Hard Choices

by Ashe Barker

  Ashley’s the next to regroup, sufficiently to whisper, “How much? How much can’t Freya fritter away?”

  Summer looks distinctly uncomfortable now. She looks stricken, in fact. “Didn’t they know? I assumed you’d have told them. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  I shake my head. “I was going to tell Nick, but never got the chance.” I turn to him now. “I’m sorry. I can explain.”

  His face might have been carved from solid ice. I’ve never seen him so angry, so shocked, so absolutely and every inch the Dom. His retribution is going to be dire. I cringe. Never a coward, and with a healthy enthusiasm for a decent whipping, I have no illusions about the unpleasant nature of what’s coming my way very, very soon.

  Sure enough, Nick turns to the rest of the people gathered at the table and speaks into the stunned silence. “Please excuse us. Clearly Freya and I have much to discuss.” Then he turns to me. “You’ll get your chance to explain, and it had better be fucking good. Upstairs. Now!”

  I knew my part in the meeting would end like this, so I nod briefly and stand. I turn back to Eva. “I won’t be returning to the meeting. But my offer is a serious one. Summer can provide more details, and I’ll let you have contact details for my bank as soon as possible.” As I leave the table to follow Nick towards the door, I hear Nathan Darke’s voice behind me.

  “Thank you for your kind offer, Miss Stone. We would definitely like to discuss it further with you, but clearly matters are not straightforward just now. Perhaps you could confirm, at your convenience, if you still wish to go ahead. And, Nick, I appreciate the situation and have no wish to interfere, but please remember that this is my family home.”

  My feet feel to be made of lead as I follow Nick upstairs. He opens the door to our room and gestures me through, courteous as ever.

  The door slams shut behind us, no doubt aided by Nick’s boot. Much more of that and Nathan’ll be up here insisting we treat his family home with more respect. Pity the same protection doesn’t extend to his guests. Well, not all of them. I stand in the middle of the room, rooted to the spot as Nick paces around me. For long moments he says nothing, just glares at me with undisguised disappointment and contempt. I’m not sure which mortifies me the most, though it’s probably his disappointment.

  At last, “So, you never had the chance? Never once, in all these weeks we’ve been together now, not one chance? Why don’t I believe you, Freya?” He stands still at last, his slate-grey gaze as hard as granite now, and as unyielding.

  I don’t answer. Instead I just stand there, perfectly still, pinned in place by his sharp, angry eyes.

  He repeats his question, “Why, Freya? Why don’t I believe you?”

  Still no response from me, so he fills in the blanks himself, “Because it’s not fucking true, that’s why. You’ve had chance after chance. You could have told me at any time. So why the fuck didn’t you?”

  He waits, and I just frame the only words I can think of right now, “I’m sorry.”

  It doesn’t help. If anything my apology inflames him more. “I know you’re fucking sorry. I don’t doubt that for a moment. Sorry I ever had to find out. And I don’t suppose I would have found out even now if you hadn’t taken it into your head to play the Lady Bountiful downstairs. Is this another of your rich kid tricks? The little millionaire wanting to buy herself a new toy. You tried to buy yourself a Dom once. Is it a wind farm you fancy now then?”

  That stings. I’m deadly serious about the wind farm, just as I was serious about paying for my submissive training. “It wasn’t like that at all. I genuinely want to invest in this. I told you that, that night we went to the Kirkstone Inn.”

  His expression now is one of utter incredulity. “What? When did you ever tell me you wanted to buy shares in a wind farm?”

  He whirls away, and for one moment I’m sure he’s about to punch a hole in the door. That will bring Nathan Darke running. Instead he spins on his heel again, headed back towards me. Instinctively I step back. He stops, and now he’s glaring at me, his fury bristling from every pore.

  “Don’t you cringe and back away from me, Freya. I’ve never laid a hand on you in anger, and I won’t now. Instead, I’ll settle for a simple explanation for why you kept all this to yourself. It’s not as though I’d have minded. It wouldn’t have made any fucking difference to us, to anything. So why all the secrecy? The deception? What was all that for?”

  And there he has me. I really have no answer to that. At first, it was simple enough. ‘By the way, did I mention that I’ve got forty two million pounds in the bank?’ That’s just not something I’d say to a virtual stranger, despite our intimacy from the word go. Then, as the days and weeks marched on, it just became harder and harder until by the time we were living together properly in Cartmel it had become completely impossible. And untenable. I try to sign all that, desperate to make him understand. I’ve hardly started before my phone trills in my pocket. I ignore it, and concentrate on piecing together some sort of credible explanation.

  I fail miserably. He’s not buying any of it. “None of this makes sense, Freya. Even before the meeting today you could have said something. Or you could have texted me, emailed, anything. Why dump it on me in public like that?”

  My phone trills again. Again I ignore it. “I never meant it to happen that way. I was going to tell you yesterday but you got called away.”

  My phone’s off again. This time I pull it out and turn off the ringer.

  “Bollocks! You could have told me at any time. There was never any need to leave it till the last minute… And turn that fucking thing off, will you, if you’re not going to answer it?”

  My phone is whirring away insistently in my pocket. Someone seems keen to contact me. I pull it out again, and this time tap in my unlock code to bring up my home screen. Eight missed calls in the last fifteen minutes, and twelve texts. All from Malcolm Paterson. Pat. A chill ripples down my spine as I tap on the first text.

  Queenie fell at Thirsk. Broken front fetlock. Course vet recommends humane destruction at the track. Instructions please.

  I gasp, aware of the blood rushing from my head. I feel dizzy, slump to the carpet. I drop my phone, my hands clasped helplessly over my face. My horse. My lovely, lovely horse. No. No, it can’t be happening. Maybe it’s already happened. I grab for my phone, frantically punching at the other texts to find out what else Pat’s been trying to tell me. I’m dimly aware of Nick’s voice somewhere above me, concerned now rather than angry, asking me what’s happened.

  My eyes are locked onto my phone, the texts scrolling across the tiny screen.

  Freya, please reply.

  I need you to authorise this, Freya.

  Freya, this can’t wait.

  Freya, for God’s sake answer me.

  Freya!

  My fingers are wrapped around my phone, gripping it like claws as I sob silently. Pat needs me to give him permission to have my Queenie euthanized. Oh God! Oh God! I feel Nick gently but firmly uncurling my frozen fingers until he manages to take the phone from me. He scrolls through the texts from Pat.

  “Freya, what’s going on?”

  I don’t answer. I’m now clasping my knees with my hands and all I want to do is rock. Nick stands, strides to the door. He’s leaving me! I clench my fist and bang on the floor

  But he isn’t going anywhere. He yells down the hallway, “Summer! Get up here.”

  Then he’s back, crouching next to me again, and in my desperation I just turn to clutch at his shirt. For all his white hot anger moments before, he’s helping me now. As much as he can. As much as anyone can. But my poor Queenie…

  Summer comes rushing into the room. She takes one look at me huddled on the floor and jumps to what to her must seem the most obvious conclusion. “You utter bastard. What have you done to her?”

  Nick turns, stands, shaking his head. He hands her my phone.

  “What do you make of that?” His tone is calm, perfectly contr
olled. In charge.

  Summer’s outburst has been enough to bring the rest of the household running, and I suspect they were not very far away. Eva and Ashley shoulder Nick out of the way and start checking me for injuries. Nathan’s none too pleased either.

  “I should never have let you bring her upstairs. Christ, if I’d thought for a moment—”

  Nick holds up his hand, palm out. “All that can wait. Summer, what do you know about this?” He waits as she scrolls through the series of texts.

  As understanding dawns she glances at me, her face a mask of sympathy. I told her about Queenie that first night we were reunited, at Ashley’s hen party. She knows what my horse means to me. Nick’s hand is outstretched, seeking the phone back.

  Summer hands it to him, taking a deep, steadying breath before she replies, “It looks to me as though Freya’s racehorse, the one she bought last month I think, in Cartmel—well, she’s fallen at Thirsk races and has broken a leg. The vet wants to put her to sleep.”

  At this I start signing frantically, “They can’t, they can’t. She’s mine. My horse.”

  Nick hands the phone calmly to Dan. “Would you mind, please, returning this”—he checks the screen—“this Malcolm’s call. Find out exactly what the situation is now. And is there any humane alternative?”

  Of course, Dan’s a vet. A racecourse veterinarian at that. He’ll understand better than anyone the implications of Queenie’s injury. I’d forgotten how good Nick is in a crisis. Dan nods and hits the symbol to return Pat’s call.

  “Hello? No, I’m Dan Riche. I think we may have met—I’m resident vet at Cartmel racecourse. Yes, hello, Pat. Freya’s a friend of mine and I’m with her now. Could you explain the current situation to me please? What’s the horse’s condition?”

  He’s silent for what feels to be several minutes, listening to the report from Thirsk. Then, “Can I speak to him, please?” He turns back to us. “Course vet. He’s the one who’ll actually make the decision.”

  Again I start to shake, and this time it’s Ashley who slips an arm around me. “It’s okay, Freya, we’ll help you. Whatever happens now, you’re not on your own.” She turns to Tom. “Help me get her onto the bed, please.”

  But it’s Nick who makes short work of lifting me onto the bed, and quickly I have Ashley on one side of me and Summer on the other. Dan’s listening carefully to the voice on the line, the omnipotent course vet at Thirsk. At last I hear him ask the vet to wait a moment, and he turns to me.

  “Her leg is badly broken. Even if it could be repaired, and that’s a big ‘if’, she’ll definitely never race again.” His voice is soft, sympathetic as he crouches by the bed and explains. “The best thing to do is probably to have her destroyed. And the sooner the better. She’s sedated now, but she’ll be suffering as soon as she starts to come round.”

  I latch onto the one word he said that I want to hear. “If. You said ‘if’. Does that mean there’s a chance?”

  Dan looks to Summer for a translation. She does the honours.

  He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t say so. If she survives, she’ll never race. You might be able to recoup some of your losses through breeding from her, but most owners in your situation would have the animal destroyed. I assume she’s insured?”

  I shake my head, I’ve no idea on that. But none of this is about money as far as I’m concerned.

  “What about Horsforth?” This time it’s Tom’s voice.

  Dan glances up at him, looking thoughtful.

  “The equine research centre? I suppose it’s a thought. If there’s anywhere that could help this horse, it’d be them. Insured or not, though, that’ll cost you a fortune.”

  Nick’s dry chuckle is not born of amusement. “Somehow, I doubt money’s going to be an issue. What is this place then?”

  Tom picks up the tale, “It’s a veterinary research hospital specialising in horses, in north Leeds. State-of-the-art facilities. It’s attached to the agricultural college where I do my guest lecturing sometimes.”

  Nick takes charge now. “Right, Dan, ask the vet at Thirsk if the horse can stay sedated long enough to transport her to Leeds. And do they have the means of transport to get her there? And tell him we can pay, whatever it costs.” He glances at me. “Well, I get the impression Freya can.”

  We all wait a few seconds as Dan checks with the course vet. He smiles. “Yes, he says they do. And he’ll go with her to Horsforth to keep up the sedation. Pat’ll be with her too.”

  “Tell them thanks. And we’ll see them there. Freya—you’ll be wanting to go see your horse, I suppose?”

  I nod, tears still streaming down my face, but I’m beginning to think there might be a glimmer of hope after all.

  “Right, I’ll drive you there. Dan, could you come too? I think we’d value your advice. And Summer? You do at least seem to know the background story. Would you come as well? If nothing else you can help Freya explain to me how the fuck she managed to buy a sodding racehorse right under my nose, and I never knew a bloody thing about it.”

  In moments, it seems, we’re outside and Nathan Darke’s huge gas-guzzling Audi is waiting in the yard for us. My Vanquish isn’t practical for four people really and Nathan seems happy with the temporary swap. Nathan checks with Dan to make sure he still has the key card for the apartment in Leeds, in case we all need a place to stay for a few nights until Queenie’s situation is clearer.

  I think, and not for the first time, how very kind people can be. Even angry Doms.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nick tosses the car keys to Dan as we rush across the gravelled forecourt at Black Combe towards the car.

  “Would you mind driving? I suppose you know where we’re headed. And Freya and I have things to discuss.”

  He’s right, of course, though I’d really prefer to do our discussing in private. Nick opens the rear door and gestures me inside before sliding onto the back seat beside me, leaving Summer to sit in front with Dan. Moments later we’re headed down the narrow winding lane leading away from Black Combe.

  Nick waits a full five minutes before turning to me. His tone clipped and distinctly icy, he begins, “Right, first this bloody horse of yours. Summer said you bought it at Cartmel. Is that right?”

  I nod, and start to sign yet another apology. He holds up his palm, stopping that line of discussion dead.

  “Apologising comes later. We’ve a lot to resolve before that and yes, that will be just between the two of us. Stick to the subject please. So, at Cartmel? Am I to understand that you managed to buy yourself a racehorse when we went to the races last month?”

  He waits for my response, and I can only nod.

  “As I recall, the horse was sold by auction?”

  Again I nod.

  He continues, “And I was with you the whole time. You didn’t take part in any auction, I’m sure I’d have noticed. So, how did this happen then?”

  I sign my answer, “My bank. They did the bidding for me.”

  He raises one supercilious eyebrow. “Your bank? How obliging of them, I have bother getting mine to replace a cracked credit card yet yours is prepared to represent you in an auction. How come?”

  That’s easy. Private banking is a whole lot different from the run of the mill sort. I remember well the days I had to plead for an overdraft, or do battle with online systems that were forever locking me out. Max and the cosy world of Lloyds private banking were a revelation to me at first, even though I tend to take it all for granted now. I need to try to make him understand.

  “I bank with Lloyds Private Bank. It’s a different sort of banking system, I suppose, for people with a lot of personal wealth. I have a contact there, called Max. He looks after everything for me, and he did the bidding at the auction on my behalf.”

  He looks less than convinced. “Max? What is he? A bank manager or something?”

  “Max Furrowes. He’s my personal wealth consultant. He looks after all my financial transactions, does e
verything, really.”

  “Buying racehorses, though? That’s got to be above and beyond…”

  I nod, and shrug. I don’t doubt Max does more for me than he does for other clients, but he’s never complained and I do appreciate him. I can’t help thinking, though, that it’s a relationship that Nick won’t find it easy to get his head around. I try to explain again, “He’s always very helpful… Probably because he knows I find things difficult sometimes. He’s a bit like a kind uncle.”

  Not the best way to get my message across, I realise, as Nick’s explosive “Fucking hell…” ricochets around the car. “A kind uncle! Girl, you’re priceless. Absolutely fucking priceless.”

  I’m conscious of Dan and Summer listening to at least Nick’s side of all this, and I’m embarrassed, mortified even. At Nick’s thunderous expression I start to panic, too, my hands flying now as I try desperately to explain, “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s a professional relationship. He’s a financial adviser, but I like him. He’s kind and he, he…”

  “I’m trying to understand, but coming up with nothing much as yet. Max Furrowes can wait though. Back to the racehorse. How did this Max know you wanted to buy it? As far as I knew you’d never even heard of the bloody horse until that afternoon.”

  Now this is simple. I dig my phone out of my bag and quickly go back through my emails to find the exchange between Max and me that day. I hand the phone to Nick.

  “I saw Queenie in the enclosure. I thought she was beautiful, and then I learned that she was to be auctioned after her race. It was an impulse really, but I wanted her so much. I emailed Max while you were at the toilet. It’s all there.”