Cut Throat (30 page)

Oh, my God, I sound just like my aunt! he thought, groaning inwardly.

He let the dog out on to the landing.

‘If you get soaked, you can sleep out here.'

The dog ran down the stairs and pawed at the door at the bottom, and when it was opened, shot out into the rain-filled darkness without hesitation.

‘Desperate, huh?' Ross muttered, settling on the bottom step to await his return.

He found himself going over Roland's surprising announcement. He had a feeling it was probably a whimsical thought, spoken aloud, and that nothing would ever come of it. He couldn't really see Roland as a showjumping fan. But then, you couldn't really see Roland as anything much, except perhaps an actor. Ross wondered if he'd ever had any connections with the theatre. Now that really
would
please the Colonel!

Abruptly, he remembered where he was and why. The door was ajar but the dog hadn't come back yet. Ross opened the door wider and, squinting against the driving rain, whistled between crashes of thunder. There was no response.

He tried again.

Nothing.

He looked at his watch. It was too late for Maggie to have let him into the cottage. Ross cursed and ran back upstairs to fetch his boots. If it hadn't been raining so hard he might have left the dog out there but it was just possible he could be barking at an intruder and Ross not hearing him through the storm.

Taking his waterproof stockman's coat and wide-brimmed hat from the hook behind the door, he ran back downstairs and out into the rain.

The yard was awash. The low, security lighting revealed sheets of rain being flung earthwards from the blackness above. Lightning split the sky with jagged streaks at frequent intervals, leaving bright impressions on the retina that confused the following darkness.

Having satisfied himself that the dog was not in the yard or sheltering by the covered stables, Ross headed for the Scotts' cottage and the car parking space beyond. The lights were out in the cottage and as Ross searched the shed, the yard lights flickered off and on again as lightning struck the grid.

No sign.

Torn between annoyance and growing anxiety, Ross sprinted through the puddles to the schooling arena. The gate was shut and an accommodating flash revealed it to be empty. He trotted to the opposite corner of the yard, where the path sloped down behind the haybarn to the home field.

The haybarn door stood open. It hadn't been at half-past ten. Ross had checked it himself. The bolt was quite stiff but now the door swung heavily in the wind.

So there
had
been somebody in the yard.

Ross wished he'd had the foresight to bring something with him with which to defend himself. He hadn't even brought a torch. But then he hadn't seriously thought there would be anyone out there on such a night. Whoever it was must be mad!

Whoever it was might well be a little insane, he reflected uncomfortably.

Heart-rate rocketing, he stood to one side of the door and slid his left hand round and in to flick the light switch down.

Nobody leapt at him. Nobody rushed past him into the rain. Nobody moved at all. The barn was empty.

Relieved, Ross turned the switch off and closed the door, bolting it securely. The fact remained, though, that somebody
had
been there. Worried, he decided to check on the horses before resuming his search for the dog.

The horses were fine. All on their feet except Woodsmoke who was resting his ageing limbs, but all as relaxed as one could expect in such a storm.

Ross returned to the haybarn and began to make his way along the outside. He whistled again but the sound was pitiful in the wind-torn night. Feeling his way along the wooden wall, his foot met an obstruction and he paused, crouching to investigate. A flash illuminated the rain-sodden body at his feet just as his fingers identified the wet fur.

The sight of the apparently lifeless dog was imprinted on his mind in that one brilliant moment, and the deafening crash of thunder that immediately followed it drowned his cry of distress.

He bowed his head, shock numbing his senses so that the rain ran, unfelt, down his neck and inside his shirt. It was a moment or two before he realised that beneath his hands the dog's ribcage was moving slightly.

With urgency born of hope, Ross gathered the huge, limp form into his arms and slipped and slid his way back up the path to the yard. Somewhere on the way, the wind blew his hat off and whirled it away into the darkness. He hardly noticed, heading straight for the shed where the Land-Rover was housed. It was obvious the animal needed immediate veterinary attention and a journey in his own open-topped jeep was plainly out of the question.

Wishing there was a light in the shed, Ross laid the dog in the back of the Land-Rover, removing his coat to cover him with. He retrieved the ignition key from the ledge over the doorway and climbed into the front. Before he could fit the key into the ignition, however, a beam of light caught him directly in the face.

‘What the hell?' he gasped, throwing up his hand to shield his eyes.

‘What's going on?' a voice demanded. ‘Ross?'

‘Roland!' Ross was equally astounded.

The beam of light dropped and a flash of lightning through the doorway illuminated the unmistakable features of the Colonel's son. He too was hatless and, unsurprisingly, drenched.

‘Out of the way!' Ross shouted above the drumming of the rain on the tin roof. He gunned the engine.

‘What's wrong?' Roland flashed his torch round the interior of the vehicle. ‘Oh, hell! What happened? No. Forget it. You get going. I'll ring Roger and let him know you're coming. Go!'

Ross switched the lights on and accelerated out into the downpour. The headlights stabbed out bravely through the shining rods of rain as he drove up the lane but it was like looking through frosted glass. The windscreen wipers scraped frantically at the screen but could make little impression.

Ross drove craned forward in an effort to see more clearly, his knuckles white on the wheel. Twenty-five miles an hour seemed suicidal. He did forty.

Water was cascading along the sides of the road and flooding across it in places. Trees tossed and swayed in the gusty wind and small branches littered the tarmac. The twelve or so miles to Roger West's house took an eternity, and Ross prayed he hadn't missed his way in the chaotic darkness. He'd only been there once before.

The vet, alerted by Roland's call, had switched on an outside light and when Ross drove up was waiting in the doorway of the small animal surgery that his partner normally occupied during working hours. A flash and simultaneous crack of thunder as Ross opened the door of the Land-Rover proved that the storm was at its peak, directly overhead.

‘Go on through!' Roger shouted as he stood back to let the American and his sorry burden go by. ‘Lord, what a night!'

It seemed a lifetime that Ross stood making pools of rainwater on the grey linoleum while Roger examined the battered and bedraggled animal on his operating table, occasionally darting questions at Ross. The dog had regained consciousness at some point during the wild drive but he had neither the inclination, nor perhaps the ability, to move. Blood mingled with the water running out of his fur.

Now that the need for urgent action on Ross' part had passed, so had the sustaining adrenalin. Into its place crept a miserable resignation.

From somewhere in his past, a line from Kipling repeated on his consciousness:
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware, of giving your heart to a dog to tear
.

How true, he reflected, but a lesson never learned. He'd been stung before and still he had come back for more.

Well, never again.

Roger was looking up, his expression sympathetic. Words were not needed.

‘If it's that bad, end it.' Ross was surprised at the steadiness of his voice.

The vet pursed his lips. ‘There is a chance. Just a slim one but I'm willing to try . . .'

The dog raised its black muzzle and gazed through pain-filled brown eyes at the two men. Blood oozed in the wet fur and his legs lay limp on the tabletop.

‘What d'you think's wrong with him?' Ross asked.

‘It's hard to tell, exactly,' Roger said. ‘I would've said he'd been hit by a car but you say he was nowhere near the road. However, his injuries suggest he's been hit by something and probably more than once. There's one gash here, on his head, but he's also got several broken ribs and there are massive contusions. There may be internal damage and his spine may be affected.'

‘Are you saying he'll be paralysed?'

Roger shrugged. ‘It's a strong possibility. It may be only temporary, I can't tell. He could possibly make a full recovery, though at this point I'd have to say that that was doubtful.'

Ross nodded, digesting the information. His throat ached with grief.

‘What do you want me to do?' Roger asked gently.

Ross watched his dog for a moment longer, then turned away, unable to bear the unshaken trust in those beautiful eyes. ‘You decide,' he said. ‘Make a clinical decision. I can't think straight. You decide and send me the bill.'

‘
Ross
, I can't do that!' Roger protested. ‘It's your dog. I need your permission, your
written
permission, strictly speaking.'

‘You have my permission to do what you think is best,' he said, making for the door. He knew he was shirking the responsibility and wasn't proud of himself. But equally, he trusted the vet to do the right thing by the dog.

‘Don't you want to stay, in case . . . ?' Roger delicately left the question unfinished.

‘I have to get back, to check on the horses. Let me know what happens. Send me the bill.'

Ross stepped forward and gently fondled the dog's ears. He bent and kissed the top of the sodden head, then left the surgery and went out into the storm. Within seconds he was back in the Land-Rover.

For a moment he sat and stared through the rain-lashed windscreen with unseeing eyes. He hadn't realised how fond he'd become of the dog. Stupid to let himself get so attached.

To Ross it felt as though his life was predestined to go round in circles and he never seemed to learn from his past mistakes. He got bitten and he just went back for more. What did that say for his character? he wondered, as he started the engine. He supposed it denoted either a lack of intelligence or monumental stubbornness. He wasn't sure he liked either analysis.

The image of the helpless dog haunted him and he pressed his eyes with the palms of his hands, running his fingers up through his dripping hair. Deliberately, he smothered the grief with anger. Putting the vehicle in gear, he drove out of the yard on to the treacherous roads again.

Had someone been in the yard waiting for the dog, or had it surprised someone bent on other unlawful business?

Leo was being watched, wasn't he?

Was it Franklin's Mr X who'd clobbered the dog?

And what of Roland? What could
he
possibly have been doing in the yard at nearly midnight in such weather?

Ross remembered Roland sitting fondling the dog while they talked, earlier that day. The dog had trusted him. Could someone befriend an innocent creature and then viciously attack it just hours later? Wearily, he had to admit that he didn't know any more but if he ever found out who
was
responsible . . .

He hit the steering wheel with a clenched fist as he drove.

By the time Ross returned the Land-Rover to the shed by the Scotts' cottage, the worst of the storm was over. Thunder still rolled in the distance but it grew fainter all the time and the rain had settled to a steady downpour. Wonderful healing rain to wash away the dust and soften the ground. Wonderful relief for showjumpers' legs.

He put the ignition key back on its ledge and sloshed across the yard to the tackroom. The door was secure. One by one, Ross checked all the horses again, reflecting that if Roland had been up to no good, he had certainly left the way clear for him.

All appeared to be peaceful and in order. The Scotts' cottage was still in darkness. Ross was grateful that they were heavy sleepers. He felt he could do without either Bill's acrimony or his wife's sympathy at that moment.

He climbed the stairs to his room feeling lifeless and drained of emotion. Even the anger had abated a little, drifting away with the receding storm.

The light was still on in his bedsit. Roland lay sprawled on the sofa, a towel draped round his neck and his hair spiky from rubbing. It was the first time Ross had seen him in a less than polished state. It made him seem far younger and somehow much more likeable.

‘How is he?' he asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern.

Ross felt he was past knowing who was genuine or not. He shook his head. ‘Not good,' he said. ‘I left him with Roger but I don't think there's much he can do. He'd probably be paralysed anyway.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry. How did it happen? Did something fall on him in the storm?'

‘I think somebody clubbed him,' Ross said bluntly, watching Roland closely for a reaction.

It was minimal. His eyes narrowed slightly and a muscle tightened in his jaw. ‘Oh, hell,' he said, quietly but forcefully. ‘Why? Why would somebody do that?'

Ross shook his head. ‘You tell me,' he said, wondering if Roland could, if he chose to.

‘Not Leo again, surely?'

Ross shrugged, unable to say why it couldn't have been. How had life ever got so damned complicated? he wondered wearily, shivering a little with delayed shock and the cold sogginess of his clothing. The stockman's coat he had dropped in the shower cubicle in the bathroom, saturated as it was with rain and the dog's blood. He'd see to it in the morning.