no answers. With a groan, he replaced the cap. He was within a whisker of proving Leo right. It was perhaps only his pride that saved him.

He remembered what Annie had said and laughed softly in the darkness. If she could see him now . . . Pride was no help at all at three o'clock in the morning when you couldn't sleep.

At six o'clock he gave up the struggle, got out of bed and had a cold shower. His head and his knee were in fierce competition for his attention and he catered for both with painkillers and a scalding cup of black coffee.

Sitting in the open window with the chill morning air blowing through his thin shirt, he looked down at the yard below him. Beyond the Scotts' cottage, the new horsebox gleamed in the sunlight. Ross regarded it wistfully, wondering what the future held.

In the yard, the horses in the outside boxes leaned over their doors, enjoying the cool air and beginning to think of breakfast. Ross scanned the familiar faces with affection, seeing not only their physical features but also, as with old friends, their characters. Idly, he wondered where Bishop was. Usually the big black was one of the first to demand his feed.

Ross watched for several minutes longer, a sense of unease growing, then shoved his feet into his boots and hurried down to the yard.

A chorus of whinnying greeted him as he headed for Bishop's box. Just as he reached it, the horse swung his head over the half-door and glowered at him. This was normal behaviour for the young prodigy and it was with some relief that Ross took the headcollar from the hook beside the door and deftly slipped it on, avoiding the snapping white teeth.

Once inside the stable, however, Ross' fears returned. The big black was standing resting one hind leg, his back slightly hunched in discomfort, and when Ross asked him to move he did so with bad grace. With a sinking heart he gave the animal a cursory examination before turning him loose and going in search of Bill.

He found the stable manager in the cottage, drinking coffee, and imparted the bad news.

Bill favoured him with a look that wasn't long on welcome and grunted.

‘His back, you say?'

‘Or hip.'

‘Better call Annie, I suppose, if you're sure.'

‘Of course I'm sure,' Ross said evenly. ‘I know an uncomfortable horse when I see one.'

The little man grunted again.

‘I suppose you're happy now,' he said, getting up from his chair.

‘Happy?' Ross was astounded.

‘Lets you off the hook, doesn't it?'

Ross blinked. The way Bill said it, you would think Ross had engineered the back problem himself, if that were possible. No matter that the horse could possibly be out of action for some while.

He shook his head in disbelief and turned away. That Bishop's injury more or less exonerated him from blame for their non-performance the day before, had not in fact occurred to Ross until Bill had pointed it out. His only concern had been for the horse.

He had his hand on the doorknob when Bill spoke again.

‘I'll ring Annie, then. And I'll let the Colonel know. Fergusson may ring this morning.'

It was something, Ross supposed. He nodded. ‘Thanks. I'll start the feeds.'

Annie arrived mid-morning, driving as usual as though she were midway through a stage of the World Rally Championships.