The Horse Thief (31 page)

The possibility Kilhampton may go further and accuse him of benefitting from stolen goods niggled at him. Jefferson was the product of a service by a stolen animal. If Mrs Kilhampton had sanctioned his father's actions it might have been different. When his father spirited Goodfellow away she lay half dead, unable to condone his actions. The waters were muddied by so many different versions, different perceptions. It was unlikely he would ever know the truth of the events that night. Fifteen years later and the consequences still dictated every facet of his life. What he wouldn't give for the opportunity to talk to his father one more time.

One by one the windows of the house lit up. He followed Peggy's progress—first to the dining room, then her shadow crossed the hallway and a second or two later a light flickered in the library. No doubt Kilhampton would be poring over his papers and organising everyone's lives.

A little later her shadow passed the upstairs windows and two bedrooms blossomed to life. Not Mrs Kilhampton's room, that was around the back of the house overlooking the courtyard, as was India's. Violet's room. But who else? What business was it of his?

Peggy returned to the dining room, setting the table for the evening meal, he guessed. His stomach rumbled—some of Peggy's roast beef and Yorkshire pudding wouldn't come amiss. The likelihood of him ever being an invited guest, even a tolerated one, was long gone. What of Mrs Kilhampton? Despite the conversation they'd shared and her patent joy at the return of Goodfellow she'd done nothing to support his cause, and neither had India.

Twilight spread its diffused palette across the landscape, lengthening the shadows, telling him it was time. He skirted the fig trees and took the back path to the barn where with any luck Jefferson and Goodfellow would still be stabled. If not, he'd have to cross the courtyard and run the risk of being spotted.

The wretched mopoke owl hooted an alarm as he slipped between the shadows, but it went unheeded and he edged his way to the double doors of the barn. As he reached for the latch the door swung free. He'd been off the place for two days and already Fred had returned to his slapdash ways. When he got his hands on the boy he'd tan his backside. He shook his head at his own foolishness. He wouldn't have the chance. The strange sense of responsibility he felt for the place irked him. He'd be sorry to leave. Perhaps he might have done better at the beginning walking up to the gate and announcing his arrival, and to hell with any advertisement. If he'd known Kilhampton hadn't been on the property he would have considered it. Then India wouldn't be able to level her accusations of lying. The sticky strands of the tangled web had reached out from every corner and lured him in.

It was too late now to do anything about it. His dreams of racing Jefferson were over. It would be enough simply to turn his back on Helligen and ride away. Put the past behind him and start anew.

Inside the barn, amid the warm sweet smell of hay and dung and the welcoming darkness, he breathed more easily. A sense of peace washed over him as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He gazed up at the high raked ceiling soaring above and his pulse settled to a more regular pace. The horses watched from their stalls, ears pricked, aware of the promise of change. One of the soft-eyed buckskins whinnied as he approached, putting her face forward for a rub.

The shadowy outline of Jefferson's head moved, noting his arrival, nostrils flared in welcome, and Goodfellow turned to greet him too. He reached out and offered his hand. The velvety nose touched his skin, telling him how much he'd been missed.

Jefferson backed gently away from the gate to allow him to enter the stall. When he swung the saddle onto his back he shifted a little as he always did. Jim growled in response. This was no time for games. Resorting to soothing endearments, he slipped the bridle over Jefferson's head.

‘I wasn't expecting you so soon.'

The hair on the back of his neck stood to attention. He dropped his hand and turned. ‘Mr Kilhampton!' Soothed into a false sense of security he hadn't noticed the man sitting on the bench opposite the stalls.

Kilhampton eased to his feet. Their eyes met and shoulders tensed. Like a looking glass Kilhampton's stance mirrored his own. Weary, despondent and suspicious.

‘They released you.'

‘Released?' No, not released, escaped. A cold hand squeezed his heart. He clamped his mouth shut. There would be no more lies.

‘You've come for your horse?'

‘I have.' He sensed the slightest quiver in his voice and swallowed it down. Now wasn't the time for self-recrimination.

‘I take it you will be leaving mine.' Kilhampton's words were clipped, tight with sarcasm, chasing away any hope of reconciliation.

‘I came for
my
horse. Jefferson.'

‘Not a thief like your father then?'

‘My father was not a thief.'

‘He stole
my
horse.'

‘He rescued your horse from an untimely death.'

The air crackled. As the pause lengthened Kilhampton let out a long shuddering breath and with it the overpowering stench of alcohol, enough to knock a man down.

Jim shot a look to the bench. A bottle sprawled empty on the ground, the cork thrown aside. He turned back and caught Kilhampton's momentary stagger.

‘Thomas Cobb destroyed my life.'

This time he didn't answer. It was not the time or place to indulge a drunken man's insinuations. He needed to get the hell out of the place before a band of constables arrived to drag him back to the gaol.

‘The wretched man even visited her when she was abed and gave her daily updates.'

Jim slipped the latch and led Jefferson out of the stall. The sooner he put Helligen behind him the better. He didn't want to hear any more accusations, indulge in any further exchange. His time here was over.

‘I'm talking to you, boy.' Kilhampton weaved in front of him, head lowered, fists clenched.

Boy! Jim ground his teeth together and flexed his fingers.

Anger radiated between them, a tangible presence swirling in the cosy humidity of the barn, sucking away the air.

‘My father did what he thought was best.' He wouldn't take the bait, be lured by Kilhampton's vicious tirade.

‘Took what was rightfully mine.'

That old chestnut again. How long would it go on? ‘Goodfellow is back now, where he belongs. I lay no claim to him.'

‘I'm not talking about the bloody horse.' Kilhampton swung a kick at the stall door. ‘Intolerable situation. Cuckolded in my own house by the stablehand.'

Jefferson backed away, ears pricked and the whites of his eyes brilliant orbs in the half-light. If only he could do the same. The man was mad.

‘He took my wife, took my son. Destroyed my family.' With a guttural groan Kilhampton staggered back until the backs of his knees hit the bench.

Feigning a disinterest his heartbeat belied, Jim led Jefferson back into the stall, murmuring a selection of soothing words. Whether they were for the horse or himself he had no idea.
Took his wife? His horse, yes. But his wife! Cuckolded by the stablehand. His father and Mrs Kilhampton?
Kilhampton was beyond drunk.

‘He tempted her with his ideas, wheedled his way into the very fabric of her life, until she was consumed by the desire to win. She lived and breathed nothing but the horse and a ludicrous dream of the racetrack.'

Jim exhaled. Perhaps not cuckolded in the true sense of the word. Just the ravings of a drunkard. He latched the stall gate behind him. Kilhampton sat, his head bent, clasped in his big brown hands.
She lived and breathed nothing but horses and the dream of the racetrack
. He might have been talking of his daughter, of India, with her wild dreams and passionate ideas. Ideas and dreams that matched his own. ‘My father was committed to Helligen, committed to your family. You threw him off the property, and blamed him for your misfortune.'

‘He
was
responsible for my misfortune.' Kilhampton let out a hollow laugh. ‘My stallion wasn't the only thing of mine he stole. He stole my wife. And now you turn up and try to prise my daughter away from me. Take your blasted horse and leave before it's too late.'

Kilhampton lurched to his feet, missed and sprawled face down in the dirt. Jim shook his head. There was little else he could do but leave before it became too much, before he learned something about his father he didn't want to hear, before he retaliated. Oh, but the truth tantalised him; he needed to know. Another jagged piece of the puzzle, with edges as sharp as a cutthroat razor, thrown at him and yet he must walk away.

He reached down to help Kilhampton to his feet.

Kilhampton's fist came from nowhere. Bone connected with bone. Pain exploded in his head. Through a reddened haze Jim saw Kilhampton stagger back against the barn wall, his eyes wide and staring. He shook his head and launched. Head down. A bull charging.

His weight barrelled him against the stall. A rush of air whooshed out of his mouth. Clutched in some parody of an embrace he raised his hands, fingers spread, and pushed Kilhampton off.
Just far enough. Call a halt. Stop this insanity.
Now was not the time. Nothing good could come of it.

A sharp crack. The bunched fist slammed into his jaw. A warm rush of blood filled his mouth and he spat it away. ‘Stop. This will solve nothing.'

Bathed in sweat, Kilhampton's chest heaved. ‘I should have given that to your father.' He stepped back, taunting him, egging him on. No longer drunk but tense, poised, ready to strike. He lunged again.

Wild punches rained down on him peppered with a stream of shipboard oaths. He was a fool. This was no old man. This was a seasoned fighter, survivor of a thousand dockside brawls. Jim bent over to catch his breath. He'd left it too late. Drips of his sweat soaked into the dirt floor. He couldn't fight the man. This was India's father. He turned away.

A punch slammed into his kidneys. His body screamed in pain. Sweat stung his eyes, a flash of light. Self-preservation won. He twisted, his temper red-hot at the injustice. He slammed his fist into Kilhampton's gut. The man dropped to his knees before him. Hands clutching his stomach. He returned the man's cold stare, ignoring the blood as it oozed from his lips and dribbled down his chin.

‘Enough!' Jim pulled up his shirt and mopped his face.

‘Enough.' Kilhampton groaned. He shuffled until his back rested against the wall and pulled his knees up to his chest, his breath a rasping, ragged wheeze.

Dear God! All he needed was an accusation of assault to add to escape and horse theft.

Kilhampton coughed and spat a bloody globule onto the dirt floor. ‘I'm getting too old for this.'

With a sigh Jim sank down opposite him, his legs like jellied eels, shivering in time with the pounding in his head. ‘I'll be out of your hair in a moment.'

‘Don't you want to know about your father?'

‘Some things are better left unsaid.'

‘Too many things have been left unsaid. None of this would have happened if people had spoken.'

He didn't want to hear about his father. It was bad enough to know he'd stolen Goodfellow; anything else was better left buried with him. ‘I've heard enough.' He pushed to his feet, sucking in a deep breath to test the pain spreading up from his kidneys. Jesus! The man packed a punch.

‘Sit down. Is there anything left in that bottle?' Kilhampton gestured to the upturned bottle on the ground.

‘No.'

‘Shame.'

So he could fight like a navvy and drink like one too.

‘I owe you an explanation.'

‘I don't think you do.' Another lie. It dripped off his tongue like the blood filling his mouth. Something passed down from father to son. Like Goodfellow and his long legs. Chalk it up to expediency. His head throbbed like the very devil. The pain from his kidneys filled his chest. If he'd known the man could fight he wouldn't have been so hesitant, or dropped his guard. Same things he'd done more times than he could count since he set foot on the place.

He slumped back against Jefferson's stall and closed his eyes. Just a few more moments and he'd take his horse and leave. Surely Kilhampton had finished with him now. He needed to put a good fifty miles between himself and Helligen. This would be the first place the constabulary would look.

A beam of light turned the blood behind his eyelids to red, then a cool hand on his cheek made him open his eyes. He licked at the congealed blood on his lips and tried to bring the dark, shadowy face into focus.

A damp cloth dabbed at his face and the stringent smell of neat alcohol burned an acrid path up his nostrils.

‘Rest easy. It is not so bad.'

Whose voice? A woman. Not India. Anya.

‘Oh Alexander. What have you done?'

‘Men's business. Leave it be, Laila.'

Red faded to pink, light seeped in beneath his lashes. He peeled one eye open. The sliver of light grew. Kilhampton looked like a dog's breakfast, blood across his mouth, his voice slurred. Maybe he'd defended himself a little better than he thought. Then why did he hurt so much? He sucked in a deep breath and pain knifed through him—a broken rib.

‘Look at the pair of you. Two squabbling children. Now, what has happened?'

Anya's cloth continued to dab at his face. He was better off than Kilhampton. His wife glared down at him, hands on hips, more like a fishwife than the invalid lady of Helligen. ‘You promised me there would be no more brawls, no more drinking. Your dockside manners do not belong here.'

Beneath the smeared blood Kilhampton's face flushed red and he winced. ‘And you promised you'd learned your lesson. No more mad gallops and no more contact with the Cobb family.'

At the sound of his name Jim pushed aside Anya's hand and struggled upright. Were Kilhampton's drunken accusations familiar to his wife? More than the ravings of an irate, disappointed man?