Once he’d finished, adding the scent of crushed apple to the heady cocktail of horse breath and paddock, she slipped the bridle on, noting how willingly he accepted the bit, dipping his head slightly to make it easier for her to slip the leather straps over his ears.
This horse had been well handled in his short life. She did up the throatlatch and turned to lift the saddle blanket up and smooth it onto his back. She could hear Nicholas breathing on the other side of the yard fence, but so far he hadn’t said a word — no encouragement, advice or offers of assistance. She liked that he was there, but not interfering.
She lifted the saddle from the fence and swung it up onto Mountain Lion’s back. He shifted his feet and blew through his nostrils at the change of routine, but otherwise remained accepting. She ducked her head down, felt under his belly and grabbed the girth that was dangling on the far side.
Everything was odd and yet familiar. How many times had she slipped a bit between a horse’s teeth? How many times had she felt for the dangling girth before tightening it? These were the movements her body knew so well. She might walk slowly and swing her cane tentatively, grope for her food and feel her way along a wall, but faced with a horse, a bridle and a saddle, she was home.
She measured the stirrups beneath her arms and adjusted them to her own length. Breathe, she told herself, you’re almost there. She moved to Mountain Lion’s shoulder, took the stirrup in her hand, inserted her foot and swung up into the saddle. She leaned forwards and rubbed Mountain Lion’s ears as she felt him starting to tense up.
‘Open the gate,’ she instructed Nicholas.
‘Take him around the yard a few times, and we’ll see.’
She sat where she was. ‘Do you know that a horse can canter around a yard, break into a gallop and leap the fence? A good horse,’ she added. ‘A great one, like Mountain Lion.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas.
‘Want to find out?’ She wasn’t at all sure that even Mountain Lion could do that, and certainly not without risk of injury, probably to both of them. She smiled down sweetly to where she thought Nicholas probably was. ‘Open the gate and we will walk sedately down the paddock, then canter back. I promise.’
‘And I should trust you?’
‘Yes.’ She grinned. Once she was back on the ground, life would be grey, but just now she was Lu Borgino once again. ‘But only if I give you my word. I never break my word.’ Mountain Lion was starting to shift from hoof to hoof and swish his tail as he became impatient to leave the yard. Her rising excitement and his amplified each other.
Silence from Nicholas as he evaluated her, Mountain Lion and what Flinty McAlpine would say if he got her horse lamed. Lu also evaluated what Flinty McAlpine would say to Joe if she damaged her horse. Of course it would be nothing compared to the guilt she would feel if she hurt this lovely animal.
She might not obey Nicholas Brewster or Matron. But she would never harm this horse.
‘Describe where we are. I need to know what this paddock is like,’ she ordered.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ She grinned again, imagining Nicholas saluting. ‘Matilda used this paddock as a training run when Drinkwater still bred horses. There’s the remnants of a dirt training track around it. I walked it yesterday afternoon and cleared away any branches and smoothed out some holes. Let him walk down to the track — it’s about a hundred metres down the slope from the yard towards the river. You should be able to hear the river and you’ll definitely feel the change of surface as he walks off the grass onto the dirt track. Turn him to the right and let him start trotting, and gradually build up speed once you’re comfortable. Once you feel he is bowling along smoothly, give him his head and let him canter around it, and he should be okay. You should both be okay.’
‘And you were going to tell me all this when?’
He laughed. ‘When you had plodded around the yard for an hour and calmed him down.’
Mountain Lion was no longer calm. Neither was she. He wasn’t going to canter sedately either. Possibly she couldn’t stop him, even if she wanted to. Certainly she wasn’t going to try. But neither would she push him.
‘Okay, boy,’ she whispered, bending close. ‘Let’s just get down the paddock to the track in one piece and then I’ll take you for a spin.’
He skittered sideways, but then, to her surprise, began to walk almost sedately. Nicholas swung the gate open and stood back as they left the safety and confinement of the yard. Mountain Lion was up on his toes and starting to snort and swish his tail, but he was walking. A gentleman then, making sure she could stay on. She tapped his neck to urge him to a little speed. He responded immediately. She rubbed her hand along his neck as he started to shake his head and she felt him switch his awareness back to her.
She heard the water in the river at the same time as the sound of Mountain Lion’s legs rustling through the dry summer grass disappeared. They must have reached the training track. She gathered the reins in her hand, swung Mountain Lion’s head to the right and leaned forwards as he began to trot — a lovely, long-striding elastic trot — then he changed rhythm and slipped into a rolling canter.
More, she thought, instinctively bending low, and felt him respond at once. He changed his posture again, flattening and reaching his whole frame out in a gallop.
They called it galloping, those who watched. It wasn’t. Nor was it flying. It was the merging of horse and rider, body and wind. It was laughing at the ground that tried to slow them down. It was the entire universe, the thud of hooves, the bellows of breath, the play of muscles. She felt him arc to the right as they rounded the first long bend. She crouched over his neck, closer now, the least possible wind resistance or movement to unbalance his stride. Faster, and faster still . . . she could have laughed aloud. Was laughing, in the way that mattered now, and so was he . . .
Another curve, another straight, and curve again . . .
She pulled him up slowly, but Mountain Lion was already stopping anyway. He stood breathing heavily. She was out of breath as well. And now she realised she wasn’t at all sure where she had pulled up or where the yard and Nicholas were.
Her whole body would ache tonight, tomorrow: she was desperately out of condition. And this wonderful, glorious horse was too. He had a long way to go to be ready to race — but she knew how to teach him. Some of the lessons, at least.
She sat straight in the saddle, turning her head to try to hear where she might be. Then she swung her leg over his rump, slid off and leaned into his hot, damp neck, breathing in long slow breaths of horse. She patted his neck. ‘You’re king. You know that, don’t you?’
The giant horse tossed his head in agreement.
Click, click, click. She turned her head as Nicholas approached.
‘You promised.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I meant it when I said I don’t break my word. But this . . .’ She tried to find the words. ‘He needed to gallop. I’m not even sure I could have stopped him . . .’
‘And didn’t try.’
‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to pick a fight I couldn’t win. And it was the right thing to do. Truly.’ Because, somehow, it was more important that Mountain Lion trusted her than that Nicholas did. If Mountain Lion came to Joe’s to be trained, then . . . She stopped.
Flinty McAlpine had never sent any of her horses to Joe. And she was not going to be at Joe’s, even if Mountain Lion was there . . .
It was as if the clouds vanished and a sun blazed through her entire body. She could be there. Because today she had not just ridden a horse, but evaluated every stride, every change of pace and attitude, the potential and what was needed to achieve it.
No, she would never ride as a professional jockey. To ride in a race meant being able to see other horses, other riders, to guide your horse so they need only stare ahead at the winning post. But she could be a work rider, the best work rider in the world, evaluating horses in their training runs. You did not need eyesight to communicate with a horse
like this.
She could train a horse. With help.
She leaned against the heaving wet horse, still trying to find her breath. He stood very still, this massive, half-trained animal, letting her rest against him. Oh, yes, they could work together. And he would win for her. She had felt that, not just in the speed but in the sheer joy of beating the wind. King of the mountain, like his great-great-grandsire. King of the racetrack too, not just because he wanted to beat other horses — many horses wanted that — but because he could form a trusting relationship with a rider.
Now all she had to do was convince Flinty McAlpine to send Mountain Lion to Joe’s. Then convince Joe to let her ride him, condition him and help train him.
And, yes, learn braille and all those other things Ms Sampson-Lee had been pressing on her, because training was work, office work as well as horse work. She’d need to know how to dress well without being able to see how to even put on lipstick too, and how to judge exactly the right angle for a hat. Mum always said owners judged a training stable as much by hats as by past form . . .
The days ahead were too full, instead of too empty.
She turned to where she had last heard a click from Nicholas. ‘I need to brush him down. What are you feeding him? He’s going to need some supplements. I need to check his feet too. Do you have —’
Mountain Lion bumped her again, sniffing her pockets, looking for more apples. She stroked him, her questions coming almost as falcon-fast as she had ridden, demanding answers of Nicholas.
The fire was almost content. An inconstant breeze to keep it alive, and spreading slowly each time the wind changed so its fire front grew wider. A patient fire. There was enough fuel to keep it alive now. And soon the real wind would come.
Chapter 18
JED
Constable Ryan sat at the Dribble kitchen table. On telly, plain-clothed detectives were taken to the living room, but Constable Ryan wore a uniform, like his father before him. And, like his dad, the people of Gibber’s Creek automatically led Constable Ryan to the kitchen for a cuppa: tea, two sugars and a biscuit if you had it, though those in the know knew Constable Ryan the younger couldn’t resist a ginger roll.
He held his pen loosely, his notebook open on the table in front, Sam and Michael on either side of him. Scarlett sat next to Jed. Sam had decided Michael needed to be here for this particular conversation. Nancy would have come too, if the twins hadn’t caught a bug at school and started vomiting over every surface as soon as it had been cleaned of the previous outflow.
Jed glanced at the notebook. Two sentences scribbled on it, impossible to read.
‘He didn’t raise his hand to you last week?’
‘No,’ said Jed. ‘He . . . he tried to brush past me into the house.’ It seemed a tiny misdemeanour, said like that, a man trying to come inside out of the heat.
‘He explicitly tried to blackmail you?’
‘Yes. I . . . I think. He said he’d tell people . . .’
‘Did he ask for money?’
‘Not in so many words. He just called me rich.’
Which you are, said Constable Ryan’s glance — or closer than most anyway.
‘Okay, let’s go back to the past. I’m sorry if this is painful for you.’
Sam gripped her hand under the table. Scarlett held the other so tight she could feel her sister’s fingernails. Purple fingernails! What had Scarlett been thinking . . .?
No point trying to keep her history tucked in that mental cupboard any longer. ‘What do you need to know about the past?’ Jed was glad her voice was steady.
‘We know the basics,’ said Constable Ryan gently. ‘So no need to go through those again.’
‘You believe me about them? That he really did —’
‘I believe you. As a matter of fact, the magistrate at your trial believed you too. I’ve read the court records.’
‘What?’ Jed looked at him incredulously. ‘But the magistrate sent me to the reform home! I have a police record.’
‘Of course you don’t.’ Constable Ryan looked at her patiently. ‘Who told you that twaddle?’
Jed was silent. The brother of a girl she had escaped with. A petty crim, who probably used the threat as a way to stop her going to the police about his own activities.
‘You were under sixteen.’ The constable’s voice was kind. ‘The magistrate didn’t have much choice. There weren’t any supporting parents’ benefits back then. He couldn’t very well send you back to your stepmother’s to be assaulted again — and she clearly didn’t want you there.’
‘So they put me in prison!’
‘It wasn’t as bad as all that,’ said Constable Ryan.
‘Have you ever been to one of those places?’ asked Jed evenly.
Constable Ryan shook his head.
‘They’re bad. And they’d have taken my baby away from me.’
Which you wouldn’t have been able to support. Constable Ryan didn’t even have to say the words. ‘I really meant, how did this Merv character behave back then? Apart from the . . . the incident you reported, did he ever strike you?’
‘He slapped me about a few times, when Debbie told him I needed a thrashing if I’d been rude to her, or took money from her purse for school stuff. Mostly blows on my back or front where the bruises wouldn’t show. He held my upper arms for an hour once so I couldn’t move. He and Debbie thought that was funny. He punched me in the stomach over and over when he heard I was pregnant. That was . . . bad.’ Impossible to stop the trembling now.
‘Would you like to stop for a bit? Have another cup of tea?’ Constable Ryan was truly concerned for her; she could see that.
‘No. I’d just like to get this over with.’
‘Why did he punch you? Was he drunk?’
‘No. He said it would get rid of the baby. He . . . he enjoyed doing it.’
‘I’ll kill him,’ said Sam softly.
Constable Ryan glanced at him. ‘I didn’t hear that. And I don’t want to ever hear it. Did he hit your stepmother too?’
‘A couple of times. Just slaps though . . .’
‘It’s never “just slaps”,’ said Michael. His face was white with anger.
Constable Ryan held up his hand. ‘All right, I’m not arguing with you. But we’re talking about things that aren’t really police matters. What goes on between a man and his wife and kids in their own home — it’s only a police matter if someone is badly hurt and they make a formal complaint. Sounds to me as if this Merv was more into frightening than actually doing harm.’
‘Yes,’ said Jed slowly.
‘Which is what he is trying to do now?’
She nodded.
Constable Ryan closed the notebook. ‘There’s not much we can do, love,’ he said, so kindly that neither Jed nor Scarlett bothered to resent the ‘love’. ‘He hasn’t committed a crime. Not here, and none elsewhere that anyone can prove.’ Constable Ryan looked at Michael. ‘Best thing to do might just be to have a word with people unofficially.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ said Michael tightly.
‘Spread the word. No one is to give him a job. Ignore him if he tries to have a chat at the pub. Look the other way if he tries to get a meal at the Blue Belle. That kind of thing.’
‘Leafsong will do that,’ said Scarlett. ‘And I’ll have a word with the girls at the supermarket.’
‘I don’t want everyone to know . . .’ began Jed.
‘All they need to know is that he’s an oily, vicious gutter snake and we need him gone,’ said Scarlett.
Sam said nothing, his face whiter than Michael’s.
‘Pretend you don’t see him,’ said Constable Ryan, standing to show this was nearly over. ‘Ring us every time you do see him so we have a record. And don’t be alone for the next few weeks.’ He glanced at The Bulge. ‘Which is probably a good idea in any case.’
‘I’ll be with her,’ said Scarlett. ‘If that louse tries to come inside again, I’ll let you know at once
.’
Constable Ryan glanced at Sam.
Sam shrugged. ‘If that’s all you can do . . .’ he said quietly.
Michael stood and laid a warm hand on Jed’s shoulder. ‘There are going to be a lot of people looking out for you. He’s going to realise there’s nothing here for him pretty quickly. I bet he won’t come back either.’
Jed listened as he showed Constable Ryan to the door. Scarlett took the teapot and emptied it into the chooks’ bin, then began to make a fresh pot. Sam stayed next to Jed, his hand still in hers.
Sam understood, thought Jed. She suspected Constable Ryan did too. There’d been a hint of angry helplessness about him, despite his reassuring words. Merv might give up now — for a while. But he had tasted power over her once, seen her hurt and gloried in it.
‘If he touches you or our baby, I will kill him,’ whispered Sam again.
‘Sshh. I know.’ Jed hoped Scarlett hadn’t heard. She had never known that Sam, sweet, gentle Sam, could feel like that. Had never known that she could either. Nor was it a comfort but an almost-agony.
This was what Merv had done to them already. Taken their ideals of peace and kindness to others and shown them to be hollow. Twisted a time that should be all about love and let the oil of hate drip through it.
‘I’ll cook dinner,’ said Scarlett. ‘Are you staying?’ she asked Michael as he came back in.
‘I’d love to. But I’d better go back to the madhouse and help hold buckets.’ He glanced at Jed. ‘If I touch the crockery, you might catch the bug too.’
‘Thanks for being here,’ said Jed quietly.
‘My pleasure. Especially to escape a house of vomiting eight-year-olds,’ he added lightly. He blew her a distant kiss. ‘Look after her,’ he said to Scarlett and Sam.
‘I can look after myself.’
‘Okay, you look after yourself too then. We’ll all look after you. And don’t worry. Merv might have got away with stuff up in Brisbane where no one wanted to look at other people’s lives too closely. But in Gibber’s Creek we know when our neighbours sneeze. Or upchuck into a bucket. If I’m not home soon, Nancy will probably stuff my head in one. See you tomorrow — assuming I’m not heaving into a bucket by then too.’
Facing the Flame Page 10
