Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) (23 page)

Time stretched torturously slow while Frankie recuperated. Unfit to work, she wandered around the house interrupting Atticus Finch’s five hour naps and worrying about her weight. Every time she looked into the fridge, she felt as if she put another pound on. Using a bag of frozen peas on her wrist didn’t help either.

A few days after her fall
, however, the mailman brought a nervous excitement to her boredom. Tom had left early to go racing at Huntingdon and wasn’t expected back until at least six o’clock. Frankie sat in the lounge, watching
The Biggest Loser
with Atticus, but not taking any of it in. Her gaze kept straying to the letter which had landed on the mat that morning now taking pride of place on the coffee table.

At ten to six, she was roused from a
doze by a scuffling at the front door. Her heart stepped up the pace and she got up to retrieve the letter addressed to Tom.

‘Hey, how was racing?’ she asked when he appeared in the doorway.

‘You know, same ol’ same ol’. Rhys had three winners today so he’s gone clear of Mick Farrelly in the jockeys’ championship.’

‘Ah, good.’
Frankie fingered the envelope behind her back. ‘Something arrived in the mail for you today.’

Tom stiffened. He swallowed hard and tried to appear nonchalant.

‘Oh, really? Latest issue of
Heat
I hope.’

Frankie bit her lip
and brought the letter into view. Her fingers were shaking as she held it out for him to take. His name and address were written in thick loopy writing and had been smudged by raindrops. Tom turned it over and took a deep breath when he saw the return addressee: A. MANN. He cumbrously teased open the seal. He stopped, his hands shaking more than Frankie’s had.

‘Do you want some privacy?’ she asked.

Tom shook his head.

‘No, I’m glad you’re here.’ He reached inside the envelope and paused. ‘I can’t do this,’ he sighed. He thrust the letter into Frankie’s hand. ‘Here, you read it.’

‘You sure?’

E
yes closed, he nodded. She cleared her throat and shook the sheet open.

‘
Dear Tom
,’ she read aloud. ‘
Thank you for your letter, which I received just before Christmas. I am sorry not to have written sooner, however family commitments prevented me from doing so.
’ She looked up to see Tom cringe and she felt a sudden rush of anger on his behalf. Family commitments? Wasn’t Tom a family commitment? ‘
I wish I could write with the information you are looking for, but unfortunately I am unable to help.
’ Frankie’s heart drooped. Okay, maybe he wasn’t.

Tom sagged and sat down on the arm of the sofa with a bump.

‘
Although my name is Adelaide Mann, I am not the person you are trying to find. I was born and brought up in Edinburgh before moving to London twenty-two years ago with my now-ex-husband. There we raised four children. I am very sorry that I am unable to help you, but wish you the very best of luck with your search. Regards, Adelaide Mann.
’

‘It’s not her,’ Tom said glumly.

Frankie folded the letter again and put her arm around Tom’s shoulders.

‘So it would seem. But she
is
out there. Somewhere.’

Tom looked up at her, his eyes doleful.

‘What if it is her? What if she’s lying?’

Frankie’s heart ached for him.

‘I don’t think she is, Tom,’ she said gently.

He rubbed his face with his palms and exhaled wearily.

‘Back to square one again.’

‘We still have her name,’ Frankie tried to give him hope. ‘That’s more than we h
ad before. We can still find her.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ Tom muttered. He took the letter from her and scrunched it into a ball and threw it into the fire grate and strode out the room. Frankie sank back down onto the sofa and stroked an ever-hopeful Atticus.

Frankie was back riding work within ten days. On the one hand, when Jack announced that he wanted her to give Ta’ Qali some roadwork she was relieved that her still fragile wrist could have a break (well, not literally). On the other hand, his reason for sending the string into Helensvale on Market Day left her a fraction apprehensive. The trainer’s attempt to conquer Ta’ Qali’s nerves, albeit in less demanding circumstances than on a race-day, was doing nothing for Frankie’s nerves.

The main road to Helensvale didn’t have much of a verge, but there was so little traffic that the riders were able to walk two abreast.

‘I’m surprised to see you out doing light exercise,’ Frankie teased Rhys.

‘What can I say? I convinced Jack to let me come along in case Ta’ Qali had a fit.’

Despite her own doubts, she gave him a playfully prim look.

‘I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you.’

Rhys nodded to her bandaged wrist, resting easily on her thigh.

‘So I can tell.’

Ta’ Qali walked with his head held high and his black ears pricked towards the sound of sheep on the other side of the hedge. He didn’t look to have a care in the world. Little did he realise where they were headed for.

‘At least I did it now,’ Frankie said, referring to her wrist. ‘Cheltenham’s in a couple of months’ time. It would have been awful if I’d done it right before then.’

‘Don’t tempt the gods. You know what it’s like. There’s no injury quota that means you’ve had your fill and can be blasé about the rest of the season.’

Frankie took that on board. As far as her job went, she’d been injury-free for the most part. She’d dislocated her shoulder once when she was nineteen
, riding in a point-to-point, but besides that and her sprained wrist, that was the extent of her injuries.

‘What’s been your worst season for injuries?’ she asked.

Rhys thought for a moment.

‘Five years ago. I broke my elbow summer jumping. That was hell.
Can’t stand summer jumping. The ground gets so firm, it’s unsafe. Anyway, that put me out until September. Then I broke my collarbone.’

‘Ouch.’

Rhys shrugged, indifferent.

‘Was back six weeks later, managed a month then
got concussion, managed to fool the doc and ended up falling off in the next race. Dislocated my thumb.’ Rhys held up his left hand and bent his thumb back to touch the back of his hand to demonstrate.

‘Urgh, yuck!’ cringed Frankie. ‘Didn’t it ever heal?’

Rhys chuckled to himself, obviously pleased that he’d grossed her out.

‘No. It’s something I’ve always been able to do. I’m very dexterous, you’ll find.’

‘I think I’ve already found actually,’ Frankie conceded. Rhys put everyone else she’d slept with—all three of them—in the shade.

*

The hedges and sheep gradually gave way to bungalows and parked cars as they neared Helensvale’s outer limits. Frankie leaned forward and scratched Ta’ Qali on the crest of his neck. He tossed his head in response.

‘He looks like he’s trying to flick that weird marking off his nose,’ Rhys said, watching.

‘The first time I saw it, it reminded me of spilt salt. Maybe he’s trying to toss salt over shoulder.’

‘It hasn’t brought him much luck so far.’

Frankie smoothed Ta’ Qali’s mane to the side in consolation.

‘Don’t be mean. I think he’s being really good.’

‘For now,’ Rhys warned.

They turned into the High Street, a magnificent parade of seven horses clip-clopping on the road. The riders
’ red jackets stood out in the overcast morning and the saddle cloths bearing Jack Carmichael’s initials left rubberneckers in no doubt as to where they were from. OAPs steadied themselves on their Zimmer frames to watch them pass and office workers loitering on the pavement having a cigarette break paused mid-puff. Frankie was alert, ready for Ta’ Qali to start performing.

When the memory of Seth rose in her mind, she pushed it to the back. She couldn’t think like that.

They neared the striped canvas stalls of the market just as the clock tower beside the bookies chimed ten o’clock. The alluring smell of fresh-baked pies drifted on the cool air and Frankie hoovered it up.

‘Mmm.
That smells divine.’

‘Local produce doesn’t equate to low-
cal produce, unfortunately,’ Rhys replied. ‘Breathe through your mouth. It’s less torturous.’

Someone was very keen on selling their rhubarb and shallots at a knockdown price. Ta’ Qali snorted.

‘Watch him,’ Rhys murmured beside her.

Pies forgotten,
Frankie concentrated on her horse’s ears. They switched back and forth, absorbing the hustle and bustle of Market Day. What if he bolted? Would her wrist hold up? Behind them, a scatter of hooves on tarmac sounded as one of the other horses spooked. Frankie adjusted her seat ever so slightly, ready for Ta’ Qali to take off. A gust of wind blew down the street and a plastic bag was swept from a groceries crate and into the street.

‘It’s just a bag
,’ she murmured as Ta’ Qali raised his head and pricked his ears.

The bag tumbled weightlessly
towards them. Ta’ Qali tensed. Frankie clicked her tongue at him and held her breath. The bag cartwheeled past them and Ta’ Qali relaxed. Out of sight, out of mind.

They passed the flapping canvases
of the stalls and slowly the market traders’ voices began to fade. Ta’ Qali resumed his swinging stride. Frankie felt a tidal wave of relief wash over her. She looked across at Rhys, dubious but pleased.

‘Beginner’s luck,’ he
said, a wry smile on his face.

‘Who you calling beginner?’

‘
Amateur’s
luck then.’

‘That’s more like it,’ she grinned. ‘
One more win and I’ll only be able to claim three pounds.’

‘You going
to go professional eventually?’

She
shrugged and concentrated harder than necessary on steering her horse past an idling van. If she was to go professional, she would be the only female jump jockey in Britain to do so. And she knew it wasn’t for want of other women trying. She didn’t exactly see herself as being the one to pave the way though.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve still got to ride another thirty-five winners before I lose my claim
completely and I’d have to apply for a conditional license before I go professional. There seems an awful lot to be done.’

‘So?’ Rhys said with a laugh. ‘Isn’t riding professional what your ambition has always been?’

Frankie frowned to herself. She loved her job, there was no mistake about that, but she wasn’t sure she didn’t love the yard work more than the actual racing.

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘You guess? Jesus, Frankie,’ he chuckled. ‘How can you be so blasé about the whole thing? This is your career we’re talking about. And it’ll be over before you know it—’

‘Excuse me?’

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean
all
of our careers will be over before we know it. We’re jump jockeys. On average we fall every sixth or seventh ride. Name me one jump jockey who is over forty.’

Frankie thought then reluctantly shook her head.

‘I can’t.’

‘There you go. Come on, you’re twenty-three. Your claim is going to run out in three years’ time. Make hay while the sun shines, as they say.’

Frankie snorted.

‘I’m twenty-four next month.’

‘Even more reason to be focussed on your career.’

Frankie twisted her reins around her whip thoughtfully. Put like that, she didn’t have much time left at all. Her career as a jockey would probably be over in less than ten years. It felt as if it had hardly started though! And while
Rhys might be older and wiser—all twenty-eight years’ worth of wisdom—his career security unsettled her. Was it so wrong that she wasn’t yet convinced that being a jockey was the right job for her? She was too afraid to ask Rhys if he ever felt the same fear she did during a race. It must surely be natural to be scared when hurtling towards twenty-odd walls of birch at thirty-five miles an hour.

She stole a glance at Rhys. He wasn’t your average person though. He sat on a horse as if it was the most natural place to be. And horses o
bviously approved of his inborn ability. Peace Offering’s Welsh National placing was evidence enough of that. Frankie felt a stab of envy in her gut at the thought of how he’d got such a tune out of a horse he hadn’t sat on for the best part of a year.

By the time the string of Aspen Valley horses had turned
for home, that envy had evolved into guilt. Misplaced as it might be, she felt undeserving of the ride on Peace Offering when Rhys obviously knew exactly what he wanted. Not only that, but he had forgiven her for sauntering in and taking his best chance of winning the National because she ‘guessed’ this was the career she wanted.

*

Back in the warmth of Ta’ Qali’s stable, Frankie struggled to undo his girth.

‘Here, let me give you a hand with that,’ Jack’s voice interrupted her from the doorway.

Frankie stepped aside with a grateful smile.

‘Thanks.’

‘How’s it holding up?’ he said, nodding to her wrist.

Frankie pulled a face.

‘Holding up.’

Jack slipped Ta’ Qali’s saddle off his dipped back.

‘Did he give you any trouble?’

‘He didn’t turn a hair,’ she said with a proud grin.
‘Quietest horse in the string. Had all the market traders shouting, plastic bags and canvases flapping in the wind but he was as good as gold.’

‘Good,’ Jack said. He carried on looking at the horse, studiously chewing his lower lip. Ta’ Qali rolled his eye at his owner.  ‘
So if crowds aren’t the problem, what is it, big guy?’ he said.

Frankie stood by Ta’ Qali’s head with her hand held out for him to lip at. She’d learnt that while he didn’t like his head being touched, he was quite partial to having his lips rubbed. She wished she could help Jack figure him out, but she had no suggestions.

‘Maybe it’s you,’ Jack said finally, turning to Frankie.

Frankie looked sideways, wide-eyed.

‘Me?’

‘Yeah.
He’s never been a problem with you on his back and he looks like he’s getting used to being handled by you at least,’ he said.

Frankie glowed with inner pride.

‘A bit. I can’t touch the marking on his nose yet, but he’s better than he was.’

‘We’ve seen just how good he can be on the gallops. Hell, he’s the only horse that can keep Dexter
company and look what Dexter’s just done. I mean, this guy’s obviously got the ability if he can keep pace with a Christmas Hurdle winner at home. Maybe he just doesn’t like Rhys’s style. He is quite a strong jockey whereas you’ve a more sympathetic style. Maybe that’s what it is. Yeah,’ he said, nodding with conviction as the idea formed in his head. ‘Tell you what: next start, we’ll put you up on him and see if that makes the difference. You okay with that?’

Frankie struggled not to jig on the spot. She bit her lips together
, but her smile of approval still shone through. Jack nodded.

‘Good. That’s that sorted then.
’ He turned to leave, but she stopped him. His mood was too good not to take advantage of, and she’d had a rather unorthodox idea flitting around her head for the past couple of weeks.

‘Jack, can I ask a favour?’

‘Of course. What’s up?’

‘I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but I help run Helensvale’s Girl Guide group and they’ve got their GFI Animal Active to do. I was wondering if they could do it
here?’

‘A
what?
’

‘It’s like a badge. I thought maybe they could learn about horse husbandry for this one.’

Jack frowned at her and she grimaced in anticipation of his answer.

‘I guess it couldn’t hurt,’ he eventually conceded. ‘But only after Cheltenham Festival. Speaking of which,
I’ve pencilled in the Kim Muir Chase for you and Peace Offering.’

Frankie was too gobsmacked to respond. Jack winked at her expression and
dropped her saddle into her limp arms. Frankie turned to her horse once he’d left.

‘Did you hear that, boy?
I’m going to the Festival! And you and I are gonna race together! Don’t let me down, baby. Let’s show them what we’re made of, eh?’ Overcome with excitement, she dropped a kiss on the crooked bridge of his nose, for a brief moment forgetting his shyness.

Ta’ Qali’s memory was not so patchy. He chucked his head up, smashing her lip into her front teeth. Tears sprung to her eyes as pain and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She touched her lip tentatively and winced.
Great, she was going to look like she’d been to a Botox party. On the subject of which, her thoughts turned to Cheltenham and the annual party held at the end of the four day festival. This year she’d really feel part of the action if she and Peace Offering made it there in one piece.