Kingfisher Morning

by Charlotte Lamb

  Emma laughed. Mrs Pat shook her head reprovingly at him. Edie, who was still shy with him, had scuttled into the kitchen and they heard her getting down cups and banging the kettle about. Mrs Pat said a hasty goodbye and vanished to find her sister.

  'Mrs Pat would like to hear me give you a glowing testimonial,' Ross said mockingly. 'Shall I?'

  Emma walked off. Over her shoulder, as he came after her, she said coolly, 'Don't bother.'

  'Now you're offended,' he said, catching up with her.

  'Everything I've done has been done for the sake of the children,' she said calmly, 'and for your sister. I don't want anything from you, Ross.'

  'I see,' he said in an odd tone.

  'Do you? I hope you do,' she said, wondering why she felt the need, the positive need, to say all this, to make it clear to him…to make what clear, though?

  He looked down at her. She raised her eyes, brown and warm as shiny new chestnuts with the sun on them. They stared at each other for a very long time in silence. Ross's eyes were unreadable to her, but his eyes searched hers as though seeking and finding the answer to some question he did not wish her to know he was asking.

  She looked away at last. 'You think too much about ulterior motives, Ross,' she said sadly.

  'Do I? Perhaps I do,' he said.

  'Oh, I know your experiences have sometimes been unhappy in that direction, but everyone isn't made the same way. You can't always be suspicious of other people. I couldn't live like that. I couldn't bear to be so constricted, so suspicious and remote. You have to open up to life, to give people the benefit of the doubt.'

  'Is that what you're going to do?' His voice was serious and questioning. 'Are you going to risk another heartbreak, Emma? Another emotional tangle? Haven't you learnt your lesson?'

  She thrust her hands into the pockets of her yellow wool jacket, thick fisherman's knit, warm and comforting. Her chin was up. 'That's what life is about,' she said. 'Risk-taking.'

  'I remember you once said to me that you would be cautious in future. This mouse stays clear of traps, you said!'

  'I was wrong,' Emma stated flatly.

  Ross stood still, staring at her bent head and waiting until she lifted it and looked up at him. 'You are an amazing girl,' he said. 'You say that with such simplicity.'

  She was puzzled. 'What?'

  'You said that you were wrong…no qualification, no excuse…just the blunt statement of fact.' His smile was brilliant, heart-touching. 'I like that. It's a rare quality. Most people want to make excuses for themselves, even when they know they're in the wrong. They want to say yes, but…You just fling the words out without any strings attached to them, just as you walked away at once when you realised how things were between your friend and your young man. That took guts, Emma. A lot of girls would have put up a fight for him, and there would have been a lot of pain for everyone concerned then.'

  She was embarrassed. Praise to her face made her want to run away. 'Where is this stable?' she asked huskily. 'Is it much further?'

  He laughed. 'No, just up Bundle Lane.'

  'Bundle Lane?' Eagerly she questioned the name. 'What a strange name!'

  'About fifty years ago there was a house at the top of it which was owned by an old miser who bought bundles of old clothes and the usual portable objects people try to sell when they're hard up—he was a sort of pawnbroker,' Ross explained. 'When he died they found his house crammed with peculiar objects. He sold the rags to a dealer, but he often kept the china or glass, and some of the stuff was very valuable. Some of it was rubbishy, naturally. He had no relatives, so the house and all its contents were sold and the money went to the church. His will had been made years earlier, but he had been religious as a youth.'

  'What did the church do with the money, I wonder?' Emma was desperately trying to keep the conversation on impersonal subjects.

  Ross spoke calmly. 'They built a new stone wall around the churchyard…presumably to keep the old man safely inside.'

  Emma giggled, then frowned. 'That wasn't very kind. Where is the church? I haven't seen one.'

  'It really belongs to the next village. It's twelfth century, in pretty poor shape structurally, and has a congregation of about six. It shares a vicar with the Boxrey church. That's how these tiny parishes survive these days.'

  'I would like to see it,' said Emma. 'Twelfth century? That's very early.'

  'Oh, the Normans knew how to build. It's basically solid, but of course it needs repairs, and there's no money available. The church tower fund is always appealing for money. The village holds endless jumble sales, fetes and sponsored events, but the church just eats up money. All these old buildings do. Look at Queen's…' His voice cut off suddenly.

  'Queen's Daumaury?' she finished, her voice rising to a question. 'But then its owner can afford to keep it up. can't he?'

  'I suppose so,' said Ross distantly.

  They walked up Bundle Lane fast. Sheep grazed quietly on either side of them. The larks sang high overhead. The sky was a bright, clear cloudless blue. Through a belt of trees Emma caught sight of a tower, square and grey, with an embattled air. That, she guessed, was the famous church which 'ate' money.

  The stables were set back from the road, in a ramshackle house and yard, where a sturdy, fair-haired woman with a square-shaped face and spatulate hands was energetically pitchforking soiled straw from one of the looseboxes into a wooden wagon. She looked round and grinned at them.

  'Oh, there you are, Ross! You've chosen a good morning for it.' She looked along the stables and raised her voice. 'Ted! Saddle Juniper and Marcy for me.'

  A small, gnarled man darted from the end box and looked at them crossly, then set to work.

  'Ted still enjoying the job?' asked Ross.

  'He likes the horses,' said the fair woman with amusement. 'But he hates the customers. Hates putting a saddle on…If he had his way, those horses would just eat me out of house and home and never set a hoof out of the yard! He hates to see them work. I have to nag him from dawn to dusk about it. He just can't see that a working horse has to work.'

  'He's a good man with horses, though,' said Ross.

  'Oh, he knows his job,' she agreed. 'Or I wouldn't keep him.'

  'That was why I recommended him,' Ross said. 'He was a first-rate groom, worked in the best stables in the country until he began to drink.'

  'He only drinks in the evenings now,' the woman put in. 'If I caught him drinking before six o'clock, I told him, he would have to go. He knows I mean it.'

  'Good,' Ross nodded.

  Ted led out two horses, one a calm-eyed grey with odd dappling on her flanks and the other a bay with an impatient, nervous manner. Ross took the bay's bridle. 'Juniper for me, obviously. Marcy will be perfect for you, Emma.'

  'Ridden before?' asked the fair woman. 'I'm Lucy Todd, by the way, as Ross is obviously never going to introduce us.'

  'I'm Emma Leigh and I have ridden before,' she smiled.

  Ross gave a crack of laughter. 'She's the sort of creature who may well turn out to be a champion show jumper,' he said. 'She's apparently a talented artist, a first-rate cook, a wonderful children's nurse and a heroine to boot…'

  Emma gave him a furious glare. 'Oh, shut up!' She swung herself up into the saddle, gathered up the reins and moved off.

  Lucy Todd looked amused and interested. 'A heroine?' she asked Ross.

  'She saved my smallest niece from an enraged bull the other day,' he informed her with a broad smile.

  'She sounds quite a girl,' commented Lucy Todd, watching Emma's easy, relaxed yet stylish riding. 'Straight back, good hands, good seat…I think I would even trust her on Juniper.'

  'Well, I wouldn't,' said Ross firmly. 'I don't even trust myself on Juniper. He's a devil, not a horse.'

  'Why do you always choose him, then?' asked Lucy, grinning knowingly at him.

  'Because no one, not even a horse, gets the better of me,' Ross explained.

  He caught up with Emma, an
d side by side they moved off along the lane. There was a sandy bridle path through Boxrey Wood, winding a little at first, then straightening out into a downhill ride which gave them an opportunity to put on more speed.

  Juniper's superior style soon told. Emma, on her more sedate mount, came along in Ross's wake, eyeing him with a deepening sense of resentment. There was something about his back, about the tilt of his head, that shouted triumph at her. He was enjoying himself.

  He waited for her at the far end, watching her approach with a little smile on that well-cut mouth. Even at a distance she could not fail to catch the smug self-satisfaction in his eyes as they flickered over her.

  She drew rein and eyed him back resentfully.

  He grinned. 'Slow but steady does it!'

  'Pleased with yourself, aren't you?'

  Laughter filled his gaze. 'My, my, we are cross, aren't we?'

  'I feel like…like a…' Words failed her. 'Trailing along behind you like that!'

  'Like a squaw?' He was openly laughing now. It was maddening. 'Well, you could hardly ride my horse, could you? A tiny creature like you! You'd never hold him.'

  'Oh, wouldn't I? Try me!' She was blazing now.

  'Reckless girl,' he teased. 'Of course you couldn't. Your wrists aren't strong enough to hold him.'

  'Get down and let me try,' she challenged.

  His smile vanished. 'No,' he said firmly. 'Don't be absurd!' Turning Juniper, he headed back towards the stables. Emma rode behind him in silence, rigid with irritation. In the yard he slid down and turned to greet Lucy, who came out in some surprise to greet them.

  'You're back early—' she began, then broke off in astonishment as Emma, having dismounted from her quiet grey, snatched the reins from Ross's unwary hand, mounted Juniper and was off in a flash.

  'My God,' Ross ground out in incredulous alarm. 'She's mad! That demon of a horse will half kill her!' He looked at Marcy and discounted her, raced into another stall and brought out a sinewy black horse which he mounted bareback. Ted ran out cursing and protesting.

  'Ross knows what he's doing,' Lucy dismissed as Ross and the black disappeared after Emma.

  'I hope he does,' Ted growled, 'or he'll be a dead man! Dancer cannot abide a strange rider.' He shook his head ominously. 'He may ride pretty well, but he doesn't know all Dancer's wicked tricks. He's a death-trap on four legs, that horse!'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Emma was already regretting her impulsive display. Her common sense told her that Juniper had been excited by her sudden switch of mounts. Horses sensed the emotions of their riders. The big bay's shoulders heaved nervously, his ears flicked back and forth, as he headed straight for the wood. When, deciding to return and eat the humble pie Ross would undoubtedly demand of her, Emma tried to turn his head and go back, the bay flung up his head with a shrill whinny and held fiercely to his course, ignoring her hands and knees, the command of her voice.

  She tried again, with all her determination, but Juniper was immovable. He was under the trees now, his sweating coat dappled by autumn sunlight. His pace quickened, he turned off the sandy bridle path into the thicker tangle of trees and brushwood which wound deeper into the wood, the paths narrow and criss-crossed, becoming more like rabbit tracks than real paths. Birds flew up on all sides, making distinctive alarm calls. Juniper snorted and tossed his head, his muscles rippling under his glossy coat.

  She tried again to calm him, leaning forward, her hand smoothing his flanks, whispering gently, with an air meant to reassure him and bring him back to himself.

  'Good boy, Juniper…good boy…'

  He plunged and fretted, trying to dislodge her. A man-high gorse bush sent thin needles of thorns into her calves. She winced and tried to move Juniper away, but he was desperate to throw her, to rid himself of this unwanted burden, and his plunging continued.

  Suddenly she heard hooves thudding, hard and rhythmically on the sandy track, somewhere close by, and called as loudly as she could, hoping her voice would carry above the sound. She knew who it was—knew who it must be, and her heart contracted with pleasure and relief knowing that Ross was coming.

  'Ross! Ross! Over here…'

  He had heard the sounds of Juniper before she called, and had turned off in pursuit of them. Emma heard the cracking of twigs, the snapping of branches, behind her, then a great black horse appeared, with Ross barely holding him, riding bareback, his thigh almost seemingly part of the great animal, which snorted and twisted yet was held in control by that invisible power of will which the man exerted.

  Ross looked, indeed, at that moment, like an avenging fury; his dark brows drawn in a black bar above his eyes, his hair blown into wildness by the wind. He was white as he glared at her, his eyes like chips of granite, narrowed in rage.

  'My God, you don't deserve to be alive! You stupid, damnable girl! When I think what could have happened…' His teeth ground together as he swallowed the rest of the words.

  'I'm sorry, Ross.' Her voice came faint and ashamed, but she met his furious gaze, head lifted, not in defiance but with self-disgust. She had risked her own life and that of the horse when she flung off in a temper just to show Ross that she was as good a rider as he was…she had been showing off. It was indefensible.

  'I should hope you were,' he said tightly.

  He had Juniper's bridle now, his strong brown hand clenched on the leather. Juniper was quieter, calmed by Ross's very presence, aware that a new element had been called into play.

  'Get down,' Ross told her crisply.

  Emma obeyed, thankful to stand on firm ground once more, her legs somewhat shaky after her ordeal.

  Ross turned Juniper's head, began to move off.

  'Where are you going?' she called, not believing her eyes. He could not mean to abandon her here, surely?

  'You can walk back,' he snapped. 'It may well teach you a well-deserved lesson.'

  'Ross!'

  He did not even look back. Leading the bay and riding the great black horse with straight-backed ease, he disappeared towards the sandy bridle track without a word.

  'Ross!' Her voice rose angrily, sending the birds spiralling upwards again, uttering cries of irritation and alarm. 'Ross, wait for me!'

  She followed him, along the trail of broken branches, crushed leaves, trodden bracken. The scent of sap and earth rose fresh and heady around her. She saw a grey squirrel scamper up an ash tree. A crow screamed hoarsely, amused and mocking. Ross was out of sight when she gained the bridle path. She heard hoofbeats in the distance, the two horses moving at a calm trot.

  'Damn him,' Emma said softly, half amused, half furious. 'He might have waited!'

  She hurried forward, then winced, remembering the thorns which Juniper had managed to embed in her legs. Looking down, she saw several thorns still projecting from her sturdy blue jeans. The material had deflected some, no doubt, but others had pierced right through the cloth.

  She bent and pulled them out, wincing as she did so, and looking at the thorns with distaste. When she lifted her jeans and inspected her calves she found that her skin was scratched and bleeding in a number of places.

  'I won't ride Juniper again,' she told herself. 'Ross was right about him!' Then she grimaced at the thought. There was nothing as maddening as a man who was always right!

  She found her handkerchief, dabbed the blood away as best she could, then rolled down her jeans again and set off at a steady pace.

  Ross met her at the edge of the wood. He stood, hands in his pockets, watching her approach with a mocking tilt of the head. 'It's going to be a long walk home,' he said maliciously. 'Think you can make it?'

  'I'll make it,' she said flatly.

  His eyes narrowed. 'Are you limping?'

  'No,' she lied averting her gaze.

  He caught her by the shoulder to halt her, knelt and rolled back the left leg of her jeans until the red, scratched shin came into view. The cuts were bleeding again. Ross swore under his breath.

  'How
the hell did you do this? They look like razor cuts.'

  'Thorns,' she said succinctly.

  'So Juniper did throw you?' He looked up at her, his hands absently moving as he wiped the blood away with his own handkerchief. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

  'He didn't throw me,' she said. 'He just tried to—he kept plunging around near a huge gorse bush. My legs took the brunt of it.'

  'It looks painful,' he said tightly. 'I hope it is. It may teach you a lesson. I'd like to beat you!' He rolled down her jeans, stood up and stared at her broodingly. 'Now how am I to get you home? You can't walk in that condition.'

  'It isn't far,' she said. 'I'll manage.'

  He shook his head. 'No. Hang on…I've had an idea. Wait here…' He ran back along the road. In a short time he was back, riding a rather ancient bicycle. He grinned at her. 'You can sit in front.'

  'It looks very unsteady,' she said doubtfully. 'Are you sure it's roadworthy?'

  'It will save your legs,' he said. 'Come on, girl, take a chance!'

  Perched uncertainly in front of him, she shut her eyes as they freewheeled down Bundle Lane, the old machine rustily protesting at their combined weight. Air rushed past her face. Then sun warmed her skin, the wind blew back her hair against Ross's cheek. His arm held her tightly, his chest pressed against her shoulders.

  'I borrowed this from Lucy Todd,' he said close to her ear.

  'I hope you didn't tell her anything too alarming,' she said. 'It was really my fault, not Juniper's, you know. I frightened him.'

  'I told her the truth. Considering how many kinds of danger you were risking, a few thorns were a very mild punishment.' His voice was penetrating. 'You brought this on yourself.'

  'I've admitted it,' she said tautly.

  'So I should let bygones be bygones?' His tones were scathing.

  'I won't do anything so foolish again,' she said, then with a return of her fiery irritation against him she added, 'But you might try being less aggravating yourself! You have a lordly manner which is enough to make the mildest female rise in rebellion!'