Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) (18 page)

They straightened up for the final five fences. Bold Phoenix made his second mistake of the race and Frankie
clung to his wither strap to keep her balance. The leaders were coming back to her with more rapidity than she’d anticipated and she angled out to get a clear view of the next open ditch.

The horse in second jumped awkwardly and
unshipped his rider. Between hard riding, Frankie looked up. The undulating home straight of Chepstow Racecourse beckoned. Three out and they were over safe. She ducked her head down again and rocked in the saddle, asking Bold Phoenix to defy his outside odds. But as they drew up to share the lead, the flagging leader began to drift wide. Frankie pushed harder. Bold Phoenix leaned into the challenge and held his line. They were in the clear.

With gum guard (now a fashionable white) bared, she rode towards the roar of the crowd up the centre of the course. She pulled down her muddied goggles and the chilled wind stole tears from her eyes. The second last fence bumped closer and closer into view. Bold Phoenix gave a small groan as he put in a gallant leap and his hooves plugged into the muddied landing ground. A familiar grey head appeared on their inside.

‘Dammit!’ Frankie cursed into Bold Phoenix’s mane. She hadn’t meant to give away her inside position. Rhys was no longer in the mood to discuss appetisers. Smoking Ace was all out. ‘Come on Phoenix!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve got a meal ticket at stake here!’

Bold Phoenix, it would seem, did not want to see his rider go hungry. He responded to the challenge. The two stable companions took the last as one. Frankie didn’t look up. Rhys didn’t let up. He might be one helluva generous ride in the hay, but he wasn’t giving
her an inch on the racecourse. Frankie raised her whip and brought it down on her horse’s flank. More from the sound of the slap than the feel of it, he surged forward. The grandstand redoubled their hollers as he drew clear.

‘Go on, Phoenix!
Go! Go! Go!’ Frankie cried through gritted teeth.

A clear ne
ck became half a length. A half-length stretched to a full one as Smoking Ace gave up the battle. Bold Phoenix galloped wearily across the line and Frankie slapped his mane in delight.

Despite alluding to an Indian dinner, Rhys treated Frankie to a meal at the Golden Miller.

‘Would you like some wine?’ he asked as they reached the bar.

‘I thought you didn’t drink,’ Frankie said.

‘I don’t. I was asking you if you would like some.’

Frankie dropped her gaze, embarrassed.

‘Oh, sorry.
No, I won’t then.’

Rhys gave her a wry smile.

‘It’s okay, you know. I’m not an alcoholic, drink just doesn’t agree with me.’ He picked up a wine list to peruse its contents and murmured, ‘It only takes one glass to send me over the top. It’s just remembering if it’s the ninth or tenth that’s the problem.’

Frankie snorted.

‘A vodka and orange then, please.’

Rhys raised the wine list to attract the barman’s attention.
Joey was chatting to a couple of pretty girls further along.

‘Hey, Joey.
Can I get a vodka and orange and an orange with ice?’

Joey flung his habitual dish cloth over his shoulder.

‘Sure thing.’

Frankie watched him carry on charming the girls while he fixed their drinks.

‘Wait a minute,’ she said under her breath, frowning at one of the girls. ‘Isn’t that Donnie’s girlfriend?’

‘Certainly is,’ Rhys replied.

Frankie looked around for Aspen Valley’s other jockey. Donnie was nowhere to be seen. His girlfriend, however, did not appear to be lamenting his absence.

‘Crikey. Donnie better watch out.’

Rhys gave her a mischievous smile.

‘Why?’

Frankie nodded discreetly at Joey and the girls.

‘Well, look at them.’

Rhys snorted.

‘I don’t think Donnie’s got anything to worry about, Frankie. Joey’s gay.’

‘Seriously? I would never have guessed.’

‘Hey, Frankie,’ Joey called from down the bar. ‘How’s your little superstar friend? Is she gonna be singing on Tuesday? It’s the second round, you know.’

Frankie regathered her wits.

‘I don’t know, Joey. We’ll have to see.’ For starters, she didn’t know how they would convince Mrs Preston to let her daughter sing in a local pub.

‘Who’s your little superstar friend?’ Rhys asked.

‘Just someone from my Girl Guides group.’ Frankie checked to make sure Joey was over by the fridges and out of earshot. ‘She shouldn’t really be singing in this thing. She’s underage.’

‘So I’m not the first to be led astray by you?’

She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I didn’t know this singing competition was going to be Helensvale’s answer to
X Factor
. I thought it was just a one-night karaoke competition.’

‘Well, I hope you weren’t thinking
last night was just a one-night-stand.’

Frankie pinched her tongue between her teeth and looked down.

‘I don’t really know what to think about last night,’ she mumbled.

Rhys gave a leisurely stretch and leaned his elbows on the bar. He cocked his head to one side to catch her eye.

‘I think last night was possibly the best Aspen Valley party I’ve been to.’

‘That’s not saying much,’ Frankie giggled. ‘They’ve only ever had one before, so I hear, and you weren’t there.’

‘Ah, yes. I was just getting myself comfortable for a two-month stint in hospital. Jack told me he and Pippa threw the party to try cheer everyone up after the accident. I think Pippa threw it to celebrate.’

Frankie hesitated. She didn’t want to pry into other people’s affairs, but she was intrigued by Rhys
’s and Pippa’s cold treatment of each other.

‘I take it you and Pippa don’t get along.’

‘Not so much. It’s nothing personal. We’re just very different.’

Frankie
let it go.

‘It must have been torture having to stay in hospital
for so long.’

‘I was sky high a lot of the time. While the rest of Aspen Valley
were downing Pina Colada cocktails, I was downing morphine and ibuprophen cocktails.’

‘Did they come visit you?’

‘Jack did pretty often.’

‘What about your parents?’

Rhys pursed his lips and looked into the distance.

‘My mother would have if she could. But she was in Spain. It was Christmas. She had other family commitments. Once she knew I was going to be okay, there was little point in her coming all the way over. There was nothing she could have done to make my leg heal any faster.’

‘What about your dad?’ she said, with a certain degree of caution. Both Doug and Vanessa didn’t have very many nice things to say about Alan Bradford, but she wanted Rhys’s take on things. He must surely know him better than her parents did.

Rhys shot her a quizzical glance and shrugged.

‘Oh, he called to check on me. Once we got that straight, he then gave me a lecture on what I’d done wrong.’

Frankie was instantly indignant, perhaps more so through compassion. But she’d also watched the race.

‘But it wasn’t your fault,’ she said. ‘Anyone could see that.’

Rhys’s
eyes followed Joey scooping ice into a glass at the far end of the bar.

‘There’s
a few people who would disagree with you there. Some argue Black Russian shouldn’t have been running at Kempton. Better yet, he should’ve been running free like God intended.’

‘He’s a racehorse though. It’s in their blood to race.’

‘I’m not disagreeing with you. But everyone’s entitled to an opinion. The antis stuffing theirs down our throats didn’t help at the time though. A bit like rubbing salt into a fresh wound.’ He stood up straight as Joey returned with their drinks and asked him to put it on a tab.

She happily accompanied him to the seated area and felt such a lady when he held out a chair for her. She couldn’t recall anyone offering her a chair before, except for the time the doctor at Uttoxeter Racecourse had after she’d suffered a concussion.

She and Rhys both studied a menu, and leaning over the table, thin wisps of aftershave tickled her nostrils. Glancing up, she noticed the curls at the base of his neck were still wet from a recent shower. Although it was silly and she’d done the same, she was pleased he’d made the effort to scrub up after racing for their date.

‘What are you going to eat?’ he said.

Frankie smiled slyly.

‘Well, since you’re buying—
’

‘Bear in mind you only beat me by a length and a quarter,’ Rhys said, raising a cautionary finger.

‘I’ll skip dessert.’

Rhys grinned.

‘Dessert is on the house. Just not this house.’

‘I’ll have the chef’s special then,’ Frankie said, leaning back with her decision made.

‘So will I. Joey, can we order some food?’ Rhys called out. There were few enough people in the pub for his voice to be heard clearly at the bar.

‘What can I get you?’

‘Two chef’s specials. Oh, and hold the olives on one. Cheers.’

Hearing his order, Frankie laughed. Rhys frowned at her.

‘What’s so funny?’

Frankie raised her hands in wonder and shook her head.

‘Sorry. It’s just that—well, I don’t usually do what we did last night quite so soon.’ She felt a blush creeping over her cheekbones. ‘But it didn’t feel so soon because it was like I’d known you for years. Which I have, but really, I’ve only known
of
you. Thinking about it now, I don’t know you very well at all. The olives, for example.’

Rhys frowned to himself and thought it over for a moment.

‘Okay. What do you want to know?’

Fo
r such a private person, Frankie felt Rhys was being especially open with all her questions. This could be fun.

‘Favourite food,’ she challenged.

‘Smoked salmon and cream cheese.’

‘Favourite band?’

‘Gastric. That way I don’t have to diet so much,’ he said without skipping a beat.

‘Favourite singer then?’
Frankie laughed.

‘
Mumford and Sons.’

‘Guilty pleasure,’ she said, sending him a sidelong look.

Rhys exhaled as he considered his answer.

‘Got to be cherry-flavoured lollipops.’

‘Seriously?’ she giggled.

‘Seriously.
They’re a great sugar-booster.’

‘Have you always wanted to be a jockey?’

‘Pretty much. My father had me up on a horse before I could walk. Besides, I wasn’t one for schoolwork or anything academic.’ He gave her a self-effacing smile. ‘While some people drink from the Fountain of Knowledge, I only used it as a mouthwash before changing my gum guard. My turn now. Have you always wanted to be a jockey?’

‘I guess so,’ Frankie shrugged. ‘I didn’t always know what I wanted to be, but when I did, it was always going to involve horses.’

‘Your dad must’ve got you started then.’

Frankie smiled as the memories flashed in her mind.

‘Actually, no. It was Seth. Seth knew right from the start that he was going to be a jockey. Dad bought us a pony, a little thoroughbred-cross called Toffee. Seth used to tear around on her, whereas I was more into show jumping at that stage. I wanted to be like Pat Smythe and jump for Britain. Then when I read Jilly Cooper, I
really
wanted to be in the British team.’

Rhys chuckled and raised an arrogant eyebrow.

‘Is that why you switched then? Discovered jump jockeys are a lot better looking than show jumpers?’

‘Are you including Donnie in that statement?’

Rhys put up his hands in surrender.

‘Okay, so he’s got a nose like a blind carpenter’s thumb. What about the rest of us?’

Frankie pretended to be undecided.

‘Hmm.
You’re not bad, I suppose. You don’t get fat jump jockeys at any rate.’

‘True. That sh
ow jumper guy, Pete Whitehead—he’s got more chins than a Chinese phonebook. It’s a wonder his horse can get off the ground.’ He smiled as Frankie laughed, as always his humour less exuberant. He raised his glass of orange juice in a toast. ‘Anyway, congratulations on riding a treble today.’

Frankie gave him a puzzled look as she raised her own drink.

‘Thanks, but I only rode a double.’

Rhys
clinked his glass against hers.

‘Last time I checked, the day hadn’t ended.’

Snowflakes were drifting on the wind the following evening when Frankie returned home from work. Humming
It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas
she let herself into the house and closed the door firmly before the cold could invade.

‘That you?’
Tom’s voice called from the kitchen.

‘No, it’
s Santa.’

‘Aren’t you meant to use the chimney then?’

She padded through in her socks to find Tom sitting at the kitchen table which was littered with scrunched up pieces of paper. Atticus Finch was batting one paper ball in between the chair legs.

‘And have you been a good boy this year?’ she asked
Tom.

‘Define
good for me.’

Frankie laughed
and squatted down to fuss Atticus. Atticus wasn’t in the mood to be fussed. She stood up again.

‘Want some tea?’

‘If you’re making some.’

‘What are you doing there?’ she said, nodding to the pad of paper in front of him.

‘Trying to write a letter.’

‘I know in this day and age of emails, some might find it difficult, but you look like you’re really struggling there,’ she said
, pointing at the balls of paper.

‘It’s a tricky one.’

Frankie dropped two teabags into mugs and leaned against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘How so?’

‘I’m writing to Adelaide Mann.’

Frankie’s hand slipped off the counter.

‘Seriously? You’ve found her?’

Tom shrugged and chucked down his pen.

‘I don’t know. Remember I told you I could only find one Adelaide Mann who could’ve been my mother? Well, I got her address on the electoral roll so I’m just writing to her.’

Tea forgotten, Frankie stared at him.

‘Wow. What are you going to say though? Hello, merry Christmas. I think you may be my mother?’

Tom shrugged.

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to decide. It’s not exactly the sort of letter you want to receive at Christmas time, is it?’

‘Maybe it is. Maybe she’s been waiting twenty-nine years for that letter.’

‘Twenty-eight, thank you very much.’

‘Sorry. Do you want some help?’

‘I don’t know. I think I’ve got it now. Listen to this:

Dear Ms. Mann,

My name is Tom Moxley. I am writing in the hope that you may be able to help me. As a baby I was given up for adoption by my mother, whose name happens to be Adelaide Mann. Although I have enjoyed a happy childhood and love my adoptive family very much, I am now searching for my birth parents. Apart from my birthdate, which is the thirtieth of September, 1985, I have very little information by which to go on so I am writing to ask if you are the same Adelaide Mann who gave birth to a baby boy twenty-eight years ago.

How does that sound?’

Tears leapt to Frankie’s eyes. She couldn’t help it. Maybe too much sex was playing havoc with her hormones, or maybe it was the time of year. Maybe it was just the lonely tone of Tom’s letter that caused such a rush of emotion inside her. She blinked hard. Tom needed her strength, not her tears. She gave him a watery smile.

‘I think it’s beautiful.’

‘I don’t know,’ Tom muttered. He made to tear the paper up, but Frankie stopped him.

‘No, don’t.
Please don’t. I think it’s lovely, really I do.’

‘You don’t think it’s too formal?
Or too casual? Or just too basic? I’ve been trying to get the right tone, but nothing seems right.’ Tom threaded his fingers through his thick hair. ‘I mean, how do you write a letter like that?’

Frankie poured boiled water into their mugs and came to sit down with him. Thoughtfully, she dipped the teabag in and out of her mug. If it was her, what would she have written? She had no idea. She looked at it from the other point of view.

‘I think,’ she said, pausing to choose her words carefully, ‘if I was her, and I received a letter like that, it would be the most special gift. It’s not too formal, and it’s not too casual. You can tell that you haven’t done this on a whim. It sounds like you’re speaking from the heart, from a son looking for his mother. And it has just the right amount of formality about it because even though she might be your mother, she is still a stranger, so it’s polite as well. I think you should send it as it is. Don’t try to be someone that you’re not.’

Tom sighed.

‘What if it is her? What if she doesn’t want to know? She wasn’t on the Contacts Register, after all.’

Frankie bit her lip. He was right. Contacting someone who’d not given any indication they had wanted to be contacted was risky
, but…

‘You won’t know unless you try,’ she said gently.

Tom rubbed his face and looked at Frankie with desperate eyes.

‘I just want to know why, you know? I don’t necessarily want to become best buddies with her, but it would be nice to know who she is, who my father is. Do I have any brothers or sisters? Is that asking too much?’

Frankie shook her head and covered Tom’s hand with hers.

‘I think you should send it.’

Tom took a deep breath, folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. He sealed it and Frankie noticed his hands trembling.

‘Do you want me to post it for you?’

‘Would you? I don’t know if I would be able to go through with it if I was faced with the post box. It’s like the point of no return. Once it’s in the box, it’s on its way.’

‘Unless you accosted the postman.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

‘
No problem. I’ll do it on my way to work tomorrow.’

‘Have you been busy at work or something? I haven’t seen you in days, it seems.’

Frankie opened her mouth and shut it again.

‘Has Atticus been fed? Atticus, are you hungry, baby?’

‘Frankie,’ Tom warned. ‘You’re avoiding the subject. What aren’t you telling me?’