The Country Lovers

by Walker, Fiona

‘Are we talking about last night?’ Pax was a ninja at veiled sarcasm, the deep, kind voice softening the blow. ‘Or the thirty years before that?’ She was equally adept at blocking the comeback. ‘Sorry. Uncalled for.’

  Fierce mother love deflated a little. Tackling Pax was sometimes like climbing the north face of the Eiger in moon boots. She barely knew her daughter as a woman, wife and mother, disapproval simmering beneath the diplomacy. ‘I’ll find Luca.’

  ‘Do that,’ Pax said, nodding briskly.

  Outside, a few icy specks of rain were flicking through low winter sun, a half-formed rainbow fading against the dark clouds. Ronnie hurried across the cobbles and beneath the archway with her dogs at her heels. Then she spotted Luca emerging from the tack room and her heart sank a little, realising the change in him went way beyond all the wild warrior facial hair. The demeanour was tougher, the body harder and the mood far blacker.

  Blazing-eyed, hollow-cheeked and defiant, he strode into the yard with his kitbag across his back, like a hired gun into a new outpost. Pale from a harsh Canadian winter, dark bruises beneath his eyes, he was leaner than she remembered, his jaw lost to the coarse curls, shoulders unfeasibly wide above the narrow hips. Gone was the baby-faced, smiling Irish horseman she’d met in Holland, all tight blond ringlets and playful sea-green eyes, seemingly never sobering up or needing sleep, blessed with an infectious laugh that could ignite a room. In less than a decade, he’d jumped a generation.

  Now she felt a thud of disappointment, realising too late that she’d called upon him precisely because she needed someone childlike, the fiddle-playing cherubic vagabond who was a shot in the arm and a genius on a horse, whose adorable yen for her had been his reason to ride better, who carried no baggage. Instead, the bags under his eyes alone looked like they’d crossed the Nevada at the gallop strapped to a Western saddle. Had there been a night in the gunslinger’s saloon with Pax on the way?

  ‘Luca!’ She strode towards him, fierce mother love in its holster. ‘So sorry to dash off. What a lousy journey you must have had.’

  When he smiled, ten years disappeared in an instant. ‘Sure, it’s good to see you at the end of it.’

  Dropping his bag, he threw out his arms just as Ronnie thrust out her hand to shake. It was like a full-body game of rock, scissors, stone. Ronnie won, receiving a double handshake and another devastating smile as her prize. Although nothing to Blair’s knight gauntlets, his hands were satisfyingly calloused, a sign he was still a grafter.

  ‘How awful to abandon you in the tack room!’

  ‘Sure, I’ve had a decent nap.’ His once-merry eyes were tired, darker than she remembered, their sea-green bark weathered. ‘Beautiful place you have here. And you’re just as beautiful as I remember too.’

  Still a flirt, then. Her mother-love trigger finger twitched.

  Out came the O’Brien smile.

  And that hadn’t changed a bit.

  ‘You must be hungry.’ She wondered what on earth she had in to feed him, hoping it wasn’t revenge served cold.

  ‘Only for work.’ He stifled a yawn.

  ‘Plenty of that here.’

  ‘It’s why I came.’ He turned sharply as Cruisoe, the old stallion, bellowed from his corner box. ‘That and my undying loyalty.’ The smile switched back to her.

  Disarmed, Ronnie felt mother love surrendering. Their party days on the continent were long gone, but he was still young Lochinvar beneath the beard – so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war – that all-knowing green gaze excitingly grown-up. No wonder Blair had stomped off in a huff.

  ‘Let’s get your bags inside,’ she said, turning to lead the way to the house.

  With the intuitive rear-view mirrors of a woman under physical scrutiny, Ronnie sensed Luca’s eyes on her backside, wishing it didn’t feel quite so gratifying. It was her family’s livelihood she was laying in his hands, not her ego, she reminded herself. As if in agreement, one of the mares in the far yard let out a shrill squeal to call the shots. Far closer came a stallion’s roar, so loud it was like a motorbike starting up.

  She spun round, adopting a power stance she hoped was somewhere between board director and Wonder Woman, ready to lay down some ground rules.

  But Luca wasn’t looking at her at all. He hadn’t even followed her. He was standing outside Beck the stallion’s stable with his back to her, the blond curls buffeted like sea foam, almost white at its ends.

  Man and horse were equally breathtaking, one a war-like musketeer arriving on foreign soil to do battle, the other already armour-plated with anger, his head a dished silver visor in which huge dark eyes and nostrils flared, his perfectly proportioned body rigid with unease, primed to fly or fight at a pin drop.

  Ronnie retraced her steps and the stallion stamped in protest, flattening his ears at her as she came to stand beside Luca.

  ‘Bechstein,’ he breathed.

  ‘You remember him?’

  ‘I backed him.’

  ‘You did?’ It hadn’t even occurred to her, but now it felt like kismet. ‘How marvellous!’

  She should have guessed he’d know the horse. Luca had been a regular feature in the huge German stud where Beck had spent his early life, breaking hearts and horses, starting off elite youngsters and keeping the trickier competition stallions sweet between stud work and circuit. With many millions of euros of horseflesh under its roof, Gestüt Fuchs was the Harrods of sports horse breeding, its owner an old friend of Henk with whom Ronnie had lived and worked a decade earlier. Visiting the world-famous stallion station every few weeks had been one of life’s highlights back then, the horses out of this world. The first time she’d seen Luca in the saddle had been there and Ronnie had been blown away by his skill.

  Her memories of Beck from that time were vaguer. Bred in the purple from one of the Fuchs’ many prolific showjumping sires, he’d been amongst countless stratospheric home-grown talents with huge price tags, far beyond her own and Henk’s wheeler-dealing pockets. Hothoused onto the international circuit by seven, Beck had been sold with an Olympics qualification for megabucks, only to be branded lame before the opening ceremony had even taken place, returning to Germany in disgrace. His grand prix career over – and Fuchs’ good name under fire – Beck’s retirement to stud was equally quickly mired by a reputation for being unpredictable and tricky. That was when he’d first registered on Ronnie’s radar.

  Still as a statue, the horse continued staring at Luca, nervous energy radiating from him like static.

  She moved beside Luca. ‘Still eleven out of ten, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s been through the mill, has he not?’

  ‘Ground down to flour. I want you to make the cornfield again, Luca.’

  The smile strobed on and off. Then he tilted his head to look at the stallion again, sucking his lower lip doubtfully.

  ‘You’re here to help find out if he’s still got what it takes,’ she said, secretly wondering whether Luca still had it in him either. He looked like he’d blown in from three months’ jungle survival, and yet, as he approached, Beck, rather than slamming his teeth against the bars as usual, watched him intently, lowered his muzzle to sniff at Luca’s hand and then curled up his lip. It reminded Ronnie of Luca’s uniqueness, of how unrushed he was, of that stillness he carried deep within.

  ‘He recognises you,’ she said softly, amazed.

  The Horsemaker rested his open palm against Beck’s forehead now, a gesture the horse would have never tolerated from her or Lester.

  ‘Where d’you find him?’

  ‘Long story.’ She moved closer.

  ‘He retired injured.’ Luca’s hand ran the length of Beck’s face.

  ‘He’s sound now.’

  ‘Fuchs is a bastard!’ The harshness in his voice startled her, as it did Beck, who let out a warning roar, his whole chest shuddering, his lip curling again. The stallion snaked to the back of his stall and glared at the Horsemaker with white-rimmed eyes.

  Ronnie
felt her pride tested, conscious that the first Compton horse he’d met was its controversial new mutineer, her nemesis. Beck was dark-flanked with stable stains, his bedding a mess because he box-walked. His ‘toys’ – snack balls, licks and mirrors lovingly provided by his previous owner – were battered and tooth-marked. Ronnie had rarely encountered a horse more indignant and disorientated, but she knew also that he was exactly the sort of challenge Luca relished.

  He said nothing, cheek muscles taut above the beard. He looked wretched.

  She needed Luca to see what she did in Beck, however dismal a picture he made in his stable, tucked up and tail whipping.

  She glanced at her watch: past twelve. ‘Let’s get him in the lunge pen before lunch and you’ll see he’s no more lame than I am. The hunt’ll be long gone by now.’

  He threw her the big lifeline smile. ‘Sure.’

  They put the horse in a chifney bit and double led him, a technique she’d perfected with Lester that just about kept control whilst running the gauntlet with him rearing and plunging across the yard and as far as small paddock to the circular fenced area, where Beck exploded into a fly-bucking, rolling breakdance routine.

  Trying to look disapproving, arms crossed, head tilted critically to the side, Luca let out an involuntary laugh as they watched the sheer energy of him charging round at liberty. ‘I never thought I’d see him alive again.’

  ‘He certainly has bit of a death wish.’ Ronnie winced as Beck bucked, smacking his hind feet against the metal fencing which rattled and hummed, sending him into a careering frenzy.

  ‘God gave that one springs on his springs,’ Luca whistled. ‘I’d forgotten how he moves.’

  Ronnie watched his face in delight, seeing the old Luca merriness light up in it.

  Some horses stole your heart, even a tough old pro like Luca who rode ten a day. Ronnie recognised it because Beck had stolen hers, too.

  They watched him spin and plunge, Luca shaking his head, big smile conflicted. ‘He was a nightmare to breed from, you know that?’

  ‘Some of the best ones are. He’s not sired many, but those he has are all first class. He’s going to father lots more now,’ Ronnie predicted confidently. ‘My plan is to have a full stud book come March.’

  Hearing a dog yap she spotted Pax over the wall of the stable cottage garden and beckoned her down across the paddock to join them.

  ‘Pax is brilliantly organised, so she’ll keep the bookings in order,’ she told Luca, familiar with her daughter’s OCD need to file. She beckoned Pax more impatiently, her own mother’s firm voice in her head, demanding they all sacrifice ego. The stud needed to rally its troops, and this was all it had. Reluctantly, Pax let herself through the garden gate and started making her way down towards them.

  ‘I do the selling and marketing side. I need you to focus on straightening out this chap’s bad attitude, Luca.’ She watched Beck trumpet his authority, the ultimate cage fighter. ‘He’s a total rapist. If he’s going to cover naturally – which he’s only ever done once to my knowledge, by accident not design – he must be a lot safer to handle and better mannered. And if we’re flogging straws of semen fresh from the dummy or deep freeze, he needs to be as reliable as a student going into a cubicle with a pot and a porn mag.’

  ‘I’ve missed the ladylike way you talk.’ The green eyes sparkled, a flash of the old Luca again. ‘I’ve missed everything aboutcha, Ron.’

  ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘You’ve not changed a bit.’

  Pax joined them with a self-conscious cough, paler than ever, watching Beck still rodeoing around like his tail was on fire. ‘I know that feeling.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ Luca offered a conciliatory laugh.

  ‘How soon until you horse-make this one, Luca?’

  His smile grew fixed.

  ‘He’ll be back in work within the week.’ Ronnie was determined to keep the mood up. ‘His mind’s too busy to stand idle. And we want Luca to get his leg over something truly classy while he’s here, don’t we, Pax?’

  Crossing her arms, Pax rolled her tongue round her teeth and said nothing, much as she had years ago at school when Ronnie had flirted with the headmaster on sports days. Those long drives to far-flung boarding schools for formal events when her children were teenagers had sometimes been her only way of maintaining contact, her letters unanswered, her rebellion as hard-wired as the stallion now in front of them.

  Beck sprang forwards into his floating trot once more. He was addictive to watch. Ronnie remembered Paul Fuchs telling her that he was the most photogenic horse he’d ever stood.

  ‘We’ll have to get you back in the saddle too,’ she told Pax, certain the endorphins would do her good.

  ‘No you won’t.’

  ‘Nonsense. There’ll be plenty to ride out once Luca’s backed a few, plus poor Lester’s little string will need to be kept going.’

  Pax shot her a don’t-go-there look from a lifetime ago. That tall, quiet teenager who had ridden so exquisitely, shyness inevitably shaken off when she was on a horse, and positively ebullient at high speed across country.

  ‘I’m happy enough riding everything,’ Luca offered easily. ‘It’s what you pay me for.’

  ‘Luca saves the day,’ muttered Pax, crossing her arms tighter and watching Beck spin a hundred and eighty degrees as fast as a polo pony.

  For the first time it occurred to Ronnie that her daughter might have lost her nerve. She’d seen it happen enough times, especially when women had children, their mortality bound so tightly to motherhood. Riding might have kept Ronnie sane when her marriage ended, but her daughter was a much more urban fox. And yet, as every horse-mad, husband-hating Cotswold wife knew, horses were the perfect antidote to an unhappy home life.

  ‘Pax will be living on-site,’ she told Luca now, ignoring Pax’s mutters about it only being for a few days. ‘Which makes us the Compton Magna Stud team.’

  ‘God help us all,’ Pax sighed, then added to Luca, ‘That wasn’t blaspheming, by the way. It was a prayer.’

  Luca’s fixed smile hardened beneath all the wild-man blond fur.

  Ronnie felt another thud of disappointment, sensing the friction between them.

  The phone began ringing, the bell peeling out across the yard.

  ‘That’s probably Mack.’ Pax stayed rooted to the spot for a moment, jaw clenched, then sprinted like a hare back up the hill.

  ‘Her husband.’ Ronnie turned to Luca, wondering how much he knew.

  But he’d already wandered off to stand by the round pen, reaching up to hold its perimeter fencing with his fingers, forehead lowered against the chain link.

  Within seconds, the stallion stopped circling and turned to him, head high. Saying nothing, Luca kept staring at the ground, Ronnie watching in surprise as the horse lowered his nose and stepped towards him almost without hesitation. Snorting in deep, inquisitive breaths, moments later his muzzle was against the wire mesh.

  ‘You’re not wrong about him remembering.’ Luca spoke quietly.

  ‘That’s wonderful!’

  ‘Maybe.’ He straightened up and the horse spun away; Luca watched him circle and turn back, ears flicking. ‘Ronnie, there’s something I need to tell you about him. Something—’

  ‘Luca!’ The shout from behind sent the grey spinning away. ‘Call for you!’

  Pax was almost back down the hill, looking even more bad-tempered. ‘The phone’s in the cottage kitchen. Don’t talk too long.’

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘She wouldn’t say.’

  Ronnie noticed his eyes tighten. Then, with an apologetic smile, he loped away.

  ‘Posh foreign.’ Pax stepped alongside her mother, puppy bounding around them. ‘My guess is forties, married for money, stalkerish, names her horses after designer-jewellery brands.’

  ‘Did she make any death threats?’

  ‘Not to me.’ Pax looked at her inquiringly.

  ‘
Lester seemed to think he took one earlier but I’m sure it was just one of his muddles.’ She sighed. ‘Pax, I appreciate Luca might come across as a bit louche. He’s a wandering minstrel with lots of pins in his map – and he’s certainly clocked up some air miles since I last saw him – but he’s very good at what he does. Try to be nice to him.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ She turned and walked away.

  8

  ‘Luca O’Brien speaking.’

  ‘At last, Gianluca!’ The woman’s voice, all too familiar, was sternly irritated. ‘You do lead us a merry dance. You are lucky he likes you so much.’

  ‘Aren’t I just?’ His heart was beating in his throat now.

  ‘He would like to speak with you, if you will hold.’

  ‘Holding is what I’ll do.’

  Music played at the other end, like a customer service line, a jaunty Mozart concerto.

  ‘His Highness will speak with you now.’

  However many years he’d been receiving these calls, Luca had never quite got used to hearing that.

  ‘My boy! I am so angry with you!’

  Thinking about Beck, Luca felt the first splash of panic.

  He closed his eyes with relief when he heard laughter. ‘You are like a son to me as you know, Luca, but such an errant one! You are the eagle who never lands, merely perches. Now that I know where you are, I shall look forward to our next visit to England immensely. Tell me, are you near Ascot? Quite my favourite British racecourse; you must be my guest there in June.’

  ‘I’m honoured, Your Highness.’ He had a brief, ludicrous image of himself in a morning suit and top hat. ‘Unfortunately, I may be working on the continent again by then.’

  ‘As you wish.’ The receiver was covered so that orders could be barked. His attention returned. ‘You are keeping well, I trust? Are you in need of anything? You only have to ask, you know that.’

  Another phrase Luca always found deeply uncomfortable.

  ‘Thank you, but no, sir.’ He edged as far as the cord would stretch to look out of the window at Beck. ‘I’m grand.’

  ‘You are my most honourable servant.’