‘This is a full-brother to Sequella?’ she said, incredulous.
‘Not exactly identical, I know. Didn’t show much of her talent on the flat either, but he’s got the breeding. I just hope he improves as he matures.’
Frankie put out her hand to stroke Ta’ Qali’s nose. With a start, he threw up his head and backed away into the security of his stable. Jack shook his head again.
‘We’ll see. I bought him out of my own pocket. I have to find him an owner before the season’s out otherwise we’re stuffed.’
Frankie shifted from one foot to the other, unsure whether she was included in this conversation anymore.
‘Sorry—stuffed?’ she prompted.
For a moment, he looked at her blankly then gestured to Ta’ Qali’s reclusive figure.
‘Well, he’s no good on the flat. If he doesn’t take to jumping then I don’t know what to do with him. Look at him, he’s not exactly going to win any showing classes nor can he be described as a reliable hack because of his nerves.’
Frankie was sure he wasn’t implying he would send the horse to the knackers, but a small ball of apprehension gathered in her stomach on Ta’ Qali’s behalf. Her belief that, like every human, every horse had a calling in life, probably wouldn’t be received with much enthusiasm so she kept quiet.
‘Next up. This is Twain, one of Billy’s lot…’
*
An hour later, Frankie finished her last stable. She removed her cap and wiped the sweat from her brow. Turning back to the horse tied to the wall, she patted the mare’s steel grey shoulder. She’d managed to muck out her other four boxes without having to resort to securing the occupant, but Blue Jean Baby was so restless Frankie had been forced to take defensive action.
‘There you go,’ she murmured, slipping off the head collar.
The mare shook her head, which quickly became a whole body shake. The shudder unbalanced her and she flung out a foreleg to stop herself falling over. Frankie shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t have to tie you up if you could just stand quietly and not knock the wheelbarrow over.’
The mare gazed at her with Bambi eyes.
‘Don’t look at me like that. Twice you knocked it over,’ Frankie reprimanded her. ‘And it took me twice as long to do your stable since you walked your crap all over the place. What sort of a lady are you?’
‘The box-walking type,’ a voice said from the stable door.
A young woman, probably only a few years older than she, smiled at Frankie. She held out her hand.
‘Hi, I’m June. You must be Frankie.’
Frankie stepped around the wheelbarrow and shook her hand.
‘Yes. Nice to meet you.’
‘I see you’re discovering the charms of Dory here,’ June grinned. ‘Walks every last dung ball into shreds then tries to help by tipping what you’ve already collected back out of the wheelbarrow.’
Frankie gave a small uncertain laugh. Had she just spent the past half hour mucking out the wrong horse?
‘Um, I thought her name was Blue Jean Baby?’
‘Yup. But it’s such a mouthful. Dory’s her stable name. We took her hurdling last season. Jumped superbly on her first two starts then completely forgot how the game was played next time out. She’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer but she’s kind.’
‘So Dory as in Finding Nemo Dory?’
‘Yeah. Word of the wise: she’s a bit excitable in her work so we usually put her on the horse-walker for twenty minutes beforehand when her box is being mucked out. That way, you kill two birds with one stone instead of her killing the both of you.’
‘Thanks, I’ll remember that.’
June winked at her.
‘And keep an eye out when she’s in the paddock. She likes taking herself off on little adventures. Doesn’t always remember the way back.’
That earlier feeling of exhilaration at caring for Aspen Valley horses was swiftly losing its appeal.
‘Crikey, she sounds high maintenance,’ she said.
The stable lass shrugged.
‘Just being a mare.’
A rise in voices outside saw Blue Jean Baby aka Dory push past Frankie to see what the fuss was about. A group of lads and lasses had gathered around a corkboard on the wall between the office and the tack room. Sheets of paper attached to the board were ruffled by a gust of damp wind and one of the lads studying it put out a hand to flatten them. Frankie turned to June questioningly.
‘The work list,’ June explained. ‘Best go see who we’ve got.’
With a quick smile, she left Frankie to finish up.
‘I wonder if I’ll be riding you, you crazy woman,’ Frankie said to Dory.
The prospect was too much for one jittery mare to take. She spun round and tipped the wheelbarrow over once more.
*
By the time Frankie had reloaded the dirty bedding and deposited it in the muck heap round the back, the corkboard was deserted. Three sheets listed a table of contents of lot numbers, work riders and horses with the occasional alteration. Written in hand down the bottom of the list was herself: Francesca Cooper. Frankie grimaced. She hated the full version of her name. Why her parents had even called her that, she didn’t know. It was so girly and besides, she’d always been called Frankie. Alongside her name in lot order were Twain, Dory, Foxtail Lily, Aztec Gold and Ta’ Qali.
‘Not liking what you see?’ a voice behind her spoke up.
Frankie didn’t have to turn around to recognise the owner of the silken tone. She ignored Rhys, aware though that her heart rate had stepped up a beat.
‘Not until I turn around,’ she replied over her shoulder.
She couldn’t be certain, but she was pretty sure Rhys almost laughed. Well, maybe laugh was too expressive a term, ‘harrumphed’.
‘Touché. What have you got?’
Frankie felt the overpowering yet completely pointless need to show off to him.
‘A Festival winner in Foxtail Lily and a full-brother to a Goodwood and Doncaster Cup winner; I think I’ve got a pretty good deal.’
Rhys stepped into her line of sight next to her and peered at the list, his brows knitted together. His collar was turned up against the drizzle, but apart from that he seemed unaware of the weather. Raindrops swept over his cheekbones into the hollows of his gaunt cheeks before riding along the hard line of his jaw and gathering at his chin to take the final plunge to earth.
‘Who’s your Cup full-brother?’ he asked, curiosity stamping out the arrogance in his voice.
‘Ta’ Qali. His sister was Sequella.’
Rhys looked at her in disbelief.
‘That thing?’ he said, pointing towards Ta’ Qali’s stable.
Frankie squared her feet and crossed her arms.
‘Yes.’ She might not have known Ta’ Qali all that long but no one, especially Rhys Bradford, was going to get away with insulting any of her charges.
Rhys threw back his head and laughed. Frankie glared at him.
‘I’m sorry but his dam must have cheated,’ he chuckled before heading over to the tack room. His walk was offset by a slight limp. ‘Good luck with your “good deals”,’ he flung over his shoulder.
Frankie bit her lip and watched him disappear through the doorway. Her heart was still thudding. It’s just because every time you’ve met him there’s been some drama or other, she told herself sternly. It’s got nothing to do with the fact that you find those black eyes so compelling or that he has features so flawlessly defined you just want to stroke them. Put those features on a nicer person, then she might be tempted, but while they belonged to Rhys Bradford? No way.
Would those unsettling looks he gives you have the same effect if the person was kinder, the voice in her head questioned? Would that delicately pouting mouth be so captivating if it wasn’t always set in that mocking smirk?
‘Oh, shut up,’ Frankie muttered. With a sigh, she concentrated once more on the corkboard. Who was he riding anyway that made him rid
icule her horses?
‘Ah, okay.’ She felt a fraction less bumptious of her defence. Rhys only had three rides this morning: Romano, a high-class handicap chaser, Virtuoso, a previous Cheltenham Gold Cup winner, and Dexter, another Festival winner. Foxtail Lily’s success in the Champion Bumper five years ago hadn’t gone down as one of racing’s most historical moments, so in comparison, yes, Frankie supposed Rhys did have a reasonable excuse for looking smug.
*
Jogging along the track aboard Twain towards the main gallop, Frankie forgot about the rain. In front of her, beside her, behind her the famous red anoraks of Aspen Valley Stables burst through the gloom.
Wait until I tell Dad about this, she marvelled. The ceaseless chatter of a dozen riders filled her ears, interrupted only by equine snorts and clarion whinnies. A thin mist draped across the hillside making the all-weather track disappear into the sky. As they neared the gate that led onto the gallop, Frankie studied the leader. Unlike the others, Rhys rode alone, silent, uncommunicative and to make him even more glaringly estranged he wore a black jacket instead of red.
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, sparkling 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.
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‘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. Frankie 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.
Chapter 5
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.
Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) Page 4
