Cut Throat

Table of Contents

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Epub ISBN 9781409069171

Version 1.0

  

Published by Arrow Books in 2003

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Copyright © Lyndon Stacey 2002

The right of Lyndon Stacey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published by Hutchinson in 2002

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ISBN 0 09 942945 4

About the Author

Lyndon Stacey is the author of
Cut Throat, Blindfold
and
Deadfall
. She lives in the Blackmore Vale. Her fourth book,
Outside Chance
, will be published by Hutchinson in August 2005.

‘Great characters both human and equine . . . Offers the reader plenty of surprises'
Horse Magazine

‘Clears its fences neatly . . . wonderful'
Kirkus Reviews

‘Stacey is a highly original author . . . she certainly knows how to deliver an invigorating experience for the reader'
Good Book Guide

Blindfold

Deadfall

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Martin Peaty MRCVS, of The Barn Equine Surgery, Dorset, Mark Randle of the Wiltshire Police, and the staff at BSJA headquarters, Stoneleigh, for their patience in answering my many questions, and to make it clear that any inaccuracies are entirely my fault for not asking the right questions!

Also, thanks to Sue and James at Hutchinson, and Dorothy, my agent, for their help and encouragement.

And last, but by no means least, thanks go to Anthony McConnell and Brenda, my ‘Fairy Godmother' who, between them, started the ball rolling.

Twelve hundred pounds of charging horseflesh hit the wooden railings chest high and somersaulted into the north stands. Faces, frozen with horror, moved in desperate slow motion to get out of the path of the crazed beast, and their screams were all that its helpless rider could hear. The slamming, sickening impact, the smell of horse sweat and newly painted wood and the taste of blood were all crowded out by those piercing, hysterical cries.

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Pain filled his chest. Panic rose, constricting his throat, and the animal's flailing hooves threatened to decapitate him at any moment. Still they screamed. Why couldn't they stop? The noise filled his mind, tore at his senses, on and on and on . . .

‘No!'

Ross cried out, kicking at the bed covers that had twisted round his legs, and sat up gasping for breath. Sweat glistened on his face and arms, staining his grey tee-shirt, and his hair clung damply to his scalp.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat, waiting for the pounding of his heart to steady. His head throbbed heavily and his mouth tasted bad. The jeans he still wore bore testimony to his nocturnal ramble along the beach. Sand grated between his toes and he felt unwashed and very sick. Considering the amount of alcohol he had consumed, he was surprised he hadn't fallen into the sea.

The delicate state of his health was not improved by the loud buzz of the doorbell, a moment later.

Ross groaned, head in hands. Perhaps whoever it was would go away.

It buzzed again, the sound reverberating inside his head, and muttering darkly, he pushed himself to his feet.

Stumbling across the room, he stubbed his toe on a chair leg and swore, as yet unfamiliar with the layout of his mother's Florida beach house. Needing a peaceful refuge and knowing it to be empty, he had flown down from Georgia the previous day, when he had finally been forced to admit to himself what the rest of the world had long ago decided: that his career as a professional rider was over.

The doorbell sounded a third time. Ross jerked the door open irritably and squinted against the sunlight.

The slight, blonde female who stood on the doorstep surveyed him from head to toe with wide-spaced, blue-grey eyes. She tilted her shoulder-length bob to one side and pursed her lips.

‘My, you have had a bad night,' she observed in aristocratic English tones.

‘I've been out jogging,' Ross lied blandly. Lindsay Cresswell, friend and fellow rider, was someone he would normally have been pleased to see, but not today, and especially not in the condition he was in.

‘Yes, of course.' She sounded unconvinced. ‘Aren't you going to ask me in?'

‘Sure, if you want to join me for breakfast.'

‘I was thinking more of lunch,' Lindsay said dryly. ‘It's half-past twelve. That must have been some run!'

Ross looked at his watch and grudgingly conceded the point. He stood back, allowing her to step past him and into the dim interior. Then he slammed the door irritably, immediately regretting it as his aching head protested.

‘You'll have to wait while I freshen up,' he mumbled mulishly. All he really wanted was to be left alone.

Lindsay threw open the curtains to admit the sunlight of a glorious May day and righted an empty wine bottle that was lying on the coffee table.

‘Fine,' she said brightly, sitting on the luxurious cream leather sofa and picking up a magazine.

Ross slammed the bathroom door for good measure.

Ten minutes later he emerged, having showered and changed, his dark brown hair towelled dry and combed back.

‘That's better, you look almost human,' Lindsay said, coming through from the kitchen and handing him a cup of steaming coffee.

His temper in some part restored, Ross surveyed her with affection. Her thick, naturally blonde hair framed a face with almost classical bone structure and flawless, lightly tanned skin.

They had met on the show circuit some eight months before and had quickly struck up an easy companionship. She was in America for a year on a working holiday as nanny-cum-groom for a friend with a young family, and the knowledge that when she returned to England she was expected to become officially engaged to James, her childhood sweetheart, had provided the relaxed atmosphere in which their friendship had grown.

At first the existence of this distant relationship hadn't worried Ross; lately it had begun to prey on his mind.

‘I guess you didn't come all this way just for coffee,' he said, collapsing on to the immaculate upholstery.

‘No, I have a proposition for you.' She sat opposite him and took a sip from her cup.

‘Oh?' His tone offered no encouragement.

‘I was talking to my uncle about you.'

‘I bet he was just fascinated.'

‘As a matter of fact he was. Interested, anyway. You remember I told you he has a small showjumping yard back in England? Well, two weeks ago he lost his rider.'

‘Kinda careless of him,' Ross observed.

‘Ha-ha,' she said with a brief, humourless smile. ‘No, the young lad he had riding for him wasn't up to the job and apparently there was a big bust-up between him and one of the other owners in the yard, which ended in the rider being thrown out. So now they're stuck, and I suggested you.'

‘Oh, yeah?' Ross laughed mirthlessly. ‘And they're so short of riders in England that he'll jump at the chance of taking on an unknown from the States – especially one who comes complete with a reputation for unreliability.'

Lindsay ignored the sarcasm. ‘It's mid-season. Most of the riders worth their salt already have enough on their plates. I mean, it's one thing to take on an extra horse or two, but not a whole yardful. He's got an ex-jockey exercising them at the moment but if he doesn't find someone soon, the other owners will take their horses elsewhere. But, understandably, Uncle John is very particular.'

‘Like I said,' Ross murmured.

‘Anyway, I suggested you and he's willing to give it a try.'

Ross frowned. ‘Why in hell would he? He doesn't know me from Adam!'

‘No. But I do,' she said patiently, ‘and he trusts me. Well? What do you think?'

Ross was silent for a moment. ‘I think your uncle should look someplace else,' he said then, avoiding her hopeful eyes. ‘I'm through with that game. I'm sorry, you've had a wasted journey.'

‘What do you mean? You can't just give up – it's your life! Horses are in your blood. That's what you told me, remember?'

‘Well, I was wrong. I've changed my mind, and now I've quit. Finished. Okay?' Ross put his cup down on the table and stood up, his lithe six foot two frame towering over her briefly before he walked away towards the window.

‘No, it's not okay!' Lindsay exclaimed incredulously. ‘You can't let them win, just like that. It's like admitting they're right to doubt your nerve!'

‘Maybe they are.' Ross watched the waves lazily lapping the sand of the deserted beach.

‘My God, you
are
feeling sorry for yourself, aren't you?' She rose to her feet, banging her cup down hard on the tabletop. ‘All washed up at twenty-seven. Well, don't let me interrupt your self-pity. Why don't you have another bottle of wine? Or two!' She picked up her bag and whisked out of the room.