Ross sighed. ‘Something wasn’t right, Danny. Maybe he hurt himself when he slipped earlier on.’
The Colonel looked sharply at him.
‘Do you think that was it, Ross?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you tell Fergusson?’
‘I’d forgotten it,’ he said truthfully. ‘Not that it would have made any difference. He wasn’t looking for answers.’
When Ross entered the ring on Woodsmoke some thirty minutes later for the jump-off against the clock, he was in no mood for taking prisoners. Thirty minutes of other people’s carefully averted eyes, thoughts of his own crumbling career and bitterness at the way events seemed to conspire against him had combined to harden his resolve to granite. Woodsmoke would jump round that course if Ross personally had to pick him up and carry him.
Old campaigner though he was, Woody was not immune to the messages being transmitted to him. He jumped as he had never jumped before. Ross was fairly early in the jumping order and the time to beat was not yet desperately tight, but Woody smashed it.
Riding with more verve than sense, Ross cut corners impossibly close, pushed on where he should have steadied and took two whole strides out on the gallop to the last fence. The crowd gasped, as with an indignant grunt, Woodsmoke flung himself at the final wall, his front legs reaching forward to clear it, and landed way out on the other side.
When Ross pulled him up, the old horse was snorting with excitement and his ears flicked to and fro in agitation. He danced from the ring, dripping with sweat, unable to settle. Ross patted his brave old neck.
‘That’s our new leader, Ross Wakelin on Mr Franklin Richmond’s Woodsmoke, with a time of thirty-five-point-oh-four seconds. That’s the time to beat, ladies and gentlemen.’ Harry Douglas obviously felt he had made enough mischief for one day. Ross felt like giving the commentary box the finger but didn’t feel it would advance his cause.
He was touched by a twinge of guilt as he dismounted and saw the trembling, heaving flanks of his mount, but the round had done more for Ross’ flagging spirits than any amount of reassuring words could have. It had done the trick where the competition was concerned, too, although that had become of secondary importance to him. Nobody came near to beating him. He won the jump-off by two clear seconds from the redoubtable Derek, with Danielle in third place.
Ross limped back to the horsebox with Peter Richmond’s excited congratulations ringing in his ears, along with the rather more reserved praise of his father. Ross’ mood was not lost on the businessman, nor had his eyes missed the hyped-up condition of his horse.
At the lorry, the Colonel greeted him with a certain coolness. ‘I daresay you feel better for that,’ he observed. ‘And I hope you’ve got it out of your system – because if you ever ride any of the horses in my yard in that way again, it will be the last time you ride for me.’ He spoke quietly, stating a fact. ‘That was beyond competitive. That was stupid!’
Ross knew the reproof was justified.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It won’t happen again.’
15
The night following the Berkshire show was one of the longest of Ross’ life.
Though both mentally and physically fatigued, neither his mind nor his body would relax. He kept going over the row with Fergusson in his head, wondering if there had been anything else he could have said, or anything he had said that he shouldn’t have. The Colonel had not exactly taken his side, but then again he hadn’t backed the Scotsman either.
Ross supposed Colonel Preston had to keep on the right side of the other owners as far as he could, as he relied on the money coming in from them to help balance his own outlay.
Damn Ginger! he thought for the thousandth time. Should he have taken her into the ring?
In his mind’s eye he saw again the children in wheelchairs with their happy, trusting faces, and knew that he couldn’t have.
Ross tossed and turned, tension keeping him wide-eyed and staring into the gloom. His left knee ached with a grinding intensity which gradually developed into a throb. It hadn’t been this bad since he’d left hospital.
The pain nagged, adding to his worry. The surgeons had hinted that it was possible there could be a chip of bone they had missed, which, should it prove troublesome, might have to be removed at a later date. Ross was becoming more and more convinced that this was the case. On some occasions it would catch him with a stab of pain sharp enough to take his breath away.
Right now, though, it was just pounding monotonously. The three-quarters-full bottle of whisky on the shelf across the room began to exercise a powerful attraction.
He ignored it successfully for four long hours, trying to force his restless mind to relax, to release the tension in his tired muscles.
It was hopeless.
In the still, dark hours of the early morning, despair began to creep in. His career was on the rocks again and it mattered even more this time than last. This time he had had a taste of the success he had been working for. He had been given good horses, wealthy backers, a second chance – and somehow he had blown it. People had been prepared to believe in him and he had let them down.
No matter that he couldn’t see how he could have played it any differently. He had failed when he had been given every chance to succeed.
He frowned in the darkness.
Was it possible he had lost his nerve? Could somebody imagine confidence to conceal a lack of courage even from themself?
Surely his final round on Woodsmoke was not that of a nervous rider? But then he had been stung into recklessness by frustration and disappointment. Maybe anybody could ride like that if the provocation was great enough – even a nerve-shattered has-been. Fergusson’s comments came back to haunt him in the darkness.
Had he lost his job – or just the ride on Black Bishop? Ross didn’t know, or particularly care if it came to that. Bishop was the horse of a lifetime and without him, prospects for the yard, in Ross’ present black mood, seemed bleak and unexciting.
As he heard the clock in the village strike three o’clock, Ross decided enough was enough. Rolling off the bed, he limped across to the bookshelf and reached for the bottle. Without giving himself time to think, he removed the cap and tossed back three long pulls, coughing slightly as its fire burned his throat.
A comforting warmth began to spread through his body. He wiped his watering eyes and regarded the remaining liquid with a longing that dismayed him.
Oblivion, albeit only temporary, was a temptation but it provided no answers. With a groan, he replaced the cap. He was within a whisker of proving Leo right. It was perhaps only his pride that saved him.
He remembered what Annie had said and laughed softly in the darkness. If she could see him now . . . Pride was no help at all at three o’clock in the morning when you couldn’t sleep.
At six o’clock he gave up the struggle, got out of bed and had a cold shower. His head and his knee were in fierce competition for his attention and he catered for both with painkillers and a scalding cup of black coffee.
Sitting in the open window with the chill morning air blowing through his thin shirt, he looked down at the yard below him. Beyond the Scotts’ cottage, the new horsebox gleamed in the sunlight. Ross regarded it wistfully, wondering what the future held.
In the yard, the horses in the outside boxes leaned over their doors, enjoying the cool air and beginning to think of breakfast. Ross scanned the familiar faces with affection, seeing not only their physical features but also, as with old friends, their characters. Idly, he wondered where Bishop was. Usually the big black was one of the first to demand his feed.
Ross watched for several minutes longer, a sense of unease growing, then shoved his feet into his boots and hurried down to the yard.
A chorus of whinnying greeted him as he headed for Bishop’s box. Just as he reached it, the horse swung his head over the half-door and glowered at him. This was normal behaviour for the young prodigy and it was with some relief that Ross took the hea
dcollar from the hook beside the door and deftly slipped it on, avoiding the snapping white teeth.
Once inside the stable, however, Ross’ fears returned. The big black was standing resting one hind leg, his back slightly hunched in discomfort, and when Ross asked him to move he did so with bad grace. With a sinking heart he gave the animal a cursory examination before turning him loose and going in search of Bill.
He found the stable manager in the cottage, drinking coffee, and imparted the bad news.
Bill favoured him with a look that wasn’t long on welcome and grunted.
‘His back, you say?’
‘Or hip.’
‘Better call Annie, I suppose, if you’re sure.’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ Ross said evenly. ‘I know an uncomfortable horse when I see one.’
The little man grunted again.
‘I suppose you’re happy now,’ he said, getting up from his chair.
‘Happy?’ Ross was astounded.
‘Lets you off the hook, doesn’t it?’
Ross blinked. The way Bill said it, you would think Ross had engineered the back problem himself, if that were possible. No matter that the horse could possibly be out of action for some while.
He shook his head in disbelief and turned away. That Bishop’s injury more or less exonerated him from blame for their non-performance the day before, had not in fact occurred to Ross until Bill had pointed it out. His only concern had been for the horse.
He had his hand on the doorknob when Bill spoke again.
‘I’ll ring Annie, then. And I’ll let the Colonel know. Fergusson may ring this morning.’
It was something, Ross supposed. He nodded. ‘Thanks. I’ll start the feeds.’
Annie arrived mid-morning, driving as usual as though she were midway through a stage of the World Rally Championships.
‘Ross! Bill!’ she boomed in greeting. ‘Where’s the lad?’
Bishop was already wearing his headcollar, and without hesitation Annie marched up, clipped the lead rope on and opened the stable door.
The black made no attempt to bite her, Ross noted wryly. He obviously knew when he’d met his match.
‘Did it at the show yesterday, did he?’ she asked. ‘Seems to have been a day for accidents. Heard anything about the lad who rides King? Chap in the pub said it was a nasty fall.’
‘I rang the hospital this morning,’ Ross said. ‘He’ll be out later today. Broken collarbone, concussion, that sort of thing. He’ll be sore for a week or two but he’ll be okay.’
Ross held Bishop while Annie began her inspection. After a few moments she looked up.
‘Found the problem,’ she announced. ‘One of you like to come back here and hold his near hind up for me?’
Ross obediently relinquished the lead rope to Bill and moved to the black’s quarters.
With no further ado Annie set to work. With Ross in position, she placed one hand on the horse’s back to re-locate the problem and then, with the heel of her palm and most of her not inconsiderable strength, she hit the animal.
Bishop staggered, nearly sending Ross flying, and flashed a warning look at his attacker.
Annie ignored him, feeling along his spine once again. ‘Once more, I think, just to be sure,’ she declared.
This time, Ross was sent flying. Bishop regained his footing and his dancing hooves came uncomfortably close, but Bill pulled him forward, away from Ross.
‘That seems to have done it,’ Annie observed with satisfaction. ‘Just a slight misalignment, pressing on a nerve. Luckily not too serious, though it could have done a lot more damage if left. Are you all right?’
Ross grinned, accepting a hefty tug up.
‘Probably the result of a slip,’ she judged, looking at the horse again. ‘Wouldn’t have thought it would have caused him that much pain but perhaps he’s a bit of a baby. Men tend to be,’ she added, with a sideways look. ‘Rest him for a couple of days. Some heat treatment wouldn’t hurt, then plenty of lungeing to build the muscles up. Barring accidents, I see no reason why it should happen again.’
Bishop did indeed look happier already.
‘Beer?’ Ross suggested, as they left the stable. Then, with a gleam in his eye, ‘Or is it too early for you?’
‘It’s never too early, Ross, you know that.’
While they were quenching their thirst, the Colonel called into the yard on his way out for the day. He came to enquire after Bishop and as he left, told Ross he would see him as usual that evening. He was naturally pleased that Bishop’s setback appeared to be only temporary but gave no hint of his disposition towards Ross.
Annie left soon after. She leaned out of the Land-Rover window as Ross stood by to see her off.
‘Trouble?’ she asked, meaning the Colonel.
Ross shrugged. He wasn’t sure.
‘You look after yourself, kid. You look awful.’
‘Thanks,’ he said ironically. ‘You’re a great morale booster.’ He paused, looking behind him.
Bill was nowhere to be seen.
‘Are you going to make me an improper suggestion?’ Annie asked, intrigued.
‘Would it do me any good?’ Ross quizzed her, smiling.
‘Not in the least. Handsome men are always bastards in love. And besides,’ she added, eyes twinkling, ‘I make it a rule never to get involved with men who are smaller than me!’
Ross eyed her six-foot-tall, beefy frame and laughed with her. ‘Actually, it’s Ginger I wanted to ask you about. I believe you had her for a while?’
‘Yes, two winters ago. Fergusson put her in foal when she was throwing up a couple of splints.’
Ross raised his eyebrows.
‘Well, no, not Fergusson himself – it was a thoroughbred stallion as I recall. Though I wouldn’t put it past him, bloody man!’ she added as an afterthought.
‘And she lost it?’
‘Yes. Look, I don’t know why I’m telling you this if you already know . . .’
‘What exactly happened?’
‘Some hooligans with a box of firecrackers,’ Annie said, remembering with disgust. ‘Got a kick out of seeing the horses run, I suppose. They’d have got more than a kick out of me if I’d caught them at it, I can tell you! I had two mares in foal out together. Sherry dropped hers early but it survived. Ginger wasn’t so far on and she miscarried. Poor old girl, she was in a terrible state. She wasn’t lame by that time, so we abandoned the idea of breeding from her and Fergusson put her back in training. Bloody shame! She’s a sweet mare. Would have made a super brood mare. Anything else I can tell you?’
‘No. Thanks, I think you’ve told me exactly what I wanted to know.’
‘Problems?’ she asked, eyebrows raised.
‘I’m not sure. She does seem to have a rather extreme reaction to loud noises, and I wondered why. And she’s a little moody.’
Annie laughed. ‘Mare’s privilege,’ she asserted. ‘But I’m not surprised about the noises. That was quite a trauma she suffered. She’ll probably get over it, given time.’
‘Sure. Well, thanks anyway.’
‘Glad to be of service.’
Annie put out a hand to touch his arm briefly. ‘Roger told me about your dog, Ross – I’m so sorry. It’s a damned shame. I hope he pulls through for you.’
Ross nodded. ‘Thanks. He’s in good hands.’
Annie withdrew her hand briskly, the fleeting softness smothered, and started the Land-Rover engine.
She winked at Ross. ‘’Bye then, lover boy. And, hey, take care of yourself, okay?’
He laughed and waved a dismissive hand.
Being a Monday, the yard was deserted in the afternoon. Even Bill had gone off somewhere in the Land-Rover and Ross decided it was a good time to tackle his two difficult pupils.
He began with the new horse, Trooper Joe. The brown horse had settled in quickly and was proving to be quite a character. He was a likeable rogue though and, Ross suspected, highly intelligent.
He worked quite happily in the schooling area until Ross started to apply stronger leg aids to ask him to bend. As soon as Joey felt his rider’s leg move back he scuttled crabwise for the nearest fence and it was only Ross’ quick reactions that saved his knee from being ground against the woodwork. He tried once more, with a similar result. Joey didn’t get uptight about it; it was just a technique he had developed for getting his own way. Ross decided that at some time, somebody had probably used spurs roughly on the horse and he had never forgotten.
Sorting out problem animals had been Ross’ business in the States and he enjoyed the challenge. From the tackroom he fetched an old driving bridle and fitted it over Joey’s existing bridle, adjusted it so the blinkers were in the right position and stepped back into the saddle.
The horse seemed untroubled by these new attachments. Ross applied his leg hard, just behind the girth. Joey took one step sideways and then paused, unsure. His vision restricted to the front, he could no longer tell where the fence was exactly.
Seizing the moment, Ross urged the horse forward. He repeated the exercise several times and when Joey tried to turn his head to locate the fence, Ross kept him straight. He popped him over the only jump that was standing in the arena at that time, parallel bars at about three foot six, which he jumped with no hesitation and some style.
After half an hour, Ross judged he had had enough and dismounted with a feeling of achievement. It would probably be many weeks before he could dispense with the blinkers but from the feel of the horse over a jump, the wait would be worth it.
A few spots of rain were falling as Ross led Ginger from her box, and the sky promised more. He rode into the school with little optimism. The only way he could see of reducing the mare’s fear of loud noises was by letting her grow used to them gradually. The thing was, it would take weeks, possibly months, and he couldn’t see Fergusson allowing him the time. The thought that it might already be too late he pushed resolutely away. He had to keep the ride on Bishop.
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