The Horse Thief

by Téa Cooper

  Dressed in sensible work clothes and ready for whatever the day might bring she clattered down the stairs, the solid heels of her riding boots ringing on the timber treads. Before she’d made it halfway across the courtyard Peggy’s call stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘You get back here and have some breakfast, missy. No riding without a full stomach, or a hat!’

  She skidded to a halt and retraced her steps to the kitchen. ‘Just tea, please. I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You’ll sit down and eat this and no nonsense.’ Peggy pushed a plate with a thick slice of toasted bread and a mound of egg in front of her.

  ‘I don’t have time. I want to bring the mares into the home paddock. We’re going to check them over and see who is ready.’

  ‘Oh, we are, are we? That would be you and Mr Mawgan, would it?’

  By shovelling a large mouthful of egg into her mouth India managed to hide the flush on her cheeks. She couldn’t wait to get outside. Her life had changed so much since Jim arrived. It was wonderful to have someone to work with, someone who understood and shared her interest. ‘Yes, we are. If you remember that’s why I employed Mr Mawgan.’ She wiped a piece of egg from the corner of her mouth and put down her knife and fork. Then she picked up a couple of slices of bread and slipped them into her pocket.

  ‘Mawgan! What kind of a name is that? Sounds like some Cornish smuggler. Don’t forget to take your hat with you.’

  ‘Yes, Peggy.’ India threw the words over her shoulder and rolled her eyes as she escaped into the courtyard.

  Jim lounged against the rail, his long, long legs crossed at the ankles and the inevitable piece of grass clamped between his white teeth. Jefferson and her mother’s buckskin stood side by side, saddled.

  ‘Morning, Miss Kilhampton.’ He lifted his hat a fraction and flashed a grin that instantly increased her pleasure in the day.

  ‘India, I told you.’ Unable to resist she returned his friendly smile. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘I hope I made the right decision. I thought you’d like to ride the buckskin and she was already in the stable.’

  She eyed Mama’s horse, took a deep breath and nodded. Violet was right; it was time to put the past behind her and forget her childish superstitions. This was as good a start as any. She gave Jefferson a rub on his velvety nose then ducked under the rail and untied the buckskin’s reins. Despite her best intentions, she failed to control the smirk creeping across her face. Jim had indeed saddled the horses and expected her to ride side-saddle. She glanced down at her overskirt, and pressed her lips tightly together to restrain the bubble of laughter building in her throat. She reached for the saddle.

  ‘I’ve tightened the girth,’ he said as she lifted the leather flap.

  ‘I can see that.’ She unbuckled the girth, lifted the saddle from the horse and deposited it on a pile of hay resting against the stable door.

  Jim followed her every move. She could feel his eyes on her and she smiled up at him, noticing the way his brow creased and the wary look that flickered across his face. Unable to resist she slid her fingers to her waist and unclipped her overskirt. She threw it on top of the saddle. Dressed in her divided skirt or gauchos, as Papa insisted on calling them, she vaulted onto the buckskin’s bare back.

  ‘I don’t ride side-saddle,’ she called over her shoulder as she edged the horse into a trot and made for the front of the house. Papa would throw a fit if he saw her riding astride in company, but he was in Sydney and while he was away she called the shots. Releasing a loud bellow of laughter she spurred her mother’s horse into a gallop.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Jim closed his mouth with a snap. She should barely be in control of the horse she’d taken off so fast; instead they were as one. She guided the animal without any effort down the driveway before disappearing behind the fig trees flanking the house.

  ‘Could’ve told you that.’

  He glanced at the impudent young upstart leaning against the stable door sporting a knowing grin. ‘Then why the hell didn’t you?’ He pulled himself up into the saddle and wheeled Jefferson around. ‘I expect those stables mucked out and clean by the time we get back or you’re for the high jump.’ He dug in his heels and headed down the driveway, Fred’s laughter echoing in his ears.

  To add insult to his dented ego India sat waiting under the shade of the huge trees in front of the house. She’d pushed her hat back and a smile as broad as Fred’s lit her face. Without a saddle her lithe body merged with the horse’s back and her hair blew in the breeze mirroring the buckskin’s tail. His body tightened. He’d seen women riding astride but never looking so completely at ease on their mount. Loose-fitting pants that covered the top of her polished riding boots accentuated her taut muscles.

  He reined in the prancing Jefferson beside the buckskin. ‘I’ll know next time. Sure you don’t need a saddle?’

  ‘No.’ She grinned. ‘The horses prefer to be ridden like this. My mother taught me to ride and she rarely bothered to saddle a horse. She felt it hampered the horse’s enjoyment and sense of freedom—and her own.’

  The woman … ‘It was your mother I saw riding the day I arrived.’ It wasn’t a question.

  India offered a curt nod.

  ‘I thought you said she was an invalid.’

  ‘She is.’

  Before he had time to frame his next question India took off across the paddock. She set a thundering pace, clearing the fence line with ease as she headed down towards the river flats where he’d seen the horses grazing on his arrival.

  More than happy to follow he delighted in the rhythm of her body and her unrestrained pleasure. So young Fred wanted to be a jockey—he’d have some stiff competition if India chose to race.

  As they rounded a bend in the river the herd came into view, lifting their heads and whinnying as India approached. The buckskin pranced into the shallow water sending a cascade of droplets into the air. When India dismounted the other horses clustered around, nudging and pushing, well used to her presence. She produced a handful of bread from her pocket and rewarded each in turn.

  ‘We can walk them across the paddocks.’ She lifted her arm and indicated to her right. A sudden gust of wind blew the hair from her face and her shirt against her body. Jim swallowed a gasp. Surrounded by horses in the bright sunlight—it was the perfect portrait.

  What he wouldn’t give to spend every day with her and these magnificent horses. He pulled himself up. What was he thinking? He was here for one reason only, not to lust after the daughter of the man who had ruined his family and stood between him and his future.

  ‘We should be able to walk all of the horses up to the home paddock without too much trouble. There are only a couple of gates and if you can take care of those it’ll be easy,’ she said.

  Jim dragged his attention away from her to the horses waiting in a docile group on the river flats. Pulling Jefferson around he rode alongside her and they set off at a slow pace towards the first fence line.

  ‘They’re used to being handled although we haven’t done any service work for a long time. Since I’ve been home I make a point of riding out most days and moving them from place to place, just so they don’t forget.’

  ‘This is a lot easier than I expected,’ he said after the five minutes it had taken for his blood to cool.

  Spotting the first gate Jim cantered ahead then leant over in his saddle and swung it open. India walked her buckskin through and as promised every one of the other horses followed.

  Keen to catch up Jim latched the gate. She’d dropped back, maybe waiting for him, and was ambling along behind the animals as though she had not a care and all the time in the world.

  ‘Have you got a plan?’ he asked after a few moments.

  ‘Oh yes. I have a plan. I want to try and recreate the bloodline that produced these buckskins, although they’re difficult to breed. They’re always in demand and ladies love them.’

  ‘If you’ve got the bloodlines it shouldn’t be too
difficult. Just a question of studying the studbooks and working out a pattern.’ Jim looked across at India, searching to see if his comment caused her to pay specific attention. Everything hung on the stud records—his future and Jefferson’s. The disappointment still burnt from last night when he realised the book he’d found was incomplete. Somewhere on the property there had to be more sales records and the lineage of all the horses.

  ‘I know it all inside out.’

  He chewed on his lower lip. The reason for the records ending could be because no-one had bothered with the details. He tossed the idea aside. There was no chance of that. His father had been too thorough, too committed to the importance of record keeping. He’d had it drummed into him as a child. Always write it down then there are no mistakes. ‘You must have records somewhere.’

  ‘It’s like your own family. I don’t need studbooks. What do you need to know?’

  Eight

  The flicker of annoyance grew in India’s chest. Of course there were studbooks. Papa’s record keeping was meticulous. A habit ingrained by years at sea and the nightly recording of his logs. The problem lay in the muddle of paperwork in the library. What a fool she was! She should have known any stud master worth his salt would want to see records.

  Hoping to buy some time she gave a coy laugh, the kind Violet would employ. ‘You wouldn’t forget your brother’s children, would you?’ she said.

  ‘My brother doesn’t have children. He’s too busy digging for gold.’ He screwed up his face making the lines around his eyes crinkle and sparking a dimple she hadn’t noticed before in his cheek.

  ‘My point exactly!’ she returned with a look of triumph. ‘I know every one of these animals and their sires and dams.’ She patted the buckskin. ‘This is Aura, named after my father’s first ship, because she flies like the wind. Her foal is Cirrus, after the clouds that herald rain because we had a storm the day she was born. Her sire was Papa’s horse.’

  Jim narrowed his eyes. ‘All right, all right. You’ve made your point. However, I think it would be a good idea to record the lineage, especially if you want to produce specific traits, like colour or speed.’

  She was caught between the bunyip and the billabong. If she continued down this path Jim would doubt Helligen’s credibility as a stud. If she admitted to the mess in the library she would look like an incapable woman unable to run the property. She let out a long drawn-out sigh. More than anything else she wanted to breed for speed. Colour too, but a horse of any colour could win on the racetrack. It took an animal bred for speed over a long distance to win the prize she coveted. ‘We do have records,’ she said. ‘To be honest, they’re in a bit of a state. Papa moved the office from the stable block to the library when …’ When Mama’s accident and Oliver’s death caused life to unravel. She’d admitted enough. Jim didn’t need to know the whole sordid story. Some secrets were better kept.

  ‘Brilliant!’ With a blinding smile Jim gave Jefferson his head and galloped to the next gate.

  Jim’s euphoria was an interesting response to her simple admission that they had stud records. She shook her hair back and dismissed the thought. His enthusiasm and commitment were commendable. She should be pleased she’d found someone who had the best interests of Helligen Stud at heart.

  The mob of horses rounded the bend in the driveway and made straight for Peggy’s vegetable garden. Fred appeared and swung open the rails to the holding yards. He chased the horses through but not before they’d mangled Peggy’s scarlet runner beans. India hoped they weren’t intended for tonight’s menu. ‘Thanks, Fred.’ She dismounted and handed him her reins. ‘I’ll leave you and Jim to sort this mob out. I have some paperwork to do.’ Lifting her hand in a brief wave she crossed the courtyard and headed for the kitchen and some advice.

  India dropped her hat onto the kitchen table and poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the scullery. ‘Peggy?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Peggy’s brow creased in a frown as she peered at a loose-leafed book.

  ‘What are you doing?’ She’d never seen Peggy reading anything other than the name on an envelope or the label on a bottle. Even her collection of homemade jams and preserves, her pride and joy, carried a picture of the main ingredients and a large capital ‘P’ to denote the maker.

  ‘Reading a recipe. What does it look like?’

  It looked as though Peggy couldn’t see it clearly. She couldn’t be getting any younger. Perhaps her eyesight was going.

  ‘There’s something missing. I haven’t made it for so long I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Here.’ India took the scraps of paper from Peggy’s hands. ‘Let me look. Bread and butter pudding. We haven’t had that for ages. Eggs, milk, sultanas, butter. Oh, here it is. Have you remembered three spoons of marmalade?’

  ‘That’s it. Good girl.’ Peggy bustled into her storeroom.

  ‘Are we celebrating?’ India called after her.

  ‘Not so much celebrating, just ringing the changes.’ With a deal of clattering and banging Peggy reappeared clutching a large jar decorated with a ‘P’ intertwined with a number of oranges. ‘Change is as good as a rest.’

  ‘You’re right. It is. Why don’t we all eat in the dining room tonight? It would be a nice change. Violet and I rattle around in there like a couple of old maids.’

  As India anticipated Peggy’s face broke into a huge grin. ‘Lovely. I’ll put on a clean pinny and let Mr Mawgan know, too.’

  ‘You do that. I’m heading for the library. Jim wants to see the studbooks and I have absolutely no idea where they are. Have you?’

  ‘Other than in the library, no.’ Peggy sighed and turned back to her recipe book. ‘All the books from the office are in the cupboards underneath the bookshelves. I’ve got dinner to finish. I can’t spare the time now.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go and have a look. I have a couple of hours up my sleeve before I see Mama.’

  Humming some long forgotten tune India wandered into the library. She made a quick circuit of the room, running her hand along the polished cedar of the bookshelves. Row upon row of books. When Mama and Papa bought the property they were both keen, after so many years of living aboard ship, to make a home. Both of them had a passion for books and reading and they had indulged it. Some of the leather-bound volumes contained original drawings by Sir Joseph Banks, and somewhere Papa had a set of maps said to be those of Matthew Flinders.

  She sat down at the tabletop desk and stared out of the floor to ceiling windows. Reflections of small white clouds littered the surface of the lagoon where a family of black swans cruised. Without reading any of the paperwork scattered across the surface of the desk she scooped it up, shuffled it together and made one large pile. Then she moved the chair to the other end and dusted down the tooled leather surface with her handkerchief.

  She pulled open the two desk drawers and rummaged around, finding nothing except a collection of paper and pens, old letters and receipts. Nothing resembling a stud ledger. In the back of her mind an image hovered of red leather-covered books with green reinforced corners. Large books with lined pages and columns. She ran her hand around the back of the drawer and her fingers closed on the ornate handle of a small key.

  If the ledgers were in the library the only possible place would be in one of the cupboards beneath the glassed bookshelves. Leaving the desk she paused at the fireplace to gaze at the portrait. Goodfellow—Papa’s stallion. The cornerstone of Helligen’s reputation.

  When Papa bought the property he’d searched high and low for a stallion. The sale had included the house and all the furnishings and it was already a thriving horse breeding business. The army of resident workers made the place more like a small village than an individual property. However, he wanted more. The stud master had arranged the purchase of Goodfellow and the magnificent horse became the symbol of all the Kilhamptons’ life would be. Life had a strange way of whisking away promises.

  Sitting down on the floor in front of the shelve
s she inserted the key into the lock and twisted it to the left. With a small clunk the mechanism shifted. She cupped her hand around the smooth knob and pulled. A click and the first set of double doors opened. The musty smell of aged paper and ink wafted from the rolls of neatly stacked maps and plans, most tied with red ribbons and a dob of red sealing wax. Annoyed she turned to the next cupboard. The key wouldn’t turn in the lock, and despite a deal of tugging and wrenching the doors refused to yield. Shuffling along the floor she tried the third set of doors. The key slid into place and with a flick to the left the lock released. She tugged the knobs and the doors swung open to reveal a series of books stacked in size order. With a muffled cry of delight she pulled them onto the floor.

  Stained with faded smudges of ink the cover of the largest book looked as though it had suffered water damage. She hefted it onto the desk and opened it, her heart in her mouth. Inscribed on the fly page in a neat precise hand were the words ‘Helligen Stud’ and the date below, ‘1847’.

  Wiping her damp hands down her gauchos she flexed her fingers and turned the first page.

  Goodfellow: 17 hands. Bay stallion. Black points. Storm. Buckskin mare. Black points. Offspring female …

  She turned the pages one by one until she reached the last entry. Papa’s writing sprawled across the page.

  May 16th, 1850. Goodfellow. Broken hind leg: shot …

  A scratchy flourish and a splatter of ink underscored the entry. Nothing more. One day after her mother’s accident, the day of Oliver’s death. The day she’d drawn the cover around her brother’s tiny body and tucked it tight. The last time before the angels claimed him.

  The recollections of those terrible days flooded her. The unnatural silence of the house. The whispered words. The never-ending string of men in tall hats, carrying leather medical bags, and their refusal to let her see her mother. She’d run up the stairs and flung open the door seeking solace. Mama’s corpse-like figure, tiny on the four-poster bed. Head swathed in bandages, eyes closed and only the slightest movement of her chest proving she still clung to life. Oliver in his cradle bawling his eyes out. She’d tucked the covers tightly around him and swung his cradle.