Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) (5 page)

The distant growl of a car engine caught her attention and she watched Jack’s silver Land Rover disappear into the mist, bumping over the uneven road up the hill as he prepared to watch his horses train. His words of instruction drifted back to her.

‘Twain could do with a confidence booster, so start three back. Apart from Rhys’s horse at the front, the rest are just having a canter. So give Twain a push, let him feel like a winner by passing the others. He can be lazy so keep him up to his work. Try be alongside Romano after three furlongs. Then have his head in front by the five. Rhys knows you’re to go past so don’t worry about it turning into a race.’

That didn’t sound too difficult.

Frankie gathered her reins as they swung onto the all-weather surface. Ahead, Rhys was waiting for the entire string to step out before setting off. His horse tossed its head, snatching at the reins and crab-stepping. Sinister in his dark riding outfit and unflinching authority, Rhys at last pulled down his goggles and released his mount. Romano gave a small rear and plunged forward, flicking synthetic sand into the faces of his stablemates.

Twain needed little urging to break into canter. But as she lowered her posture over his withers and asked for more, his response was lethargic.
Needles of cold rain stung her cheeks and she took a deep lungful of cold air, knowing this would test her fitness if she was to pass Rhys already flying ten lengths ahead. Scrubbing with her hands and pushing with her body weight, she felt the big-boned chestnut at last begin to lengthen his stride. The horse beside her began to drop back and the quarters of the one in front bunched and released as they climbed the hill.

By the time the three furlong marker whooshed past,
Twain wasn’t the only one breathing hard. Frank’s throat burned dry and just the moist wind offered any relief to Frankie’s hot face. Rhys’s horse galloped just ahead of them. Frankie again lowered in the saddle, her focus unwavering on the rider before her. Twain’s rats’ tail-mane whipped her face but she didn’t feel it. They were gaining. She glanced across as they drew level with Romano. Hunched over his horse’s neck, Rhys tilted his head sideways. A smile twitched his lips.

‘Making you work for your
money, is he?’ he shouted above the rush of wind.

‘I wasn’t expecting an armchair ride,’ Frankie yelled back.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

Setting her jaw,
Frankie pushed for more speed. Out of the mist, the four furlong marker whipped by. She frowned. It
felt
like Twain was giving more. It
felt
like they were galloping faster. Yet still Rhys’s leg juddered beside her own. And all the while he sat motionless aboard his horse. Frankie pulled her goggles down around her neck so she could see better. Only then did she notice Rhys letting his reins slip through his gloved fingers.

The bastard! With a renewed intensity, she scrubbed her hands up and down Twain’s outstretched neck.
She was running out of track to get ahead. Jack’s instructions resounded in her mind, muffled by the roaring wind.

‘
Get his head in front…It won’t turn into a race.’

So much for that, she thought furiously.

A growing despair rose inside her as the 5 on the next furlong marker became more distinct. Romano still galloped easily beside Twain. Frankie’s chest tightened as she gasped for air. They flashed past the marker. She sagged in her saddle, her muscles thankful for the reprieve. The white boards marking the end of the gallop loomed and pricking his ears, Twain slowed to a ragged trot.

‘Not strong enough to get past?’ Rhys taunted her.

Anger swelled inside Frankie.

‘What?’ she cried. ‘That was bullshit! You stopped us from going past!’

Rhys pushed his goggles up over the peak of his helmet, revealing his shadowed eyes, goading her, mocking her.

‘Such language from a girl
.’ He smiled as they rode through the top gate onto the path that would lead them back down the hill. ‘Because—let’s face it—that’s what you are: a girl. And sadly, girls just aren’t strong enough to be jockeys.’

Frankie opened her mouth to retort but couldn’t find anything suitably stinging. Too late, the headlights of Jack’s Land Rover cut through the mist and the trainer pulled up next to them. Frankie and Rhys stopped as Jack leaned out of the window.

‘This was meant to be a confidence booster for Twain, Frankie. I thought I asked you to go past Rhys, not sit alongside him.’

Here was her opportunity to land Rhys in
it, but something made her pause. She looked at Rhys. He raised an expectant eyebrow.

She hesitated.
He wanted her to say it. He wanted her to be a tattle-tale, to pass the buck.

‘I’m sorry, Jack. I just wasn’t able to get past.’

Jack looked miffed and Frankie saw him wrestling to keep his patience.

‘Well,
don’t let it happen again. When I ask you to do something, it’s for a reason.’

Frankie hung her head, genuinely sorry. She wondered if
Rhys’s stunt had caused any lasting damage to Twain’s confidence.

‘Yes, Jack.’

He turned his attention to the riders behind them, effectively dismissing them. Frankie felt her spirits sink to her heels as she tapped them against Twain’s sides.

What a way to start her job at Aspen Valley. So much for the joyful, sparkl
ing career she’d been fantasising about. She’d failed before she’d barely got started. Twain bumped against Romano as they walked by. Rhys stared at Frankie, his expression a mixture of amazement and—dare she say it—
guilt
?

*

To her relief, none of her remaining lots included Rhys, probably because her mounts weren’t of the same calibre as his Festival winners. However, her spirits picked up after her rides on Dory and Ta’ Qali. She enjoyed the challenge Dory presented her with. Dory was so narrow it felt to Frankie as if she was balancing on a drum-majorette’s baton as she pirouetted all the way to the gallops. Nevertheless, once on the move, the mare was enthusiastic and if anything, a little too keen. Frankie’s arms felt of orangutan-lengths (though less hairy) by the time they’d managed to pull up. Jack’s nod of approval was enough to bring a smile back to her face and for a short while she forgot about Rhys’s foul play.

If her rides could be compared to the Three Bears with Twain being too lazy and Dory being too keen, then Ta’ Qali was just right. He didn’t pull, he didn’t lag, he just cantered up the hill with his long ears wobbling to and fro
and his bottom lip flapping then pulled up sweetly at the top.

‘You’re special, Ta’ Qali,’ she told him as she unsaddled him in his stable. She ran her hand along his steaming neck and over his swayed back. Ta’ Qali shivered. She grinned. ‘But boy, are you unfit. Look how you’re sweating.
What say we give you a few rounds on the horse walker to cool off, eh?’

Grabbing a head collar from outside the door, she went to slip it over the horse’s neck. She stepped back
in surprise as Ta’ Qali threw his head and shied away.

‘Sorry, I forgot you were head shy,’ she said. With a more gentle approach, she secured the head collar and turned to lead him
outside. She gasped as she was met by Rhys standing in the doorway. He held out a simple leather strap looping together a circular metal bit.

‘You’ll need a Chifney
with him,’ he said, not quite meeting her eye.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, he’s the quietest horse here.’

Rhys looked at her for a long moment then shrugged.

‘Suit yourself.’ He dropped the
piece of tack on the ground and turned on his heel.

Frankie frowned at his departure. Was this just another taunt to show that girls weren’t as strong as the guys? It was an odd way of doing so if it was because surely she and Ta’ Qali would
just prove him wrong? Pulling on the lead rope, she stepped forward to pick up the anti-rearing bit lying in the straw. A cry slipped from her lips as Ta’ Qali reared away from her and the rope burned her palm. His bulk loomed over her, his belly exposed as he rose higher and higher. Instinctively, Frankie side-stepped out of the way of his hooves. When he touched down, she was ready to grab the head collar.

Beneath her firm hold, Ta’ Qali trembled. Fran
kie trembled too. Her knees were weak with fright. It wasn’t because he’d reared; she’d had plenty of experience with horses rearing on her. It had been so unexpected though. What had brought it on? She gulped and looked at the Chifney clutched in her hand. Her gaze lifted to the doorway and the dark figure of Rhys Bradford limping away. Her eyes widened. Maybe he
did
have a conscience, after all.

That evening, energised by her first day at work, Frankie met Tom outside the Golden Miller. With a quick grin, she linked her arm through his and they entered the pub together. Apart from her father and Seth, she didn’t know any other male whom she trusted so completely. He was also the only guy she’d been able to maintain a platonic relationship with without being labelled a cock-tease. Even through their late teens there had been no slip up at any of the parties they had both got hammered at. Tom had moved from London with his elderly parents to Bristol in time to attend sixth form college with Seth. Both crazy about horses, Seth, at five feet eleven, had just snuck under the realistic height restriction for a jump jockey, but Tom, who at seventeen was already six feet tall, settled for the next best career: being a jockey’s valet. Now twenty-eight, Tom had thankfully stopped growing and had been Frankie’s best friend for the past ten years and flatmate for the last four.

‘They used an awful lot of pine to build this place,’ Frankie remarked as they approached the vacant bar.

‘
Pine
-fully so,’ Tom replied. ‘Would you like a pine or a half-pine of lager?’

Frankie snorted.

‘I think I’ll settle for a Pine-a Colada, thanks.’

Once Tom had placed their order with Joey, the smiling barman, they leaned their backs against the bar in comfortable silence.

‘I know this place is new and everything, but why do you reckon it’s so quiet in here tonight?’ Frankie said.

Tom gestured towards a poster on the wall.

‘Poker night. Whereas the Plough, I believe, is having a pool tournament tonight.’

‘Don’t tell Mum. She’ll be down here in a flash.’

‘A flash or a flush?’

Frankie laughed.

‘God, you’re full of those homophobe things tonight.’

Tom stared at her.

‘Full of
what
?’

‘Homophobes—
no, hang on, that’s not the right word. Homo– words that sound the same but mean different things.’

‘Homophones I think you mean.’ Tom cleared his throat and scowled at
his feet.

‘Frankie, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell
you—’

‘Hey, Tom!’

The pair looked round as his name was called. Donnie McFarland, Aspen Valley’s second jockey, raised a hand in greeting while trying to gather up four drinks. ‘Care to join us for some poker? We could use another player at our table.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t play cards
.’ He gave Frankie a mischievous grin. ‘But Frankie here does.’

‘You play poker, Frankie?’ Donnie asked, somewhat sceptically.

‘What were you going to tell me?’

‘It can wait.’ He held up a finger when she opened her mouth to object. ‘Honestly. Now’s not the best time.’

She hesitated again, this time looking at Donnie’s dubious expression. Her fortnightly game of Texas Hold ’Em with her mother was hardly hardcore enough to take on a table full of whisky-fuelled testosterone.

‘I
don’t know—’

‘Go on, Frankie,’ urged Tom. ‘You’re always saying you want to be treated as an equal.’

Rhys’s sexist remarks from that morning flitted through her mind. Squaring her shoulders, she beamed at Donnie.

‘Sure I do.’

*

While Tom remained behind waiting for their cocktails,
Frankie followed Donnie round to the poker tables.

‘Look who I found lurking by the bar, lads! Frankie’s come to join us for some cards.’

Frankie’s breath caught in her throat. Lounging in his chair, his dark hair curling over his forehead, Rhys looked up in surprise.

Feeling conspicuous, Frankie wrung her hands then suddenly aware of the image she was projecting, she whipped them down by her sides. Stay cool, she told herself.

‘Hello, Rhys,’ she said.

‘Frankie,’ he nodded in solemn greeting. He looked her up and down. ‘No need to stand to attention. Take a seat.’ Hooking his foot around the chair leg, he pushed it out for her to sit down.

Frankie swallowed and took her place next to him. Where was Tom? She could really do with his moral support right now. Craning her neck to see over the restaurant-bar partition, she could see him chatting to a bored-looking Joey.

Rhys shuffled the cards as Donnie counted out some chips for her.

‘I take it you know how to play Hold ’Em?’ Rhys asked, raising a flyaway eyebrow.

Frankie smiled sweetly and wiped the sweat from her palms onto her jeans beneath the table.

‘You bet.’

Rhys gave a half smile (either that or he had wind).

‘Oh, I do.’

Frankie tried not to admire his long strong fingers and toned forearm as he deftly dealt the cards to her, Donnie and the two other men at the table. She was about to pick up her cards when she noticed the others only bend theirs to peek at them. Damn, she hated it when they did that. She could never remember what her cards were if they were always faced down. She took a quick look. Okay, maybe this time it wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t get far with a two of spades and seven of diamonds anyway.

*

Three hands, two
folds and a failed bluff later Frankie was regretting her decision to play. With Rhys to her left, she was very aware of him methodically collecting the pot on each occasion. Each time he reached forward to take his winnings the scent of seductive cologne tickled her nostrils. This was not conducive to her game concentration.

As Donnie dealt the next hand, Frankie’s heart gave a flutter when she bent her cards back. Two queens! Much the best hand she’d had so far. She glanced up to see how the rest of the table were receiving their cards. The man sitting opposite her, named Carl, pushed out his lower lip sceptically. The other man, Richard, looked preoccupied with snuffling into his handkerchief. On her right, Donnie was smiling coyly. She looked at Rhys. His deadpan expression altered a fraction as he raised an eyebrow at her.

When the betting reached Donnie, he raised the stakes. The crooked smile was still there but Frankie noticed his foot wasn’t tapping like it had on the two other occasions he’d had good hands. She decided to take a chance. She re-raised. One by one, each of the players matched her bet. She didn’t know whether to be glad or not yet. The first three community cards were turned over and Frankie held her breath. Two threes and a five, giving her two pair. It wasn’t the strongest hand but it had potential. Her focus turned to Rhys once more. Was it because she felt he was her most likely opposition or was it because she was finding some bizarre satisfaction in being allowed to study him without coming across as a weirdo? Rhys’s eyes, black as coal pits, flitted over each of the players as he made his own assessments. The shadows beneath them and the cheekbones one could base-jump off made him attractive in a haunted-by-demons kind of way. Considering he was a jump jockey, his nose was surprisingly straight in comparison to Donnie’s mangled features. His eyes came to rest on her and Frankie felt like she’d been zapped by a live wire.

‘Frankie, are you still playing this round?’ he asked.

Her attention snapped back to the game, realising that they were waiting on her. Embarrassed, she pushed forward her raised bet.

The fourth community card was turned, revealing a six of clubs. Frankie felt her throat contract and she tried not to swallow. Her two pair was looking vulnerable now. She decided there was nothing for it and
raised again. Rhys considered her for a moment then pushed his cards forward in defeat. Frankie felt the world caving in on her as Donnie raised his bet, calling her bluff. She bet again and waited for the fifth and final community card to be turned.

Yes!

She tried to keep the quiet thrill in her stomach under control as the bland features of the queen of hearts looked up at them. A full house! It wasn’t the strongest of hands, but it certainly wasn’t the weakest. Richard folded, leaving Donnie and Carl to match her bet. With a smile bordering on a smirk, Frankie revealed her hand once the pot was accumulated.

‘Fuck it,’ Donnie muttered and threw down a straight. Carl’s three of a kind came nowhere close.

‘Frankie wins with a full house, queens full of threes,’ Rhys announced. He gathered the cards and offered them to her. ‘And your turn to deal.’

Frankie could almost hear her adrenalin humming as she took the pack. Although her hand had won on merit at the last card, she had bluffed her way through most of that hand. And by the glint of amusement in Rhys’s eyes, he knew it.

*

Tom’s arrival coincided with the dealing of the next hand. He drew up a chair and sat just behind Frankie, softly humming Kenny Rogers’
The Gambler
. Frankie peeked at her cards. Eight of diamonds and nine of diamonds. Her pulse quickened and her skin tingled with warmth. Another potentially good hand.

By the first three community cards, Frankie’s heart rate was bordering on critical. Already Carl and Richard had folded. And with a ten and a queen amongst the first four community cards both bearing the diamond stamp, she knew she was in a good position. Tom had stopped humming behind her and she wondered if his face might give her game away. She daren’t look to check. Both Rhys and Donnie raised their bets. Frankie followed suit. The fifth and final community card was turned and Frankie’s heart lurched. She concentrated on keeping her breathing steady as the desired jack of diamonds smirked back at her. There, she had it! Just about the strongest hand in poker. Frankie couldn’t remember the last time she’d drawn a straight flush.

She looked at Rhys. He was regarding her thoughtfully. Frankie raised a challenging eyebrow at him. The only thing that could beat her now was if he held a royal flush. She barely noticed when Donnie folded. She was only aware of Rhys’s eyes boring into hers as he raised the stakes. She took a deep breath and pushed all her chips forward.

‘All in,’ she announced.

A ripple of respect flowed from the folded players as they waited for Rhys’s response.

‘I’ll match that,’ he murmured. A dangerous twinkle sparked in his eyes. ‘Actually, I’ll raise that. If it’s all right with you, Donnie, I’ll stake my next first choice ride when we’re in the same race.’

Donnie shrugged.

‘Fine by me,’ he said.

For a moment, Frankie’s confidence wavered. What if he
did
have the king and ace of diamonds needed to complete a royal flush? Oh, well, it was too late to back out now. And what had she lost—a bit of pride and thirty quid?

‘I don’t have anything else to offer,’ she said. ‘I can’t very well offer you a third string ride.’

A small smile curved Rhys’s lips.

‘Consider it a bonus, being the new kid and all that.
’

Frankie’s jaw went slack. He was either the best bluffer in town or he must definitely have a royal flush. She shrugged.

‘Okay then.’ She turned over her cards. ‘A straight flush.’

Rhys’s expression flickered in doubt for the first time that evening. He looked at Frankie with an intensity that could put airport security out of work. He flipped over his cards, giving them a cursory glance before looking back at her. Frankie tore her eyes away to look at his cards. A pair of kings, which when combined with the community cards would have
given him four of a kind. No wonder he had been so confident. He must have thought she was bluffing her way through as she’d done in the previous round.

‘Ah, mate,’ Donnie said. ‘You’re screwed.’

Frankie gulped. If only her mother could see her now! She would be so proud! Frankie couldn’t contain the grin which spread across her face. Rhys leaned back in his chair, arms folded, making her wonder if he would honour his ‘bonus’ bet. Then a flicker of a smile tugged at his mouth. He withdrew his wallet from his pocket, extracted a scrap of paper and picked up a worn-down pencil already on the table. Then he began to write.

“I, Rhys Bradford, do solemnly swear to surrender my next first choice ride to Frankie Cooper...”