Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) (13 page)

She smacked her lips together as she thought where else she could get the information before settling on the usual search engines.

Grand National winners
, she typed in.

She clicked the top link and waited for the page to load. All one hundred and sixty-eight winners were listed. Frankie scrolled down the page to the correct date. A crunchy bit of peanut butter lodged in her throat and she coughed. With a lurch, her coffee spl
ashed over her keyboard. The laptop gave a whirring sigh then the page faded to black and the power button blinked red for the last time. But Frankie had seen all she’d needed to see…

Crowbar (5/1 fav) –
Trainer: Ron McCready. Jockey: Alan Bradford
.

The frosts which had accompanied the October Becher Chase meeting gave way to a wet November. Returning home from work one evening, Frankie hummed tunelessly along to Bonnie Tyler, the volume turned up to drown out the rain lashing down on the Mini’s roof. She peered through the windscreen to where her headlights searched for an empty parking space.

‘Come on,’ she muttered, aware of her passage taking her further and further down the street away from her house. Then between wipers, she spied a space not far ahead. Another car coming in the opposite direction was also slowing. Frankie chopped down on her indicator aggressively. ‘Oh, no you don’t. It’s on my side of the road.’ She put her foot down and the Mini zoomed forward.

Suddenly, out of the shadows, a dark shaggy form bounded into her path. Frankie kicked the brake and the tyres squealed in alarm. A thud followed by a yelp made her wince. The rain and the parking space forgotten, she leapt out of the car and rushed round the bonnet. In the hazy glare of the headlamp, a dog lay in front of her left bumper. It raised its head and whined.

‘Oh, darling,’ Frankie cried, rushing forward. ‘A
re you okay? You poor thing. I—’

‘Jasper!’ a voice from the
adjacent park yelled out. ‘Jasper!’

Frankie froze.

Rhys came half-running, half-limping into sight. He stopped when he saw Frankie.

‘What the hell were
you doing?’ he demanded, bending over the spaniel.

For a moment, Frankie was too taken aback to say anything.

‘I didn’t see him. He just came out of nowhere.’

With the rain plastering his clothes to his hunched back, he gently felt the dog’s limbs. Jasper whimpered as his hands ran gently over his shoulder.

‘You were speeding,’ Rhys accused.

‘I wasn’t!’ She could feel tears welling up, shock an
d remorse for hurting the dog—even if it was Rhys’s dog—rising in her chest. ‘I was looking for a parking space.’

Rhys looked up at her, his face glistening with raindrops.
The bridge of his nose still bore the bruise inflicted by Ta’ Qali.

‘I’ve got to get
him to a vet. He might have broken something.’

Frankie nodded animatedly.

‘Let me take you—’

Rhys stood up defensively.

‘No! Just leave us alone. Can’t you see you’ve already done enough damage!’

Frankie’s lip trembled before a fiery indigna
tion overtook her.

‘
Rhys, for Christ’s sake! Can you stop hating me for just two minutes and let me help you? You were the one who didn’t have him on a bloody lead. Now, come on. My car’s right here. What were you planning on doing—carrying him in the rain all the way to the vets?’

Rhys glared at her.

‘Fine. Let’s get him inside.’ He wrenched off his jacket and tried to manoeuvre Jasper onto it. Frankie stepped forward to assist but the dog raised its lips to show small pointed teeth.

‘Just let me to do it, okay?’ Rhys snapped.

Trembling, Frankie hurried round the car to open the back door. Rhys followed with Jasper in his arms and gingerly placed him on the seat.

‘Do you know where the vet
surgery is?’ he said.

Frankie nodded. Atticus Finch had made sure of that.

*

With Bonnie Tyler muted, they drove in tense silence through Helensvale’s gloomy street
s. Every few moments, Rhys leant through the gap between the front seats to check Jasper and comfort him. His arm brushed against Frankie’s. She could feel him shivering.

‘Is he okay?’ she said, trying to see the dog in her rearview mirror.

‘I don’t know,’ he muttered.  ‘How fast were you going?’

Frankie tried to collect her distressed thoughts. She had slowed right down until she’d tried to beat the other car to the parking space.

‘I–I don’t know. Not fast, I don’t think.’

Rhys sat back in his seat with a sigh and muttered under his breath. Frankie made out the words ‘trying to make my life a misery’ and ‘can’t ride or drive’. Her patience snapped.

‘Stop it! Right now! Just stop it!’ She turned to him in anger. ‘You know what, I’m sick of your bloody attitude! If you want to waste your energy hating me, that’s your problem but—’

‘You’ve given me good reason to hate you!’

‘No, I haven’t! I didn’t ask to ride Peace Offering. Pippa offered him to me. What was I supposed to do? Turn it down?’

‘He was my National ride,’ growled Rhys.

‘Since when? You didn’t ride him last season—’

‘I was injured!’

‘And now that you’re not, you see it as your godly right to ride him? Did you ever stop to think
why
Pippa decided she didn’t want you riding her horse?’

‘Pippa know
s fuck all about racing.’

Frankie laughed humour
lessly. All the angst that had been building up in misguided guilt for taking his ride poured out of her.

‘It’s her horse! She can do what
ever the hell she wants with Peace Offering. So I got lucky. And all you can apparently do is stand around and hate me for it. Well, you know what? Suck it up, Rhys.’ She banged her palm on the steering wheel. ‘Build a fucking bridge and get over it!’

Rhys looked at her, his eyes wide at her outburst but his lips still drawn back in a snarl. She glared back at him.

‘I’ve tried to apologise. I’ve tried to be nice because, believe it or not, I was actually sorry I took the ride off you—’

Rhys huffed.

‘Yeah, right.’

Frankie raised a finger to silence him.

‘But now I’m not. You wanna know why? Because I’m sick of feeling guilty about something which isn’t my fault.’ Her mind flashed back to Crowbar’s Grand National result. ‘What’s more, you don’t have any bloody right being angry with me even if I did get your ride. Your father did the exact same thing to my dad!’

‘What?’

‘Yeah. My dad rode Crowbar in just about every race he’d won yet
your
father stole the ride on him in the National.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Rhys muttered.

Frankie immediately took that as an insult to her father.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Rhys’s eyes glinted in the darkness as he glared at her.

‘What my father does is his business, his problem. He’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘Oh, how very convenient,’ she said sarcastically.

‘Actually, no!’
Rhys exclaimed. ‘It’s fucking inconvenient. I wish he’d never got the ride on Crowbar. And not because of your father—I don’t give a damn about your father—but I wish my father had never won the National! At least then, he wouldn’t taunt me with it. Do you know what that’s like? It doesn’t matter how many championships I win, doesn’t matter how many Cheltenham winners I get, as long as he’s won the National and I haven’t then I’ll never be as good as him!’ He flung himself back into his seat and stared moodily out of the window.

Frankie’s hands trembled on the steering wheel.
From the backseat, Jasper whined. Rhys sighed and turned to the backseat to stroke him.

‘Sorry, boy,’ he said gently. ‘We’re not shouting at you.’

*

‘We’re here,’ Frankie announced a few moments later. The rain still flooded down, making the early evening seem even later, but thankfully the surgery lights were still on. Rhys got out of the car
and tried to lift Jasper out.

Frankie, her anger drained, did the same.

‘Let me help.’

‘I can do it.’

‘No, you can’t. Just let me—’

‘I
said
I can do it,’ Rhys said firmly.

Frankie licked her lips and took a step back.

‘Okay.’

Rhys could do it, albeit with difficulty. They hurried for cover beneath the entrance’s overhang.

‘You don’t have to stay. We can manage fine,’ he said.

Frankie wanted to shake
the stubbornness out of him.

‘But how will you get home? I want to know if he’s going to be okay.’

For the first time, Rhys looked a tiny bit repentant.

‘I’
ll figure it out. Just go, please.’ He paused. Frankie could see him wrestling with something within. ‘Thanks,’ he added.

‘You’re welcome,’
she said with a weak smile.

Turning her collar up uselessly to stem the downpour, she ran back to her car.

The rain which had battered Helensvale on Tuesday evening was jeopardising Exeter’s Friday meeting a hundred miles south. Frankie jogged to catch up with Rhys as the thirteen jockeys trooped out of the weighing room into the wet.

‘How’s Jasper?’ she asked.

Rhys looked at her guardedly.

‘Just bruised
, the vet said.’

Frankie closed her eyes.

‘Thank God. I couldn’t forgive myself if he’d had to be put down.’

Rhys grunted and lengthened his stride to pass her.
Jack was waiting for them in the grassy centre of the parade ring hunched beneath an umbrella. As he briefed her, Rhys and Donnie on their rides, Frankie stole a glance at Rhys. His eyes were fixed on Jack’s leather brogues. Nodding intermittently to show he was concentrating on what was being said, his face was otherwise devoid of emotion. Only the tapping of his whip against his gleaming boot betrayed any nervous energy. Frankie silently cursed the owner of Blue Jean Baby for choosing black and royal blue stripes as his colours. It was making Rhys look sexier than he deserved credit for. Slowly he became aware of Frankie watching him. His gaze travelled from Jack’s footwear to Frankie’s, then up her unflattering pink and orange checked silks to her face.

He raised one flyaway eyebrow in question.

She hastily looked away and by accident caught Jack’s eye.

‘You got that, Frankie?’ he said.

Frankie cleared her throat, stalling for time, trying to gauge what sort of mood Jack was in. Could she afford to tell him she hadn’t heard a word of what he’d been saying about her mount, Media Star? No, Jack looked pissed off already.

‘Got it,’ she beamed. Blinking rapidly, she ignored
Rhys’s look of pathetic disbelief.

*

Frankie stood high in her stirrups, letting the lanky chestnut gelding, Media Star, bowl around the far turn of Haldon Hill in the direction of the start. Low lying cloud and the thick brush of trees bordered the outer running rail and blocked her view of Dartmoor. The dull drum on the heavy ground of approaching horses made her twist round. Frankie grinned. Dory aka Blue Jean Baby was carting Rhys. With her head so high that Rhys practically had her ears in his mouth, the grey mare thundered towards her lesser-fancied stable companion like she was auditioning for a re-enactment of the
Homeward Bound
ending.

Joining the other runners circling in front of the three-mile start, Frankie’s more sympathetic side got the better of her.

‘Watch out for her jumping,’ she said, jogging a couple of paces apart from Rhys. ‘She fly-bucks when she’s having fun.’

‘Thanks for the tip,’ Rhys replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Pride wounded, she replied with an indifferent shrug and turned Media Star away from him.

The starter mounted his platform. Jockeys began scri
mmaging for position as they jogged towards the tape. Donnie, aboard the joint favourite, pushed in front of her and Frankie found herself jostled back to the rear. The tape whipped back and the horses plunged forward.

The first plain fence was quickly upon them. Pinned in on all sides, Frankie barely had time to see the jump. Media Star hit it hard. He flung his head up and Frankie instinctively pushed back to counterbalance their forward momentum.
Her reins sluiced through her fingers. On landing, she found herself upsides Rhys on a very keen Dory. The two stablemates galloped stride for stride down the backstretch.

Frankie didn’t have time to evaluate Dory’s progress. Media Star was running in snatches and was in danger of clipping
heels with the horse in front.

They rose over the next, disjointed and jarring. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dory soar over, flicking up her heels like she was jumping the wall in a Puissance competition. Rhys clutched at the mare’s neck to stop
himself shooting over her head. Frankie grinned. Dory wasn’t letting her down.

Rhys looked across at her as they charged towards the next. She was filled with satisfaction at his disgruntled acknowledgement.

They met the first open ditch together and while Dory put in a huge leap, Media Star added an extra half stride and paddled through the top of the birch.

Frankie shook her head as she regathered her reins.

‘Many more jumps like that and your race’ll be over by halfway,’ she muttered to her mount. She urged him up on the inside of Dory to regain lost ground. Rounding the tight turn into the homestretch, Rhys looked over at her again. He opened his mouth to say something then changed his mind and focused on his race again. Frankie eased back on the reins as Media Star almost cannoned into Donnie up ahead. Rhys turned to her again, this time his face etched with impatience.

‘What are you doing?’ he yelled.

Frankie glared at him, annoyed by his interference when she was struggling to find a rhythm.

‘
I’m trying to settle him!’

‘I can see that. What are you doing on the inside? Take him wide.’

Frankie threw him an impatient look.

‘What?’

‘Take him wide like Jack said!’

She looked at him suspiciously. Was he trying to sabotage her race? Rhys looked exasperated.

‘I’m not fucking with you! Didn’t you listen to Jack? He said take him wide so he can get a good look at his fences.’

Frankie hesitated.

‘But I’m saving ground here,’ she argued.

‘Bullshit. You’re losing ground because he’s kicking the birch out of all his jumps. Let him see his fences and he’ll find a rhythm!’

Her brain buzzed as she juggled her options. The first of four quick fences was approaching. She had to make a decision before she reached it. One last look at Rhys’s demanding face and she made up her mind. She squeezed the reins, feeling Media Star respond with juddering alacrity. Letting Dory stride on in front, she angled him to the outside.

The next jump loomed and Media Star, with a clear view, pricked his ears. Seeing a stride, he lengthened beneath Frankie and took off. Frankie whooped. There was no feeling quite like it when you met a jump perfectly. They bounded over the next three like a beach ball and were rewarded with the cheering of the packed grandstand.

*

The pair passed the winning post four from the rear and set out on the final circuit with a swinging stride. The open ditch at the highest point of the course found out two runners and Frankie easily steered around the jockeys curled up pr
otectively in the pockmarked turf.

Ahead, she could still see Rhys riding high above Dory’s withers on the heels of the leaders. Passing their starting point, Frankie was encouraged when Media Star put in a big jump six from home. She didn’t need to press for more speed. The rest of the field were already coming back to them, the jockeys ha
rd at work to keep up the pace.

Skidding round the turn once more into the home straight, Frankie crouched lower in the saddle, her sights set firmly
ahead. The rain peppered her cheeks with increased force. Four out and they drew level with the fifth-placed horse. Three out, Donnie’s horse met it completely wrong and practically came to a halt on landing. Two out, Media Star passed the second and third horses. Come the last, only Dory’s steel-grey quarters and Rhys’s shapely behind were all that spoilt her view of the finish line.

Media Star twisted over the
fence and grunted as he landed. His hooves plugged into the boggy ground before he laboriously galloped on. He didn’t have much left in the tank. Flicking her reins at him, she rocked back and forth in the saddle. Media Star stuck his neck out in the race for the line. The noise of the screaming crowd drifted over to them as they drew up alongside Rhys and Dory. Leaning into one another, the two stable companions battled out the final two hundred yards.

Frankie threaded her whi
p to her outside hand and let it fall on Media Star’s flank. Beside her, Rhys must have reached his maximum tally because he had his whip put away and was urging on his horse with hands and heels.

The shouts of the grandstand grew louder and more urgent as the g
round between them and the red finish lollipop fell away. Media Star and Dory raced together, their heads bobbing in unison. Frankie’s jaw ached as she gritted her teeth and drove for more speed. Fifty yards to go. She momentarily lost her rhythm as her foot entangled with Rhys’s. Dory edged a head clear. Twenty yards to go. Media Star strained to draw level again. They thundered across the finish, locked together in battle.

Adrenalin roared through her body as Frankie stood up in her stirrups. She thought
they might have nailed Rhys and Dory on the line, but she couldn’t be sure. She turned to Rhys to see if he knew.

Rhys pulled
his goggles down, his eyes energised and shining. With a benevolent smirk, he lifted his hand and signed an ‘L’ on his forehead.

‘That’s for running over my dog,’ he said.

Frankie grinned.

By the look on his face, he had enjoyed that finish just as much as she had. And despite the official result which echoed from the loudspeaker confirming Blue Jean Baby as the winner, she knew she was no loser.