Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2)

by Hannah Hooton

  Frankie looked at her in surprise.

  Tash baulked at everyone’s silence.

  ‘Oops, hasn’t it been announced yet?’

  Frankie stared at Pippa.

  ‘You’re pregnant?’

  Pippa squirmed.

  ‘Fourteen weeks.’

  A bubble of laughter rose in Frankie’s throat.

  ‘That’s wonderful, but…’ She looked at Jack. ‘…I thought after our trip to Southmead with Emmie that you weren’t—’

  Jack threw his hand, cross and embarrassed.

  ‘Things have changed. Baby Sam really is quite cute.’

  Frankie grinned.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered. ‘Now though, we’ve got more immediate things to think about.’

  A few cheers went up as the jockeys spilled into the ring. Rhys walked over to them in Peace Offering’s red silks, his stride long and confident. Frankie marvelled at his composure. How was he not bricking it? He greeted them all with his customary nod, although his gaze lingered a second longer on Frankie. She wished she could thank him for his brilliant ride on Ta’ Qali, for saving her job, but now wasn’t the time.

  ‘Now, remember they’ve modified the jumps since you last rode in the National,’ Jack said to him, his tone sombre. ‘Since they’ve levelled off the landing at Becher’s Brook there’s no brave man’s route any more. Everyone’s going to pile in on the inside. There are going to be fallers. Peace Offering’s not the fastest out of the blocks, as you well know, but get as close to the front as you possibly can. We don’t want a repeat of last year and get brought down.’ Jack paused, his words making them all realise this was going to be far from a walkover. ‘Just get round the first circuit, and if you get that far, ride to win if you can.’

  Rhys’s black eyes never left Jack’s as he received his instructions. He gave a brief nod of assertion. The bell for jockeys to mount rang, and the whole parade ring seemed to take in a deep breath. Pippa grasped Rhys’s hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Good luck,’ she said, as if he was being sent to war.

  Frankie’s stomach dropped to her feet when he turned to her. His face was paler than usual, his expression still and focussed, a chiselled stone sculpture. He walked away with Jack to be legged up and Frankie bit her lip.

  ‘Please God, bring him home safe.’

  *

  The tape went up and, to the roar of the crowd, the horses thundered away from the grandstand. Standing in the shelter of the owners and trainers stand, Frankie clenched her fists by her side. Rhys had Peace Offering in a handy position four or five off the rail. A fan of mud flicked up as the horses galloped over the Melling Road. They headed for the first in a line of six daunting obstacles which stretched far into the gloom. Peace Offering shortened then soared over, brushing his forelegs through the top of the spruce branches. Frankie squeezed her eyes shut. The voice of commentator, Nick Stone, filled her ears.

  ‘And we lose Voila Ici at the first. Voila Ici is a faller. The rest are over safely…’

  She opened her eyes again. Rhys and Peace Offering were about ten lengths shy of the lead, and, on the screen opposite the stand, looked calm and collected. She braced herself as the horses tackled the second. She lost Rhys in the jumble of coloured silks.

  ‘We’ve lost two more at Fence Two,’ droned the commentator. ‘It looks like Sleepy Earl has parted company with his jockey and I can’t quite see the other…’

  Frankie leaned forward, her eyes peeled on the curled up jockey on the ground. She let out a sigh of relief when she saw his yellow silks. It wasn’t Rhys. Her nails cut half-moons into her palms as the horses tackled the big open ditch. As if attached to an invisible cord, the horses streamed over, one after the other.

  Two more plain fences, each bigger than the last, followed, and just as Frankie was starting to relax into the rhythm of the race, Nick Stone announced Becher’s Brook and its skyscraper drop. She gave a silent moan. There were still thirty-seven horses left in the race, all full of running, all packed together. And barring a few safety-conscious jockeys, they were all angling for the inside line. Desperately, she checked Peace Offering’s position. He had four rows of horses in front of him. She cringed. Directly in front was Blanca Peak, renowned for his dodgy jumping. But with Becher’s fast approaching and the field bunching up, there was nowhere for Rhys to go except in Blanca Peak’s wake.

  The longshot put in a false stride and took off. Peace Offering followed. Blanca Peak landed short and nodded, his nose scraping through the turf. He scrambled a couple of strides to stay upright, but his momentum dragged him down. Frankie clutched Doug’s arm. Peace Offering landed, solid and balanced. With Blanca Peak in their path, Rhys pulled him sideways. Doug, Frankie, Pippa, Tash and Jack all leaned with him and gave a collective sigh of relief when half-stepping, half-jumping, their horse avoided the faller.

  Doug looked at Frankie and puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘Is it wrong that I’m so relieved that you are not the one out there?’ he shouted above the roar of the crowd.

  Frankie shook her head.

  ‘No. I can’t think of anything scarier.’

  *

  The field rounded the far turn and jumped Foinavon. Another faller. Not Peace Offering. Peace Offering was making ground on the leaders and now there were just three rows in front of him. Next, the Canal Turn.

  ‘Oh, I hate this one!’ Pippa cried on Frankie’s right. ‘It’s suicidal the way they jump it at that angle!’

  As if to prove her theory correct, the horses swung wide before tacking back towards the inside and streaming over the fence at a forty-five degree angle. In the lead, the fancied Irish horse, Thar Farraige, jumped fast but lost ground on the sharp turn. Another two jockeys were bounced over their horses’ heads and out of the race. Valentine’s Brook loomed, five foot high with a brook on landing wider still. Rhys and Peace Offering had cut the corner and made up ground and now galloped in an easy rhythm.

  Frankie allowed herself to breathe. They were going well. In fact, the whole field now seemed to have found a rhythm and the next three fences bore no casualties. Surprisingly, the simplest and smallest of all the Grand National fences caught out three.

  Frankie felt her fear creep back as the depleted field galloped closer to the grandstands and The Chair. The leaders soared over the canyon-like ditch, scraping through the six foot wall of spruce. Her nerves weren’t helped by Pippa’s wail of dread beside her. Rhys saw a stride and kicked Peace Offering into action. They cleared it well, looking the epitome of a seasoned steeplechaser.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ yelled Pippa as all the remaining horses landed safely. ‘That’s the biggest fence in the race and they all clear it. Yet the one before is the smallest and there are three fallers.’

  With one eye trained on the horses as they galloped past the stands, Frankie yelled back,

  ‘It’s for that precise reason. The bigger the fence, the more respect horses give it. Bigger sometimes is better.’

  ‘Amen to that!’ Tash chortled.

  The next jump was the water and Frankie gripped her father’s arm. This was the fence, where in the Becher Chase all those months ago, she and Peace Offering had come to grief. If Rhys shared her trepidation, he didn’t show it. Quietly determined, he pushed for a big effort. Peace Offering responded with gusto—too much gusto as his leap landed him dangerously steep on his forehand. He pecked, kicking up clods of turf. Frankie lurched back, inadvertently willing horse and rider to find their balance. Rhys did the same and Peace Offering found his legs again. They galloped away and onto their last lap. Frankie took a couple of measured breaths. Just one more circuit. Just fourteen more fences to jump.

  *

  By the time the field reached the Canal Turn for a second time, their numbers had been reduced to barely half. The fancied Okay Oklahoma led to Irish raiders Ficara and Thar Farraige, followed by the previous year’s winner, Faustian in compan
y with the French trained Cascadeur then Peace Offering.

  Frankie groaned as a loose horse forced Peace Offering wide around the turn. Her eye was caught by the ominous screens being erected on the landing of a fence yet to be jumped. A steward bravely stepped out and waved a chequered flag, signalling the runners to bypass the fence.

  ‘Ooh, I hate it when you see this,’ Pippa groaned. ‘Which horse is it that’s down?’

  ‘It’s for a jockey, not a horse,’ Jack said.

  ‘Thank God, that’s all right then,’ she replied.

  Frankie and Jack both gave her sidelong looks.

  Nick Stone’s voice went up a decibel as he called them over the third last fence.

  ‘And it’s Thar Farraige now who takes the lead. Okay Oklahoma is beginning to drop away. Faustian is being driven along in second with Cascadeur and Peace Offering making up the leading group. Now approaching two out—Peace Offering is down on his nose! Rhys Bradford had to sit tight there!’

  Frankie sucked in her breath until her lungs hurt. She watched in torturous excitement as Rhys gathered his mount together again and set off with the leaders in his sights. The cheers from the crowds all around deafened her. They seemed to all be Irish as they rallied with Thar Farraige over the last. Faustian plugged on wearily behind. Cascadeur jumped tired and landed awkwardly, and unshipped his rider. Peace Offering, too, was far from tidy, but Rhys kept the partnership intact.

  There were no more jumps to be tackled. They’d defied danger thirty times. Yet, it wasn’t enough. Thar Farraige and Faustian still led. They were so close. The run-in was a stamina-sapping five hundred yards long. Frankie prayed there was still time.

  ‘Go on, Rhys!’ she yelled. ‘Go on Peace Offering!’

  Her shouts were drowned out by the rest of the Aspen Valley quintet. Even Doug was bellowing himself hoarse. Thar Farraige wobbled round the Elbow, maintaining his four length lead over Faustian. Peace Offering, his neck low, his jockey moulded against him, galloped as hard as his weary legs would carry him in pursuit. Whether Faustian was slowing or Peace Offering was quickening, Frankie wasn’t sure, but the gap was closing. She darted a quick glance at the finish. Peace Offering was gaining, but with barely two hundred yards left. Time was not on their side.

  ‘Come on Peace Offering! Come on, come on, come on!’ she yelled.

  Faustian threw in the towel—he couldn’t emulate his victory from last year’s race. The Irish looked to lift the roof off Aintree’s grandstand as Thar Farraige kept stoically on. Peace Offering plugged past Faustian, his white blaze muddied and his lean body slick with sweat and rain. A new wave of sound crashed against the Irish supporters as Peace Offering, carrying the hopes of the British, edged closer and closer to the leader.

  One hundred yards to go.

  An inferno of adrenalin coursed through Frankie’s body. Peace Offering nodded his head beside Thar Farraige’s flank. She no longer had the ability to form words; all that came out was a senseless yell of support ‘Gwan! Gwan! Gwan!’ Rhys never looked up, never took the time to soak up the historicism he’d once described with such longing. He pumped his arms and legs to the rhythm of Peace Offering’s stride. Driven. Determined. They drew level with Thar Farraige.

  Twenty yards to go.

  The two horses bumped against one another, then bumped wearily apart. Each strained for the right to have their name stencilled in gold on the Grand National winners’ board. Neither gave way. Their strides synchronised, their courage equal. In a flash, they were past the finishing post. Still so absorbed in the race, Rhys didn’t stop riding for another four or five strides. Frankie sagged against her father.

  ‘Did they do it?’ she croaked.

  Doug shook his head, bewildered.

  ‘I–I don’t know. I really don’t.’

  She looked over at the rest of their party. Pippa looked traumatised, clinging to Jack, whose jacket sleeve was torn at the shoulder. By the look on their faces, they didn’t know either. She squinted down to the course where, in the drizzle, Rhys was pulling up a thankful Peace Offering. He patted the horse, but was not celebrating.

  Frankie felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. If anyone knew the result, it would be Rhys. She looked at Thar Farraige’s jockey. He wasn’t celebrating either. On the other hand, he was accepting an Irish flag from a supporter by the rails, ready to lift it high above his shoulders should he be called into the winner’s enclosure.

  The tanoy whined, prompting the crowds to quieten, then Nick Stone’s voice rang out, true and clear.

  ‘First, Number Seven, Peace Offering…’

  The rest of his sentence was lost as the grandstands erupted into cheers. Spinning hats and fluttering newspapers flew high. Down on the course, Rhys punched the air and a rare grin split his mud-spattered face. Pippa burst into tears and Frankie felt close to doing the same. Doug snatched her up in a bear hug, jostling her with his laughter.

  For the briefest of moments, Frankie wondered about the “what ifs”. What if she had been the one riding? What if she’d kept the ride? Would she now have been a Grand National-winning jockey? The first female jockey in history to win the Grand National?

  She dismissed those questions. Not only were they redundant, but something inside her told her no one other than Rhys could have ridden Peace Offering to victory like he had. Her eyes brimmed with tears at the sacrifice he had been prepared to make.

  ‘You okay, Frankie?’ Her father’s voice was hoarse.

  She nodded and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

  ‘Just feeling a bit…regretful,’ she sniffed.

  ‘Regretful that you weren’t the one riding or regretful about something else?’

  ‘Something else,’ she nodded.

  Doug pinched her chin and gave her a sad smile.

  ‘Don’t make the same mistake I did, honey. Life’s too short to bear grudges.’

  ‘I’m not bearing a grudge, Dad. It–it’s complicated.’

  Doug nodded.

  ‘Then learn to forgive. It’s the bravest thing a person can do. Don’t be a coward like me.’

  Frankie gulped. If only she had that courage.

  *

  ‘And please put your hands together for winning jockey, Rhys Bradford!’ Aintree’s chairman said into his microphone. Stood to the side of the trophy presentation circle, Frankie swelled with pride as Rhys jogged forward, shaking hands and accepting people’s congratulations as he went. Skipping up onto the podium, he shook the sponsor’s hand and accepted his prize, a heavy bronze statue of two horses jumping Canal Turn. He lifted it high above his head and everyone cheered. He blinked as camera flashes burst in his face.

  Just behind her, Frankie’s attention was caught by a television reporter doing an interview.

  ‘Alan Bradford, it’s been thirty years since your Grand National victory on Crowbar. Now your son, Rhys, has won it, how does it compare?’

  Frankie froze. She felt Doug stiffen beside her. They exchanged wary glances before turning around. Alan Bradford was holding court to a group of reporters.

  Frankie looked at him in amazement. Sure, the photo she had seen of him had been about thirty years old, and if one looked closely, there was still a suggestion of his former good looks. But a suggestion was as far as it went. Alan Bradford was enormous. Rolls of blubber packed around his neck and his stomach drooped low and heavy over his belt and braces. Taking little notice of his son receiving his prize, the man beamed at his audience.

  ‘Nothing quite compares to winning the National for yourself, I’ll be honest, but sure I’m proud of Rhys. What father wouldn’t be? Mind you, the Grand National we watched today is not the same Grand National from thirty years ago. We didn’t have all those safety precautions you have now.’

  Frankie curled her lip at him in disgust. How awful to have a father like that.

  ‘God, am I glad I’ve got you for a dad,’ she drawled.

  Doug smiled and looked smug.

  Rhys,
with Jack and Pippa behind him, stepped off the podium with his trophy. The media immediately fell upon him like vultures on a fresh kill.

  ‘Rhys!’ Alan called. ‘Rhys, over here!’

  Hearing his father’s voice, Rhys scanned the sea of heads, microphones and dictaphones. His eyes rested on Frankie for a moment before he caught sight of his father. The press, perhaps sensing the sudden tension, made a passage for him. Rhys stopped before his father, thought about it, then he walked on to Frankie and Doug. Alan Bradford’s mouth fell open. His jaw was cranked a notch wider when he saw whom he was being ignored in favour of.

  Frankie’s heart hammered in her chest as Rhys halted in front of them.

  ‘Mr Cooper, I’d like you to have this—’ He paused and swallowed. ‘—To replace the one which should’ve been yours. The one which is now standing on my father’s shelf.’

  Frankie caught her breath. The circle of reporters stopped fidgeting and talking. Like tennis spectators, they transferred their shocked gazes from Rhys to Doug then finally to Alan. Doug reached out to run his hand over the bronze-work, now dotted with raindrops. His hand trembled then he pushed the trophy back to Rhys.

  ‘No, son. You earned this. You keep it.’

  Watching Rhys, Frankie’s heart ached with joy. So this was what love was. There was no doubting it. It was undisputed. Rhys’s eyes sought redemption in hers.

  ‘I said I’d win it for you.’

  Frankie threw her arms around him and, feeling the cold press of his nose against her cheek, she kissed him.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered in his ear.

  His grip around her tightened and his familiar breath was warm on her skin.

  ‘I love you too,’ he murmured.

  The click of cameras and remembering that her father was standing right there, Frankie pulled back, suddenly self-conscious. Holding Rhys’s hand, she looked at Doug a little timidly for his reaction. A muscle jumped in Doug’s jaw. He looked like he was working very hard at controlling his emotions. At last he summoned a smile and nodded in approval. Frankie lurched out of Rhys’s embrace and flung her arms around her father and buried a kiss in his cheek.