by Fiona Walker
‘I only wish you were.’ He tried to catch her eye, the predatory smile waiting, but she was quicker at ducking away from that than passing branches. Navigating the woods at full pelt had seemed the least of the problems she had to overcome to ride the Bolt, but the sheer scale of the challenge daunted her: it was impossible to cross the estate without going through acres of forestry. Duke’s Wood, where the contest started, was far darker and more closely planted than this one, the tree branches embracing low over all the paths and tracks. Even walking through it on foot was tricky.
‘So “duck lower” is your only tip?’ she said.
He climbed off Rose. ‘Hop off and hold this one a minute.’
Jumping on to Worcester, he started to canter around Kat in a big circle. ‘I’d normally have a trick saddle to do this,’ he explained, his feet out of the stirrups as he shortened the outside stirrup leather and pulled the inside one off its hook, throwing it aside. ‘But this boy’s a pretty accommodating chap. We’ve been having quite a lot of fun with this.’
Suddenly he was upside down, hanging off the saddle by one leg threaded through the far stirrup leather, still smiling as he held out his arms. ‘This is called the “death drag” – the Cossacks would use it in battle to fool the enemy into thinking they were dead. Comes in handy against the antis out hunting. Useful for riding under low-hanging branches, too.’
‘That’s amazing.’
‘Want to try?’
‘Not just yet.’ She laughed despite herself.
He pulled himself back on to the saddle, riding into the circle to jump off and reclaim the dropped stirrup, looking up at her through his lashes as he straightened, Casanova smile in place. ‘Then you need to duck lower.’
Acknowledging his point, Kat took back Worcester’s reins and let him leg her back up. ‘Where d’you learn stuff like that?’
‘I started as a small kid doing mounted games and picked more up as I went along – tent pegging in the army, hanging out of the saddle to score in polo. It’s mostly self-taught, although I learned some of the more advanced tricks like this from other riders. And, of course, the hunting field really is the best place to learn to ride through the trickiest situations.’ He remounted and rode into her sightline where he caught her unawares, with no smile and no witty one-liner. Instead he looked into her eyes with such scorching intensity that, for an embarrassingly long, stopped-clock moment, she could do nothing but look back. ‘You are extraordinarily pretty, Kat.’
She gripped Worcester’s neck-strap and kicked him into action.
‘What are you doing?’ he laughed as she flew into the woods.
‘Ducking!’
When they got back to the Eardisford stableyard, Gut was once again waiting with Sri fully tacked up and ready for Kat to ride home. Dougie’s tactics had been planned in advance: he knew that the formality of a prompt farewell worked in his favour. He needed to leave Kat wanting more and force himself to demand less. Impatient, horny and impulsive, Dougie didn’t trust himself not to overcook it.
As the little Indian groom led the two hunt horses away, Dougie watched Kat mount, admiring the shapely backside swinging into the saddle, wishing he could throw caution to the wind and offer her another drink. But he wasn’t allowed alcohol, he reminded himself. Nor must he seduce her too soon. His charm offensive might not have cut a lot of ice, but he sensed a chemistry that could melt a polar cap, and he didn’t want to let the momentum slip. He walked with her to the entrance arch. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’
‘I’ll be at the pub quiz. Russ is MC-ing. Thanks for this evening.’
‘Tell him you have a headache and come riding instead.’
‘I can’t do that! Next week, perhaps.’
Left-footed, Dougie flashed his most wolfish smile. ‘Maybe I’ll come along to the quiz.’
‘Why not? You need to be on a team to take part, but there are usually wild cards.’
Knowing he’d only show up his ignorance on most subjects – and he could hardly flirt with her in front of Badger Man – he hedged: ‘I’ll check my diary.’
As Kat hacked away, Dougie headed into the tack room to track down his satellite phone and make the call to Mumbai he knew was eagerly anticipated.
‘All going well.’
‘Is she falling for you?’
‘By her own admission, she’s all over me like a rash.’
‘This is good.’ Dollar’s deep voice purred across the continents. ‘What is your next move?’
Dougie thought about the quiz again. He liked hanging out in the pub, and he knew from the gossip he’d heard there in recent weeks that Kat’s co-habitation was a far from conventional relationship and that Russ liked to call himself ‘free range’. And he was always suspiciously close to pink-haired Mags. It would do no harm to monitor the situation, and he had twenty-four hours to mug up on his general knowledge and work out if he could cheat.
‘A master huntsman needs to use his mind,’ he told Dollar. ‘That’s my next move – a mastermind triumph. Tell me, can I Google things on this satellite phone?’
‘He’s a total show-off and a pain in the arse,’ Kat told Dawn as she padded around Lake Farm after her ache-soaking bath, adjusting buckets under leaks that were dripping through from a summer-night downpour, a towel on her head, ‘but I’ve learned more in two days than in two years with Tina. I’m galloping – really galloping.’
‘Does he want you to hang upside down from the saddle too?’
‘Only if I’m under attack from Bolsheviks and need to play dead.’
‘Better warn the wall-Russ,’ Dawn said drily. ‘What does he think?’
‘Don’t call him that. He’s cool about it.’
‘So he’s definitely not lighting joss sticks at your place any more?’ She was clearly listening to the background noise, which was three parts guitar to one part rasping alto.
‘Mm. He comes here for band practice, and he’s been using the dial-up. There’s a pub quiz in aid of the sanctuary so he’s researching questions.’
‘Such as, which Hollywood stuntman turned actor is currently trying to get into Kat’s pants?’
‘He is not going to get into my pants. We both know flirting is his default setting.’
‘Mine is disgruntlement.’ Dawn let out a resentful sigh. ‘I’m freaked out stuck in this chain with the perv from Ruislip.’
‘What perv chain? Is this another dodgy internet date?’
‘House-selling chain, Kat. The Ruislip perv is the decking-fetish man who thought Plank World was fantastic, then locked himself in my bathroom for an hour on his second viewing and came out all sweaty. Dad thought he was inspecting the hot-water tank, but after he’d gone I found he’d been through the laundry basket and all my dirty knickers were missing. It didn’t stop us accepting his offer, only now his sale has fallen through. The agent wants us to hang tough. My life revolves around shouting at conveyancing solicitors, pricing up storage and waxing bikini lines. I want to move to the countryside and gallop around with the most shaggable man in Herefordshire like you.’
‘I’m in training to ride the Bolt,’ Kat said defensively. ‘I promised Constance.’
But Dawn was hyped by house-selling stress and in need of a vent. ‘What is it with British aristos and their what-ho challenges and silly stunts? Face it, Kat, the old bird’s dead – she can hardly sue you for not doing a dare. I’ve just seen a lovely flat in Rickmansworth we could rent together.’
‘I have a life here.’
‘Donning your mob cap and bobbing at the nobility between mucking out the pigs?’
‘I don’t bob at anybody! And I like the pigs – they’re highly intelligent. They charged at Dougie when he came here, remember? They know he’s after something.’
‘It’s not him I’m worried about. He sounds good fun, and God knows you need some of that. It’s the vi-Russ you need to get out of your system.’ Dawn fell silent to listen again, then huffed. ‘I take it th
at flipping awful racket is him?’
‘It’s “Eloise”.’ Kat cocked her head away from the phone to check. ‘Damned song.’
Suddenly Dawn started to laugh. ‘“Damned song”. You’re even starting to talk posh.’
‘“Eloise” is a song by the Damned.’ Kat sighed.
Russ’s reaction to the ongoing galloping tutorials was now disconcertingly enthusiastic as he saw the advantage of a spy in the enemy camp.
‘Excellent work, Kat,’ he congratulated her, between guitar riffs, only just stopping short of adding a ‘comrade’. ‘What have you found out?’
‘That I have a natural forward seat, but tense up too much to stay balanced through the spooks, and Sri takes advantage of that by playing up.’
He gave her a long-suffering look. ‘All the sanctuary animals’ futures are at stake, and that man holds the key. Has he let anything slip?’
‘Not even his saddle.’ She told him about the ‘death drag’.
Russ looked pensive. ‘If he’s practising Cossack war moves, this could be even more serious than we fear.’
‘I don’t think he’s planning to storm the sanctuary on horseback.’
‘He’s a Trojan horse one way or another. Keep a close eye on him, Kat.’
Kat was finding it hard to do anything else when she was near Dougie Everett, but she wasn’t about to tell Russ that. As he abandoned his guitar to return to his quiz notes, she headed outside to fetch the hosepipe and haul it across to fill the bowser that was towed with the quad bike to all the fields without automatic drinking troughs.
The horses were standing in a different spot from usual, she noticed, not fly-flicking under the shade of the big oak but out in the open. The old hunter was whinnying constantly. For once, Sri was with her herd, one of which was lying down. Kat squinted across to try to work out who it was, making out the familiar big-bellied, bony-bottomed shape of Sid. Something wasn’t right. As she crossed the field to investigate, she felt her throat tighten.
His milky blind eyes were still open, but they were no longer struggling to see. Kat knelt down beside him and cradled his big head in her arms, grateful for the bliss in his dead face and the staunch support of his friends. He had slipped away peacefully among companions he had known for years, just as Constance had wanted, she knew, but it didn’t make it any less painful for Kat to say goodbye.
She felt a warm pressure on her shoulder and turned hopefully, desperate for Russ’s calm practicality right now, but it was Sri’s blue eyes that were watching her.
When she finally went back to the house, tears pouring down her face, Russ had left a note to say that he’d gone to the pub and planned to sleep in the orchard that night where he’d set up a hammock for summer star-gazing.
Kat called Miriam, trying desperately not to cry but ending up blubbering so much as she broke the news that it was several minutes before she made herself understood.
When the Brom and Lem huntsman and one of his kennel men came round to fetch Sid’s body at dusk, she was grateful for Russ’s absence, knowing he’d have kicked up a fuss and tried to bury the old horse on the farm, digging the grave himself if necessary. But Constance had wanted death to be handled in this way for her small remaining herd, sending them to the kennels after they’d met their end. That was where every Eardisford horse had gone over many centuries. Kat’s own feelings were ambivalent, but she respected Constance’s wishes. When the old grey pony had died soon after she’d moved into Lake Farm, the hunt staff had been wonderful. But the new huntsman, hired for the coming season as a replacement for his carousing predecessor, was small, weasel-eyed and wet-lipped, dropping heavy hints about a drink, eager to gossip about Dougie and the Eardisford pack. Kat was too choked to say much, struggling to hold back Sid’s old grey companion who was bellowing at the sight of his friend’s body being taken away. She was grateful when Miriam trundled up in her car, as reassuringly crisp-shirted, scented and buxom as ever, smiling retriever hanging out of the window. She had brought wine and tissues with her.
‘You poor, dear girl. Always feels like a gunshot down the windpipe when they go.’
But even Miriam had an ulterior motive, it seemed. No sooner had she mopped Kat’s tears and poured her a huge glass of white than she was quizzing her about Dougie. ‘I hear you two are hacking buddies!’
‘He’s teaching me how to gallop.’ Kat was too wrung out for more than bare truths.
‘How exciting! You must find out as much as you can about his plans for the pack and let us know – the Brom and Lems are all dying to know what’ll happen to our old Wednesday country and whether we can win it back.’
‘I really don’t think I’m the best person to find that out.’
Miriam gave her a steely look. ‘The sanctuary relies upon the goodwill of the Brom and Lem to survive, Kat. You know that. You owe it to us – and them.’
It seemed Kat was now a double agent.
Chapter 37
Dougie couldn’t stop yawning. Having stayed up very late the previous night with the copy of Pears Cyclopaedia that he’d found on the mill house’s bookshelf, then exercised horses and hounds from dawn, and spent the afternoon forging relations with several tenant farmers over buckets of tea and long reminiscences, he was struggling to remember his own name as he hurried to the Eardisford Arms quiz, let alone the capital of Venezuela.
‘Douglas, young man!’ Ageing glamour-puss Miriam hailed him to her table on the Constance Mytton-Gough Animal Sanctuary team, where Pru and Cyn were flanking Frank Bingham-Ince, a square-jawed fount of cricketing knowledge and political facts. ‘You must join in, we’re a head short, and we need a young un to help with popular music and television. I’ve called the troops for support – my son Johnny was on University Challenge, unbeatable on politics and pop – but he can’t get here till eight. Get him a drink, Frank.’
‘A Coke would be great.’ Joining them, Dougie scoured the room, delighted that he’d secured his wildcard slot on the sanctuary team. He only hoped his cribbing didn’t let him down. ‘Where’s Kat?’
‘I told her not to come, poor thing.’ Miriam sighed, beautifully plucked eyebrows straining together across the artificially smooth forehead. ‘She had a horse drop dead last night and was terribly upset.’
Dougie swung back to look at her. ‘Not the coloured mare?’
‘No, the blind bay. He was positively ancient, but we all know what it’s like. She’s terrified she’ll lose another.’ Miriam’s voice dropped to a whisper as Russ stepped up to the mic to issue a long list of rules. ‘I hope you know your onions. Russ takes no prisoners, but Frank’s hidden a cricketing miscellany in the gents, so we’re playing sport as our joker.’
Dougie managed to stick out three rounds featuring incomprehensible questions about left-wing politics, cult movies and indie music from the eighties and nineties, none of which he got right, before Miriam’s son joined the team to fire out answers about the miners’ strike and Joy Division B sides. Resigning his slot with relief and apologizing that he must check his horses, Dougie drove home in the setting evening sun via Lake Farm, where neither Kat nor Sri was in evidence.
When he got to Lush Bottom, the sun was still blazing low along the meadow from the nursery-pond end, like a flame-thrower, and he could clearly make out the silhouette of a horse and rider in it, apparently spinning around furiously then stopping, head-shaking and reversing. As he approached, he admired Kat Mason’s fabulous backside again, the buttocks tight with tension as they bounced on and off the saddle.
‘You’re positively callipygian!’ he called. It was one of the few things he remembered mugging up for the quiz with the Pears Cyclopaedia. Unfortunately, his voice made the mare jump and Kat fell off.
‘Is that Latin for a crap rider?’ she muttered.
‘Are you okay?’
‘No I’m not okay!’ she snapped. ‘I told you I’m hopeless and she knows it.’
‘She knows you’re upset.’
&
nbsp; Kat glowered at him from under her helmet peak.
‘I heard you lost a horse yesterday.’ He helped her up. ‘I’m sorry. It always hurts like hell.’ He kept hold of her hand, squeezing it reassuringly.
She nodded, clearly trying not to cry.
Stepping closer to offer a comforting shoulder, practised husky platitudes and a hint of expensive aftershave, Dougie found himself hugging thin air as she slipped her hand hurriedly from his and went to catch Sri, grazing nearby.
‘He was over thirty,’ she said, in a no-nonsense nurse’s tone. ‘He had a great innings and a dignified end. It’s his field-mate I feel sorry for, the old hunter. He’s so lost and just keeps calling.’ There was a catch in her voice, but she controlled it, throwing Sri’s reins over her head. ‘The ponies are all right, they have each other – and Sri doesn’t need anyone.’
