The Horse Thief (38 page)

‘Jim.' Step by step she made her way to the water's edge, his name a prayer on her lips, an unanswered prayer.

When she looked up Goodfellow stood alone in the shallows. He snuffled and snorted, droplets of water cascading from his mane in the dappled light. No sign of another horse. She shook her head and rammed her hat back down low over her eyes.
Dreaming. Imagining. Wishing. What nonsense!

Striding across the tussock grass she jumped down onto the patch of sand below the bank and whistled through her teeth. The old horse lifted his head and ambled over to her; she slipped the bridle over his ears and led him back onto the path. It was time to go home.

And that was when she noticed the figure beneath the spreading branches of the red gum, lolling against the trunk, a large bay horse standing untethered by his side. A tantalising shiver covered her skin with goosebumps and her breath caught in recognition.

Epilogue

November 1866

Flemington, Victoria

The horse jumped as the flag dropped. In less than four minutes the race would be over and he wasn't even close to the track.

The caller's voice crackled and died, lost as the crowd roared their excitement. Unable to bear the tension a moment longer Jim whipped off his hat, pushed the chairs aside and vaulted across the benches. He forced his way through the throng, heedless of the cries of offence heralding his mad rush. Past the women in their perfumed finery, past a gaggle of overdressed Melbournians and gossiping socialites, past the punters and the gold diggers waving their race slips, convinced their bet would come in. Didn't they know the odds against winning?

This race was a big ask. The biggest. Only a unique mix of speed, agility and strength would see the winner surge over the line. Not to mention the skill of the jockey. He must time it right; let the horse have his head for the first mile and a half, then use the whip. Any animal worthy of the win had a mind of their own—push them too early and they'd pull up short.

He weaved his way forward, apologising as he went. How could he be so stupid as to lose track of time? The race would be over before he reached the rail. Stretching onto the balls of his feet, he peered over the heads of the thousand-strong crowd lined up at the winning post. Was he heading in the right direction? No point being at the rail if he couldn't see the winner cross dead on. How he wished he'd had the foresight to make it to the stands in time.

With only seconds to spare before the two-mile handicap ended he elbowed his way through, his eyes fixed firmly on the finish line.

Craning his neck he studied the empty track. They hadn't rounded the last. Thank God! A cloud of dust billowed and the horses took the final bend, the roar from the crowd drowning out the caller's words. Where was his horse? What the hell was the jockey thinking? His bet would be down the drain. Straining his eyes to the far inside rail, he focused on the worn track. The crowd bellowed for the favourite as the blur of runners emerged. Four horses running in tandem.

There was no hope. If the horse didn't have the lead he wouldn't run on. He pushed further, clasping the rail, stretching for a better view. The pounding of hooves on the dry track hammered in his chest. The roar from the crowd drummed out all other sound.

As he gripped the rail, his fingers dug into the paint. He eased his way into the narrow space and hooked his toes into the bottom of the rail, lifting above the eager heads, above the hats and shoulders. The smell of freshly mown turf blended with warm perfume, beer and expectation.

The horses bore down fast, the leaders four abreast. As they pulled into the final straight the dust began to clear. A tantalising glimpse of grey and sapphire silks, thundercloud grey. The bay pulled forward, a head or so in front of the pack.

He gripped the rails tighter and clenched his teeth, not daring to draw breath.

‘C'mon!' He willed the stallion on. ‘C'mon!' He focused on the rhythm of the pounding hooves, saw his horse pull forward to make it a length. The whip flashed down. The horse responded, charging on, stretching beyond a length. Close enough now to see the tilt of his head. He sucked in a gasp of air, relaxed and smiled as the horse's ears pricked forward. He could do it—he had plenty to give.

The stallion surged ahead of his exhausted competition, lengthening his stride, dust streaming behind him. Muscles rippled across his burnished chest, ears flicked back. Almost level with the finish line the thunder from the approaching hooves mirrored his pounding heartbeat. The jockey sat back, gave the horse his head, no need for the whip now. He could do it. His excitement released, bubbling up into a laugh. ‘C'mon!'

A bystander turned, eager to share his enthusiasm as he stretched, leaning out over the rail, willing him on. Two lengths ahead, the sunlight rippling across the hindquarter muscles, mane and tail streaming behind him, black as a cockatoo's wing.

The jockey wielded his crop above his head in a victory salute and they stormed home, crossing the finish line three lengths ahead.

Gazing heavenward into the bright blue Melbourne sky he replaced his hat with a flourish and turned to the hill. Across the crowded expanse of spectators their gazes locked. Even at that distance he could see the sparkle of excitement in her eyes, feel the touch of her smooth skin and smell her everlasting scent of spring.

‘How's that, sir?' Fred's voice was louder than the roar from the stands, and the punters' winning shrieks filled his ears. Jefferson's hot breath covered his face.

He grinned up at his jockey, the first person at Helligen to acknowledge Jefferson's potential. ‘James.'

‘Sir James, I reckon, today. Not every day your horse wins the Melbourne Cup.' Fred slipped from the saddle and handed him the reins.

‘You take him into the winners' circle. I'll collect the winnings.'

With prize money of over two thousand guineas he'd see his stud secure for many years to come. Not to mention his bet on Jefferson. At ten to one he'd snagged a tidy twenty thousand. ‘Get back up there. Today you rode and besides, you're needed for the weigh-in. I'm not giving this one away on a legality.' He pulled a lead rope from his pocket and clipped it onto Jefferson's bridle. ‘You've done me proud.'

‘Are you sure you've got papers for that animal?'

For a second the past flashed and Jim's heart stuttered.

‘Fred Ward and those bushrangers make a habit of racing stolen thoroughbreds.'

He stared into Alexander and Laila Kilhampton's smiling faces.

‘Ask my wife about the papers, she's the manager.'

‘Not for much longer.' India ran her hand protectively over her voluminous skirts. ‘We might have to employ someone to do that job from here on in. I'll have other things on my mind.'

Historical Note

There is a rural myth that the racehorse Archer, winner of the first Melbourne Cup in 1861, walked over 500 miles to attend the inaugural race meeting. It's not true!

Records show Archer was foaled and trained by Etienne de Mestre in Braidwood in southern New South Wales and he didn't walk to the Melbourne Cup.

A sporting newspaper of the day,
Bell's Life in Sydney and Sporting Chronicle
, reported on 21 September, 1861:

And two weeks later,
Bell's Life in Victoria and Sporting Chronicle
announced:

In the nineteenth century success on the racetrack was the most efficient way to prove the strength and stamina of a horse and secure stud services, and many horses arrived at race meetings having travelled long distances.

A famous Hunter horse by the name of Young Dover was frequently ridden from Maitland to racetracks across NSW. He won many races after travelling over 100 miles in one day.

Today the Hunter Valley in NSW is regarded as one of the most important horse breeding areas in Australia, but it wasn't until the 1870s that the first Hunter horse won the Melbourne Cup. Perhaps the reason the Hunter lays claim to breeding the first winner of the Melbourne Cup is that the stories of Young Dover and Archer have melded in the minds of Hunter Valley residents over the years. In some of the more ‘historic' watering holes in the Hunter Valley, Archer is still claimed as a Hunter animal.

The Melbourne Cup—the race that stops the nation—is now run on the first Tuesday of November. In the early days it was the first Thursday, and until 1865 there was no Melbourne Cup; instead, the winner received a purse of around a thousand guineas and a gold watch.

For fiction's sake I have adopted the Hunter version of the myth. The Kilhamptons did not exist other than in my imagination, nor did their property, Helligen. It is loosely based on the historic homestead, Tocal, near Paterson in the Hunter, north of Sydney.

Acknowledgements

Writing is said to be a solitary occupation—this was not the case with
The Horse Thief
. So many people had a hand in this story and I am so grateful for their support.

First and foremost Sue Brockhoff who took my garbled pitch at the 2014 Sydney RWA Conference and believed in my story, then Romance Writers of Australia, because without that wonderful organisation there would be no conferences, no pitches and, most importantly, no critique partners.

I couldn't do without my writing buddies—Eva Scott, Ann B Harrison, Joanna Lloyd and Sarah Barrie. Thank you for reading, re-reading, fixing my dilute genes, sorting nineteenth century legalities and putting up with my incessant ramblings. I would be lost without my editor, too. Sharon Ketelaar, please accept my heartfelt thanks for your never-failing patience and vice-like grip on timelines.

I would like to acknowledge Sandra Earle, the event coordinator of Tocal Homestead. Her comprehensive behind-the-scenes tour of the beautifully preserved colonial farm buildings and their fascinating contents made
The Horse Thief
come to life. I recommend a visit if you're ever in the area.

And last but not least, Katy Clymo, thank you for the up-close-and-personal account of the finish line at Flemington.

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ISBN: 9780857992826

Title: The Horse Thief

Copyright © 2015 by Tea Cooper

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