Cut Throat (35 page)

‘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.

He warmed the mare up as for a normal schooling session and took her over one or two jumps. She behaved well, apparently in one of her better moods. Ross' spirits rose a notch or two. The rain increased to a steady drizzle.

From his pocket, he took two small flat pieces of wood that he had dug out of the toolshed earlier. Letting the mare walk round the school on a loose rein, he gently tapped the pieces together. The mare flicked her ears back enquiringly. He patted her, talking all the while, and then tapped them again.

Gradually he increased the volume of the taps. Ginger became a lot more edgy, but didn't panic. Ross made much of her. He was so absorbed that he didn't see a mackintoshed figure come and lean on the gate. After another ten minutes or so, Ross began to allow himself a glimmer of hope. The mare was trying hard.

In the field beside the school, one of the Colonel's spaniels, on a rabbiting expedition, put up a brace of pheasant with a flurry of clucking and flapping wings.

Ginger's nerves, already stretched, snapped. She bolted blindly.

Ross was ready for her. With his legs clamped hard on her sides, he put both hands on one rein and pulled her head round. With her muzzle touching his boot and her white-rimmed eye almost at his knee she could do no more than stagger sideways for a few yards.

For a moment, Ross thought she would fall but she managed to retain her balance and halted, splay-legged and shuddering violently. He could feel her extreme tension still and knew that if he released her head she would probably bolt again. Keeping the rein tight over her neck, he slid off the opposite side and stood talking quietly to her.

Slowly, she relaxed. Ross found he was shaking with reaction as he released the rein. She stood beside him, the picture of dejection, and he felt sorry for her.

He considered getting back on but couldn't raise much enthusiasm for the idea. The rain was now a steady downpour; he had just lost half-an-hour's progress in a split second and he hadn't the heart to start again.

He shied away from the thought that he just plain hadn't the heart.

Patting the mare's rain-sodden and steaming neck, Ross unsaddled her and turned her loose. He took off his crash hat and let the rain run through his hair and down his face. Tired and dispirited, he limped back towards the yard with the saddle over his arm. He was almost at the gate before he lifted his head enough to see that someone was there and he'd been watched. His spirits fell another notch.

When he saw the blonde hair under the waxed cotton hood, Ross didn't know whether to be relieved or sorry. On the one hand, Lindsay was the person to whom he had always found it easiest to talk; on the other, he was slightly ashamed that she had witnessed his weakness in not remounting.

He scanned her face for scorn but found none.

‘Hi, Princess,' he said wearily.

‘Hello.' Her tone was absent-minded and she was gazing at the horse.

Ross balanced the saddle on the top rail of the gate and leaned on it, too down to care that the rain wasn't doing the leather any good. He would oil it later.

Lindsay looked sideways at him.

‘Is it because she's a chestnut?' she asked abruptly.

Ross didn't pretend to misunderstand her. It was a question he had asked himself a thousand times. Ginger . . . the horse in America . . . the one in his nightmares . . . they were all the same colour. Was it possible that his trouble with Ginger stemmed from a subconscious connection he'd made between them? Was he tense, and communicating his tension to the mare?

Maybe a little, he admitted, but surely the basic problem was with her. Why couldn't anyone else see that she was crazy?
Could
it be his imagination?

‘Simone is a chestnut,' he reminded her defensively.

‘
What
then, Ross? What's happened to you? You used to ride all the roughest, baddest horses. People said you had no nerves at all.'

Ross sensed that Lindsay longed for him to reassure her. After all, it was she who was responsible, in the main, for his being in England and riding the Oakley Manor horses. He noted her use of the past tense.

‘Perhaps I should have quit while I was ahead,' he said, taking refuge in flippancy.

Lindsay wasn't amused. ‘But she bothers you, doesn't she? You surely can't deny there's a problem?' she demanded. ‘Especially after what happened just now.'

‘And what do you think happened just now?' Ross asked in brittle tones.

‘I saw one of the toughest riders on the circuit let a novice horse get away with blatant disobedience. I saw him break the first rule of training – any training – that you should always end on a good note.' She was watching his face closely as she spoke. ‘Oh, come on, Ross! Don't you know what they're saying about you?'

‘People always talk,' he observed mildly. ‘You don't have to listen.'

‘Damn you!' Lindsay cried vehemently. ‘Don't give me that “I don't care” routine. I know you better than that.'

He turned his back to the gate and stared into the middle distance, eyes bleak, face shuttered.

There was silence for a moment, then she put a tentative hand on his shoulder. ‘Don't shut me out, Ross,' she pleaded. ‘We used to be friends. I just want to help.'

Ross didn't respond. Rain dripped off his hair and ran down his neck inside his denim shirt, which was in any case plastered to his back. He wished she would go and he needed her to stay, but each word she uttered twisted the knife a little more. How would it help to admit to her that he was beginning to doubt himself?