Cut Throat (26 page)

Danny didn't laugh.

‘I think Leo's been talking,' he said unhappily. ‘There's . . . well, a rumour going round. Amongst the grooms, that is.'

Ross slid off Bishop, gritting his teeth as his bad knee took his weight.

‘What kind of rumour?'

‘They're saying . . . well, look, I didn't really hear it all.' The boy dived into the box to fetch Woody.

‘Danny!'

He reappeared and stood at the top of the ramp, twisting a cloth agitatedly between his hands.

‘They say, some of them do, that your nerve has gone and you drink to keep going.' He dropped his gaze and plunged on. ‘They say Leo found out and you threw him out. He's been showing his bruises and, well . . .'

‘. . .  they've seen my face too.' Ross finished it for him. He laughed harshly. ‘I'd be pretty stupid to fire him if I wanted to keep him quiet, wouldn't I? Surely people aren't taking his word for it?'

Danny shook his head. ‘No, not all of them.' He hesitated. ‘Only some of them are jealous of you, I think, and . . .'

Ross sighed. ‘Yeah, I get the picture. Well, I guess it'll blow over. Some other juicy bit of gossip will turn up and nobody'll think any more of it.'

While Danny finished getting Woodsmoke ready, Ross sat on the ramp and tried to ease the throbbing pain in his leg. The knee was badly swollen and the top of his leather riding boot had become desperately tight. Though he hated to do it, Ross took his pocketknife out of the tack box and carefully slit the stitching four inches down the back.

In the collecting ring again on Woody, Ross felt eyes boring into him from all directions. He tried to convince himself it was just his imagination, but to no avail. Several of the grooms and one or two of the riders were making no secret of their curiosity. It seemed the word was spreading like wildfire.

Stephen Douglas rode alongside the American and smiled sweetly.

‘Sorry to hear of your little – ah – problem,' he said, unctuously. ‘If there's anything I can do?'

Ross smiled in return. ‘There is one thing,' he replied. ‘But there are ladies about, so I'll tell you another time.'

Douglas was young enough to let his annoyance show. Unable to think of a suitable reply, he turned China Lily abruptly away.

Ross felt little satisfaction at having won that exchange. Stephen Douglas was a comparative innocent. Other tongues would not be so easily stilled and in spite of his confident prediction to Danny, he was not so sure that the matter would blow over quickly. Although he had made many friends, Douglas had friends too and Ross knew there was a certain amount of resentment at his stepping into a job many of them would have coveted. The deliberate misquotes in Harry Douglas' article had done him no favours either.

Whether his growing ill-humour communicated itself to the usually sedate Woodsmoke or whether he was just glad to be out of the lorry and working, Ross couldn't tell, but the old horse went like a dream. The class had attracted one or two international riders and in a hard-fought jump-off against the clock, Ross was astounded when the old campaigner managed second place. He lined up for the prize-giving feeling elated, and even Harry Douglas' condescending remark about a novice having a lucky day failed to dampen his pleasure.

Franklin Richmond was full of praise and, back at the box, Danny was over the moon. His joy was touching. He could hardly have been more enthusiastic had the success been his own.

Ross relinquished Woody to the boy and exchanged his black jacket, white shirt and stock thankfully for a cool tee-shirt, and boots and breeches for jeans and training shoes. This done, he climbed into the cab and collapsed along the bench seat, glad to leave Woodsmoke to be loaded by Danny and heartily wishing the boy was old enough to drive the box as well. His leg had definitely had enough for one day.

He closed his eyes, drearily considering the latest black mark against his battered reputation. He supposed the rumour
would
gradually fade and be forgotten with no further evidence to support it, but he could very well have done without it.

‘I say, old boy.' The voice came from somewhere in the vicinity of his feet.

Ross raised his head.

‘The old horse did rather well, don't you think?' the voice went on.

Ross blinked into the evening sunlight, trying to focus on a coolly handsome face under a white Panama. He had had no idea Roland was even on the showground.

‘Oh, hi! Where did you spring from?'

‘Got a lift up with a friend,' Roland said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for someone who professed little interest in horses to make the journey halfway across England to visit a show. ‘Thing is, can't go back with him. Wondered if you'd consider giving me a lift home?'

‘'Fraid not, old boy,' Ross mimicked him, shaking his head regretfully. ‘But you can drive, if you want.'

Roland smiled happily. ‘Love to,' he said. ‘If I can just remember how . . .'

‘Just follow the white lines and stop at the red lights,' Ross said dryly. ‘You'll soon get the hang of it.'

In due course, with horses loaded and pulling at haynets, and Ross and Danny slumped in contented exhaustion beside him, Roland proceeded to handle the heavy lorry with the offhand expertise that characterised most things he did.

After ten minutes or so of silence, Danny initiated Roland into the numberplate game and badgered Ross to join in. The game continued fitfully for most of the journey, with the suggestions becoming steadily more far-fetched and decidedly more ribald, and they arrived home in good spirits. Roland displayed a needle-sharp wit and Danny rapidly warmed to him. Even Ross, in whom memory of past behaviour advised caution, found himself unable to withstand Roland's whimsical charm.

Thursday was quiet in the yard. The sky was overcast but the heat continued unabated; a sultry, energy-sapping warmth that rendered even the smallest of tasks a chore. They gave the horses only light exercise, and Ross and Sarah devoted the afternoon to tidying and cleaning the tackroom, which was one of the coolest places in the yard with its thick, windowless brick walls.

After the evening meal, Ross reluctantly gathered hammer and nails, and armed with the necessary posts and lengths of wood, headed for the schooling arena to mend a section of fence which Fly had thoughtfully demolished a couple of days earlier.

Ten minutes later, Lindsay and James appeared. Lindsay had intended taking advantage of the relative cool of the evening to school Gypsy over a fence or two but Ross suggested she use the cross-country course instead. It would be even cooler in the wood. Lindsay agreed cheerfully and departed to saddle up.

James hesitated, watching Ross' awkward attempts to hold a post and simultaneously drive it into the hard ground with a mallet.

‘Here, let me help,' he said after a moment. ‘You need three hands for that job.'

They worked steadily, side by side, saying little but companionable enough for all that. After a minute or two they heard Gypsy's hooves on the cobbles as Lindsay rode out of the yard. A quarter of an hour later, they stood back and surveyed their handiwork.

‘A beer, I think,' Ross said, brushing sawdust and sand from his jeans. ‘What d'you say?'

They crossed the school together, carrying the tools, but in an instant the tempting prospect of ice-cold beer was forgotten as with a sharp clatter of hooves Gypsy careered into the yard, riderless and trailing a broken rein.

One look at the horse was enough. Leaf mould and twiggery adorned her head and mane, and one knee was cut. Across her lower chest a horizontal wound showed scarlet.

‘My God!' James turned a stricken face towards Ross. ‘Where did she go? Where
is
the cross-country course?'

‘The copse. The other side of the home field.' Ross pointed, moving to catch Gypsy's rein as she tried to dodge past. James sped off in the direction he had indicated.

Ross swore. For the first time he felt his injury as a real handicap. Instinct urged him to run after James but common sense held him back. He would be no help to anyone if his knee let him down.

Clumsily he knotted Gypsy's broken reins as she whirled round him in agitated circles and, with an inelegant flying leap, launched himself at the saddle using her momentum to swing his leg over her back. Still held tightly, she made another frantic turn, then slipped and scrabbled on the cobbles as Ross drummed his heels into her sides.

As they burst into the home field, Ross could see James disappearing through the gate on the far side. He gave the mare her head and thundered in pursuit.

At the edge of the trees he reined her in hard and slid off. In the comparative gloom of the copse he could see James' pale shirt as he moved diagonally ahead. Beyond him, on the ground, a slight figure lay motionless. Ross' heart did a slow roll and started beating with heavy, rib-thumping strokes.

After tying Gypsy to the gate, he limped after James. He saw him crouch down beside Lindsay and heard her soft cry as she sat up and buried her face in his shoulder.

Ross stopped, relief giving way to a sharp stab of envy. He laughed sardonically at himself. What had he expected? That she would turn to
him
in her distress? She was engaged to James, for God's sake! He turned away as the two embraced, feeling like a third person in a honeymoon suite. At his feet, deep sliding hoofmarks scored the earth, evidence of Gypsy's struggle to regain her feet. Lindsay must have been thrown well clear.

‘Is she all right?' he called.

‘Just winded, I think.' James looked at him over her blonde head.

Lindsay raised her face and smiled tremulously at Ross through tear-filled eyes. ‘Gypsy?'

‘Oh, she'll be okay. What happened exactly?' He was inspecting the jump at which the mare had fallen. It was a ‘bullfinch', a double post and rail fence, in-filled with brush which extended a good three feet above it and was intended to be jumped through, rather than over. Not a difficult fence for an experienced horse and Gypsy was certainly that.

Lindsay shook her head. ‘I don't know. She was going beautifully and then she took off and just . . . well, tipped over. I can't explain it.'

‘I think I can.' Grimly, Ross reached down into the leaves at his feet and held up the frayed end of a six-foot length of rope. It would have been a simple matter to conceal it stretched in the midst of the brush.

‘Ross!' Lindsay's eyes opened wide with shock. ‘Who would do such a thing?'

Well, Leo for a start, Ross thought dryly, and possibly our nameless extortionist. He shook his head, his face registering only bewilderment.

‘Kids, maybe? Or the Colonel's hippies? Whoever it was, it wasn't meant for you. Nobody could have known you'd be riding here tonight. You were just unlucky.'

‘Ross!' The inflection had changed. The implication of what he had just said was not lost on her.

‘Never mind, Princess,' he said quickly. ‘Look, if you're sure you're okay, I'll take Gypsy on back. One white knight is enough for any damsel.'

The incident left him feeling unsettled and faintly troubled. If this
had
been Leo's work then his vendetta was beginning to assume far more serious dimensions than Ross had anticipated. In spite of the violence of his leaving, Ross had not really considered the possibility that Leo would take his feud further. It certainly hadn't occurred to him that those around him would also be at risk.

He shuddered to think how badly Lindsay might have been hurt if she hadn't been thrown clear. She could easily have broken her neck or been pinned beneath the falling horse, as he himself knew only too well. The sight of her, shocked and bruised, clinging to James for comfort, haunted him all evening.

James had taken Lindsay straight to her uncle, and the Colonel had called the police who, after a perfunctory survey of the scene, said they thought it unlikely they would ever find out who had been responsible.

They showed faint stirrings of interest when Ross told them briefly of Leo's angry departure, but beyond advocating a general tightening of security could offer no further advice.

Now Ross sat in his over-warm room with the window open behind him and the dog stretched companionably at his feet, fighting an almost overwhelming temptation to make ‘medicinal' use of the bottle of whisky in his suitcase. His knee ached fiercely but without the kind of intense, stabbing pain that would justify recourse to alcohol.

You're getting soft, he told himself severely.

In the end he compromised by making coffee with a shot incorporated and fell asleep on top of the bed, clad only in shorts and praying for a storm to clear the air.

Friday dawned with the same unremitting heat. Breakfast was interrupted by a call from the Colonel who said he'd had word of a dealer with a couple of useful young horses. Ross and Bill were to accompany him to look them over that afternoon.

Ross received the news with a decided upturn in spirits. New horses in the yard would help lay any rumours to rest.

At lunchtime he had a call from Franklin Richmond, inviting him out for a meal that evening, ostensibly to celebrate the success of his horses at the Three Counties. They agreed a time and place and Richmond rang off, leaving Ross to wonder if this meant there had been new developments in the war against Mr X.

Ross, Bill and the Colonel travelled to the dealer's yard in the Land-Rover rather than the Jag, to avoid appearing too obviously affluent. As they got out they were hailed from across the yard by an ageless, wiry, ginger-haired man who introduced himself as Declan O'Connell. He was as Irish as the Blarney Stone and, Ross decided, had probably been born with his lips pressed firmly against it. He greeted them all warmly and proceeded to give them a potted autobiography as an assurance of his fitness to judge good horseflesh.