Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) (26 page)

Frankie didn’t feel at all like cooking dinner and all the while trying to analyse Tom’s feelings for her. But a promise was a promise and actually, the more she thought about it, the more she fancied eating bangers and mash.

Tom came down from his bedroom when he heard her arrive home.

‘Hey. Good day? I see it’s snowing,’ he said, joining her in the kitchen with Atticus at his heels.

Frankie tensed as she peered into the fridge in search of sausages.
Atticus slinked over to offer his opinion. Did other people’s housemates come join them as soon as they got home? Tom appeared quite cheerful for a change too. Was that because she was home? Frankie stared hard at a tub of margarine as she tried to decide if this was natural behaviour.

‘Yeah, not bad,’ she said.

‘Will you help me build a snowman in the park if it keeps up?’

Was that a coercive way of asking her out on a date? Frankie frowned again. Was that really how much salt was in margarine?
Atticus sniffed dismissively at the lower vegetable shelf and shuddered.

‘Sure.
Why not.’

‘You okay?’ Tom said.

She looked across at him and gave him a bright smile.

‘Yes, of course. Why would you think otherwise?’

‘Well, you haven’t bothered to take your head out of the fridge since I’ve walked in. What are you looking for?’

‘Sausages.
I’m looking for sausages.’

Tom walked over with
exaggerated caution and picked up the plastic tray of sausages on clear display and handed it to her.

Frankie
laughed, an octave too high.

‘Think I need my eyes tested.’

‘That would be a good one to start with. Are you cooking dinner for us?’

Frankie gave him an uncertain look. If she said yes, would it look like she was leading him on?

‘Yeah. I figured I owe you. I mean, that’s what buddies do, right? They do things for each other.’

Tom frowned at her.

‘You sure you’re all right?’

Frankie closed the fridge door with a forced jovial laugh.

‘’Course.’ She directed a playful punch at his upper arm. ‘
Buddy
.’

‘Ow,’ Tom said, shying away from her and rubbing his arm. He looked at her with a wounded expression. ‘What the hell’s got into you?’

Frankie set the sausages down on the counter and rubbed her face wearily. Okay, she had to get a grip. She was freaking Tom out now.

‘I’ve just got loads
on my mind. It’s been one of those days. You okay with bangers and mash?’

Tom still looked guarded.

‘I think so. You want to talk about it?’

‘What?
The bangers and mash? Well, I think I’ll use three big potatoes and are you happy with just two sausages?’

‘No, doofus.
Do you want to talk about your day?’

Oh, heck. Tom was offering her a sympathetic ear. Maybe her parents were right. Why would a guy do that if he wasn’t after something more?

She picked out the three peeler-friendliest potatoes from the rack and headed for the sink.

‘You don’t want to hear about it.’

‘Sure, I do. Come on, tell Uncle Tom.’

With her back to him, Frankie felt more at ease and there was something bizarrely therapeutic
in spud-peeling.

‘Tom, how do you feel about me dating Rhys?’

The short silence that followed prompted her to turn around. Tom was leaning against the kitchen table, his arms crossed and a puzzled look on his face.

‘Have you and him had a fight?’

‘No, no.’ Frankie gave a vague wave of her hand and a slither of potato peel fell to the floor. Atticus pounced on it then turned away in distaste. He glared at Frankie. ‘It was just something my parents said when I went to see them this evening.’

‘Ah. They’re still not happy with you dating him, eh?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I mean I want you t
o be happy and everything, but—’

Frankie held her breath.

‘But what?’

‘Well, I don’t want to see you get hurt either.’

‘Why do you think I’ll get hurt?’ she said, a trace of defensiveness creeping into her tone. Okay, maybe if she was looking for support for her relationship, a potential admirer like Tom was perhaps the wrong person to seek it from.

‘Come on, Frankie. You know
Rhys, he hasn’t exactly got a reputation for being a loving long-term partner, has he?’

‘We’ve been together seven weeks.’

‘I hate to break it to you, Frankie, but that’s only considered long-term when you’re fourteen. You’ll be twenty-four on Saturday.’

Oh God, he remembered her birthday.
Even her father couldn’t remember her birthday.

‘Okay. Well, let’s just pretend then that I’m in a long-term relationship with Rhys. Would you be okay with that?’

Tom pursed his mouth in thought.

‘You want an honest answer, right?’

Frankie’s heart picked up the pace. She nodded.

‘Well, I’ve hardly seen you at all this past fortnight and, don’t think I’m getting possessive or anything, but I have to say I’ve missed your company.’

Her cheeks burned and she spun back to the sink before he could see. She heard him scrape a kitchen chair back to sit on.

‘Look, Frankie, I don’t know what’s going on in your head or what your parents said to you, but if you’re happy then I’m happy.’

Didn’t people say that when they were in love? Her parents were right! How could she have been so blind?

‘Would you like two sausages with your meal? I thought I would try
do that chilli gravy. Or maybe I should just stick with the normal mix? What do you think? Do we have any beef stock cubes?’

‘What
did
your parents say?’ Tom asked.

Could she tell him? She sighed. She didn’t think she could face bre
aking Tom’s heart and cook dinner at the same time.

‘Nothing much.’

‘Then why are you questioning how I feel about Rhys? Did they tell you to break up with him? I know you said they’re not particularly fond of him—like I said, he hasn’t got the best reputation so it makes some sense—but if that’s what they said then it’s not very fair on you.’

Frankie hesitated. She wanted Tom’s opinion so bad, but would it be like rubbing salt into a wound to unload her burdens onto him? She picked up the last potato and carefully tried to peel it in one long strip. It was no good, she needed to tell someone.

‘I don’t think it’s because of Rhys’s reputation that Dad disapproves so much,’ she said. ‘Years ago, when he and Rhys’s father were both jockeys, there was a horse called Crowbar—’

‘Oh yes. I remember,’ interrupted Tom. ‘Well, I don’t
remember
as such. But he won the National the year I was born and you always remember those ones, don’t you?’

Frankie looked round at him.

‘So you knew that Alan Bradford won it on him?’

‘Did he? To be honest, no, I didn’t know that. Maybe if
he’d won a string of Nationals or was champion jockey or something it might have stuck in my mind, but I don’t think he was any great shakes. Not like Rhys, anyway. I just remember the horse’s name.’

‘Oh. Well, Alan Bradford won the National on Crowbar, but it was
my
dad who had ridden Crowbar in all of his races prior to that. Dad refuses to talk about any of it, but then Dory’s owner pitched up at work today to see her and he’s Ron McCready, Crowbar’s old trainer. So I asked him why. And
he
said that Dad and Alan Bradford had been great mates. Apparently, Dad had even been best man at his wedding! I mean, Dad never said anything about them being friends! Neither did Mum. When I asked her ages ago, she made out that they had been rivals who just rubbed each other up the wrong way. But there must have been more to it than that, mustn’t there?’

‘What did that Ron Mc-whatever
say?’

‘That’s the weird thing. He wouldn’t tell me.
Said that I should ask Dad. What do you think the big deal is?’

Tom frowned.

‘Dunno. Have you asked Rhys? He might know.’

Frankie shook her head.

‘No. And to be honest, I’m not sure that he
would
know. He doesn’t much like talking about his father.’

‘Maybe you should do what that Ron guy said and ask your dad again. Like outright. It might shock him into telling you the truth.’

Frankie pursed her lips in contemplation.

‘Maybe.
I’ve just got to find the right time.’

‘Frankie, you and your dad haven’t been on proper speaking terms for weeks. Is there ever going to be a right time?’

‘Good point, Watson.’

The downside to having one’s birthday on Valentine’s Day was that Frankie had spent her youth picking up the pastel-coloured envelopes that had fallen through the letterbox and opening each with a trembling hope that one might be from a secret admirer. Usually they would contain birthday wishes instead. Of the five that landed on the mat that Saturday morning she was unsurprised to find that none of them were Valentine’s Day cards. She hadn’t expected anything from Rhys, it wasn’t his style. Besides, they were going to watch a fireworks display after racing tonight and he had promised her dinner at some swanky Ascot restaurant.

Frankie sat in the changing rooms, tying and retying the red ribbon on the cap of her helmet. She could hear the commentary for the Ascot Chase in which Rhys was riding Virtuoso coming from the television and from the PA system, but she wasn’t listening. She couldn’t remember feeling so nervous prior to a race before. Sure, every race got to her to a greater o
r lesser degree, but this one—when she knew she needed to stay calmer than she’d ever done before—this one was different. In this one, she would be riding Ta’ Qali.

Rhys was riding another Aspen Valley novice, Asante
, in the same race and they both knew that if the Ta’ Qali that impressed so much at home turned up then his stablemate would have no hope. But the chances of a calm and collected Ta’ Qali making an appearance were slim. She needed to relax. For everyone’s sakes.

She was roused out of her worry pit by the commentator’s cries and she winced as she heard last year’s Cheltenham Gold Cup winner, Zodiac
, called home a neck clear of Rhys and Virtuoso.

It wouldn’t be long now before the weighing room would begin to fill up again, noisy with the adrenalin-high jockeys arguing, joking and taunting each other after their race. The valets would be busy making sure saddles had the correct weight cloths for their jockeys’ next race. Then it would be crunch time. Frankie closed her eyes. She prayed her time wouldn’t be too crunching.

*

The grounds surrounding
Ascot’s immaculate parade ring were packed. A glimmer of sunlight had replaced yesterday’s snowfall and racing fans were taking full advantage of it. She and Rhys made the short walk from the jockeys’ rooms in silence. As Frankie had suspected, Rhys hadn’t looked particularly pleased about losing out so narrowly on Virtuoso, but like all the best sportsmen his moody composure had changed for the better as his next challenge arose.

Frankie scanned the outer reaches of the ring for her mount. There he was. Billy was leading him, digging his elbow into the black horse’s shoulder to keep him steady.
Ta’ Qali wore the same fluffy white noseband as before, but in addition he also wore a lip-chain.

A flutter of hope rose inside
her. The lip-chain made him look like he was snarling but the pressure on his gums was obviously releasing the intended endorphins that kept a horse calm. Not that Ta’ Qali was exactly the quietest of the runners, but he wasn’t going berserk. Yet.

Jack was waiting for them both in the centre of the ring.

‘Frankie, your guess is as good as mine about how to ride Ta’ Qali, probably better. Just get him to settle. That horse over there, Raphaelite, is bound to set a good gallop so that’s one good thing. Ta’ Qali has the
ability
to win this, but only if he settles.’

His face was grimmer than usual, Frankie noticed.
This wasn’t just another runner for him. Ta’ Qali was
his
horse and his horse to sell. If he lived up to his potential on such a high profile race card, Ta’ Qali could be sold within a week. But if he mirrored his last two runs, it was doubtful he would get any serious offers for the rest of the season.

The bell rang for the jockeys to mount and Jack
addressed Rhys.

‘
Asante likes to come off the pace. Don’t leave him out the back though, else he’ll just fall asleep. Come on, Frankie. I’ll leg you up. Good luck both of you.’

*

Through the tunnel and onto the course, Frankie’s breath evaporated. Ascot’s arcing grandstand stretched all the way to the far turn and the crowds that had come to watch the clash between two Cheltenham Gold Cup winners in the last race still packed the rails a hundred deep.

Frankie shivered as Ta’ Qali upped his pace and an icy wind blew through her.
With his lip-chain removed, it seemed her horse’s more fractious nerves had returned. But with these crowds she couldn’t blame him. Helensvale Market Day couldn’t hold a candle to Ascot. Frankie sat lower on her haunches, gently sawing at the reins as they galloped down to the two mile start.

‘How’s he doing?’ Rhys asked her once they were circling behind the tape.

Ta’ Qali shook his head as if he had a fly in his ear and pawed at the lush carpet of grass.

‘
Not great,’ she replied.

‘I wish I could give you so
me advice, but if anyone knows how to ride him, you do.’

Frankie smiled grimly and nodded.
Her reins were slick from Ta’ Qali’s sweating neck and she tried to dry her gloves on her breeches. She followed her rivals in a haphazard circle, trying to avoid the worst of the sixteen-runner traffic. The field turned sharply, catching her unawares and carried her forward as they rushed towards the tape.

Ta’ Qali stretched out his neck, pulling her out of the saddle and bounded forward. The orange tape, ribbing in the breeze, was too close. The starter wasn’t even on the steps of his platform. She hauled back on the reins, but the momentum of the field continued to push them forward.

‘Get back! Get back!’ the starter roared. ‘Take a turn! You!’ he said, pointing at Frankie. ‘Take a turn! Go on, all of you! Get back!’

Ta’ Qali fought angrily with Frankie.
Another horse shot out of the pack and nearly clothes-lined its jockey on the tape. Frankie’s heart sank. What little hope she held for Ta’ Qali dwindled. Groans and mutters rumbled from the others as they all turned away. More delays, more time for her horse to psyche himself up. The runners retreated behind the start and the tape was painstakingly retied across the track.

‘Okay, on you go!’ the starter shouted.

Ta’ Qali wheeled round on his hocks and set off like a cannonball. Frankie’s hands slipped on the reins. Apart from two other horses on her outside, she was out in the clear. She hadn’t had much of a game plan to start with, but heading affairs had definitely not been part of it. The first of the nine hurdles bounced into her line of sight. She gritted her teeth and tried not to close her eyes. Ta’ Qali was running wild. She was scared. Ta’ Qali was scared. He cat-jumped over the first, rapping the top of the hurdle with his knees and pecking on landing.

‘Whoa, boy.
Whoa,’ she tremored. ‘Come on, slow it down, Ta’ Qali. Please.’

Ta’ Qali jinked sideways and bumped a horse coming up his inside.

‘Watch it, Frankie!’ the rider shouted.

She turned to see Donnie glaring at her.

‘Sorry! I—’ She couldn’t concentrate on a reply. Ta’ Qali was too much for her. He threw his head, whipping her face with his mane. She didn’t feel the sting, she just felt the fear.

The second hurdle was quickly upon them and Ta’ Qali stood off a stride early. He stretched out his neck and forelegs to clear it, for a moment forgetting to fight his rider, but
as soon as they were on the other side and galloping into the shade afforded by the grandstand, his mind was back on the struggle. The noise of the crowd rolled in waves around her, so loud that she hardly heard the snap.

She looked down. The reins were still tight in her
fists; her stirrups were still straining against their leathers. Then she saw Ta’ Qali’s breastplate flap around his chest.

‘Damn,’ she muttered. The force of Ta’ Qali’s erratic gallop had torn the piece of tack clean from the saddle. She tried to calm herself. It wasn’t serious. Horses didn’t need breastplates, they were just there as a precautionary measure to keep the saddle from slipping.

*

They rounded the long sloping turn that would take them up to the highest point of the course. With Donnie half a length in front of her and two others ahead, they galloped in fourth. Over the third hurdle, Frankie caught a glimpse of j
ust how good Ta’ Qali could be. Her arms ached. Lactic acid burned through her thighs as she balanced her weight in opposition to her mount’s tearaway speed.

The ground began to fall away as they
raced towards the next hurdle. Ta’ Qali was breathing harder than Frankie yet his legs carried him faster down the descent. Frankie leaned back. Her desperate tugs garnered no response. Ta’ Qali took off unbalanced and flattened the hurdle. He stumbled in the thick turf on landing. Frankie’s heart leapt into her throat. She looked down between her knees. Her saddle was inching up Ta’ Qali’s withers with every stride he took. Panic tightened her chest but lent her strength. She pulled back on the reins. But every time she did so, she was forced to push down in her stirrups. The saddle crept higher. Frankie felt her balance begin to teeter.

‘Stop, Ta’ Qali!’ she cried. ‘Please!
Whoa, boy!’

She looked up a
nd felt her body go furnace hot with dread. Up ahead was their next obstacle—another hurdle going downhill followed by a sharp turn. She snatched at the reins, hoping the saddle wouldn’t slip any further if she stopped the constant hauling.

Ta’ Qali shook his head and snatched back, tearing the reins through her fingers. Frankie gasped and clutched thick handfuls of his mane to stop
herself toppling over his shoulder.

She scrab
bled with her reins and tried to calculate whether she had enough time to pull Ta’ Qali wide and miss out the looming jump. She pulled on her left rein, careful to keep her weight balanced in both stirrups.

‘Hey!’ an angry voice shouted.

Frankie darted a look sideways.

Shit. S
he hadn’t checked to see if she had a clear path. She looked round further. The chasing field of fifteen were right behind her. Blood pounded in her ears. The hurdle stretched out across the course. Frankie bit her lip and gripped Ta’ Qali’s black mane with her fingers. He took off. Another loud snap. One of the girth straps gave way. They landed and the saddle climbed higher.

Jolted forward, she flung her arms round Ta’ Qali’s neck then pushed herself back upright.
Panic overcame her. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t throw herself off. Not only were they going at a breakneck pace, but she also had the cavalry on her heels. But she couldn’t keep her balance for much longer. Ta’ Qali’s neck was a lot narrower than his back. She tried to push against him, but her centre of gravity was too far forward. Ahead was the bend. Her chest tightened. She would never stay on going round that. The heavy drum of hoofbeats and the harsh breathing of another horse loomed on her outside.

‘Frankie!’
Rhys’s bellowing voice reached her like a life-ring to stranded swimmer.

She turned her head. Asante was drawing level, his head stretched low, his nostrils wide as he galloped flat out.

‘Rhys!’ she cried. ‘My saddle’s slipping! I’m going to fall!’

‘Hang on!’

Ahead the white running rail began to curve inward. Rhys reached out and grasped her upper arm. His fingers dug into her straining muscles, but it was the most comforting pain she’d ever experienced. With it came stability. Asante bumped shoulders with Ta’ Qali and Frankie teetered. She looked across at Rhys. She knew her face was stricken with fear. She didn’t care. Rhys wore a look of thunderous determination.

‘Just hold on! Okay?’ he shouted.

She nodded dumbly. With Rhys’s arm steadying her, they skirted the turn.

‘I’m slipping!’ she yelled, feeling her centre of gravity shift right.

‘Push down with your left foot!’

‘I can’t!’

‘Yes, you can! Push down!’ He pulled on her arm as he shouted.

Frankie tore her lip
with her teeth as her balance wavered.

‘Hold on to
me, okay? I’m going to let go—’

‘No! Don
’t!’ she cried.

‘
I have to. I’m going to stop Ta’ Qali. Just hold on.’

Frankie let go of her horse’s mane and flung out her arm to grasp
Rhys’s shoulder. He leaned forward and snagged her reins. She felt the pressure of her straining hold on Ta’ Qali’s mouth lessen as he took up the fight. Ta’ Qali shook his head. The saddle slipped further. Frankie cried out and grabbed a handful of Rhys’s blue silks. The rumble of the approaching field grew louder as Ta’ Qali’s pace slackened. In seconds they were surrounded, Asante grunting as he took the bumps of the advance. Then the field raced on. Ta’ Qali slowed to a ragged trot beside his stablemate, jarring Frankie, when the final girth strap snapped.

Her landing was
relatively soft considering other falls she’d experienced. Ta’ Qali’s toe glanced off her shoulder but her body protector took the brunt of the force. She lay for a moment in the moist grass, looking up at the patchy sky. She was alive. She rolled onto her knees. Up ahead, Rhys was pulling up both horses. He spun Asante round and hurried back to her. Ta’ Qali threw his head at Rhys’s rough treatment.