Cut Throat (38 page)

He soaped and buffed the leather to a rich, gleaming suppleness, lost in gloomy contemplation of the latest vigorous stirring his own particular nest of hornets had received.

Danny had arrived with Fly in time to provide Ross with a respectable means of escape, and one he'd had no hesitation in making use of.

Diane Faulkner had screamed more abuse, most of which was mercifully unintelligible, and was finally shepherded away by the collecting ring steward and a nurse from St John's Ambulance. Barfly surprisingly did not take advantage of his jockey's preoccupation and jumped what was for him a reasonably sensible round.

It didn't take long for word to get round, and for three more long hours, Ross had endured a host of curious and censorious stares. He seemed to be making his mark on the English circuit all right but for all the wrong reasons. Whoever said ‘There's no such thing as bad publicity' should have his head seen to, he decided bitterly.

He was immensely grateful for Danny's unquestioning loyalty and his spirits were further lifted by two competent performances from Saxon Blue.

The fact remained, though, that someone had deliberately searched out Diane Faulkner in order to set her on to Ross. Someone who hated him enough to make sure there was a press photographer handy with camera poised to witness the confrontation.

Although Ross had to admit that there seemed to be no shortage of people who wished him less than well, he felt that given his connections the person in this case was almost certainly Harry Douglas. It was criminal that someone in his position should be allowed to get away with so deliberate a campaign of ruin. However obviously unfair, this latest publicity would go down a storm with the American's growing band of detractors.

‘Hello, Ross.'

Lindsay stood in the doorway. God only knew how long she had been standing there. She wore ski-pants and a long, loose shirt, her hair hidden under a cotton headscarf.

Ross smiled. ‘Hi, Princess. I hope you're not going to make a habit of sneaking up on me. It's not good for my blood pressure, you know.'

‘I'm sorry. Actually, I wasn't sure you'd still be here. I thought you were going out.'

‘Out?'

‘With Danielle,' Lindsay reminded him.

Ross could have kicked himself. ‘And I thought
you
were having a party,' he countered. ‘Shouldn't you be getting ready?'

‘I came to check on Gypsy. She's re-opened that cut on her leg.'

‘
This
time of night?' he asked, incredulously. ‘You should have called. The cut's fine. I changed the dressing an hour ago.'

‘Actually, I had to get out of the house,' she admitted, carefully tracing the line of a scratch on the doorpost with her fingernail. ‘Mother's getting on my nerves. She's so overpowering. She has to try and organise everybody and they don't need it. They're all professionals – the caterers, the musicians, even the florists. It's
so
embarrassing. You can see they're all wishing her at the devil.' She sighed. ‘I suppose she means well, but . . .'

‘Sure she does. She just wants everything to be right for you.'

‘Not for
me
!' Lindsay burst out, looking all of a sudden younger and very unhappy. ‘She wants it for herself. Everything has to be how
she
wants it, so her toffee-nosed friends will be impressed. I'm even marrying the man
she
chose for me. The most eligible of eligible bachelors.' She stopped short, biting her lip. ‘No, I didn't mean that. James is a great guy. I'm very fond of him.'

Ross supposed it was natural to get cold feet at the last minute, and for Lindsay it must almost feel like the final commitment with the scale of the celebrations, but he fervently wished she hadn't chosen to unburden herself on him.
Fond
was a strange choice of word, though.

‘You'll be fine. You make a great pair,' he assured her. ‘Look, can I get you something? A coffee? Beer?'

Lindsay shook her head. ‘No. Thanks all the same. I'd better get back. I've got to change and finish getting ready. I'll probably get a rollicking as it is.'

She made no move to leave, however, concentrating on the scratch on the doorpost once more, a little crease between her brows.

Ross finished soaping the last bridle and started reassembling it. The silence was loud between them and he wished she would just go. He wasn't by any means the best person to advise her on affairs of the heart, and after last week he would have thought she'd have known that.

‘Why don't you want to come tonight, Ross?' she asked abruptly, turning to face him.

He blinked. Whatever he'd expected, it hadn't been a direct challenge.

‘I . . . er . . . I don't have anything to wear,' he said lamely. ‘I wasn't expecting to have to dress up when I packed to come over.'

‘It doesn't matter. There'll probably be all sorts there.'

Ross raised an eyebrow. ‘Not jeans and cowboy boots,' he said. ‘Your mother would crucify me!'

‘Stuff Mother!' Lindsay countered forcefully. ‘But it's not just that, is it, Ross? You could have borrowed. Why don't you want to come? Is it Danielle?'

Ross felt cornered. ‘No, it's not Danielle. I never did ask her to go out tonight. Sorry, Princess. It's just . . . I don't know. I guess I'm just not in the mood for partying.'

‘Me neither,' Lindsay confided with a smile. ‘Look, please say you'll come? Even just for a little while. Roland will lend you something to wear. He's about your height and he's got tons.'

Ross was taken aback. ‘He might not want to . . .'

‘He doesn't mind. I asked him yesterday, just in case. Please say you will? It won't seem right otherwise. Do it just to annoy Mother, if nothing else!'

Ross gave in. He'd had it in the back of his mind that he really ought to put in an appearance, anyway.

‘You say
your mother
organises everybody,' he said pointedly. ‘Okay, I'll come but it won't be until later. Now you'd better be on your way, hadn't you?'

Lindsay nodded. She turned away and then stopped and said over her shoulder, ‘I knew you weren't going out with Danielle tonight. She's coming to the party with Roland.'

‘You devious little . . .!' Ross threw his cleaning sponge at her and she ducked and ran out of the door.

Ross travelled to the first day of the New Forest Show on the Tuesday with his mind all over the place. Behind him in the lorry, four excited horses shifted and stamped on the straw-covered matting but for once he had little thought for them.

He'd spent less than an hour at Lindsay's party. Roland and Danielle were the only people he'd known apart from the Colonel and the engaged couple themselves, and he was not in the mood for making small talk to strangers.

He nibbled a couple of canapés, drank a glass of champagne and slipped away when the dancing began, feeling he'd done his duty and unable to bear the sight of Lindsay, gorgeous in emerald silk, smiling up at James as they circled the floor.

He slowed the box as they approached the bottleneck of Lyndhurst High Street, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

Monday's article in the
Sportsman
had not spared him. The photograph of Diane Faulkner and himself was a masterpiece, surpassed only by the wording of the headline, which ran AMERICAN RIDER IN CRIPPLED CHILD TRAGEDY.

The accompanying report rated Ross as little better than a child molester. He was labelled a ‘controversial rider', his accident in America was termed an ‘incident' and Mrs Faulkner was described as ‘understandably bitter'.

She was quoted as saying that Ross had tried to buy her silence with a wheelchair for Naomi, and made it sound as though his reckless or incompetent riding was to blame for the tragedy. No mention was made of Vixen's brain tumour.

The article was careful to draw no conclusions and make no direct accusations on its own behalf. It really didn't have to.

Ross' Monday night session with the Colonel had not – for the second week running – been a bundle of laughs.

‘Life certainly hasn't been dull since you came to ride for us, has it, Ross?' his boss said by way of an opener as they sat down together.

‘No, sir.' Ross returned a steady gaze.

‘Accidents, prowlers, break-ins, fights amongst the staff, and now this . . .' He indicated a copy of the
Sportsman
which lay open on his desk.

Ross said nothing. There didn't seem to be anything he could say.

‘A reporter from the local rag woke me at half-past seven this morning, wanting to know my feelings on the matter,' the Colonel told him. ‘I think he got rather more of them than he bargained for! I detest such intrusions, especially by the press, and especially before breakfast. I threatened him with trespass!'

Ross smiled, picturing the scene.

The Colonel picked up the paper. ‘It doesn't read well, though, does it? We can do without this sort of thing if we're going to try to attract sponsors next year.'

It was the first Ross had heard of looking for a sponsor, although it was something that became a necessity for most riders when they started competing at a higher level.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, helplessly. ‘It wasn't the way they make it sound. They twist everything round to suit themselves.'

The Colonel nodded, seeming calm enough. ‘It hasn't gone unnoticed the way Harry Douglas has singled you out, you know. Several people have remarked on it. Franklin is of the opinion we should put some pressure on the editor to make Mr Douglas toe the line. Would you like to make a statement in your own defence?'

Ross considered this. ‘No, I don't think so,' he said after a moment. ‘You can't convince those that don't want to be convinced, and the others won't believe this rubbish anyway. I think if I ignore it and Douglas can be persuaded to give it a rest, the whole business will die a natural death.'

The Colonel raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, yes. I suppose that's one way of looking at it.' He tapped the photograph with one finger. ‘I assume there is a reasonable explanation for this?'

Ross shrugged. ‘She'd hit me once and was going to do it again. I had to stop her somehow.'

The Colonel regarded him long and thoughtfully. ‘For a quiet, unassuming chap, you certainly seem to have a genius for upsetting people,' he said finally.

Ross smiled. ‘Don't I just?'

He explained to the Colonel about the wheelchair; how it was offered as a gift. ‘I wanted to try and help somehow and I couldn't think of anything else. God knows it was little enough but it was something. She threw the offer back in my face,' he remembered regretfully. ‘I guess it was a dumb idea.'

Telling the Colonel had helped, in a way. It was a long time since he'd talked of it to anybody, even Lindsay, and it helped to get it out into the open. To stop it festering away inside.

Nevertheless, the matter preyed on his mind as they travelled the short distance to Brockenhurst.

Several people had gone to the trouble of ringing the yard to spout verbal abuse at him, linking the article – as Douglas had no doubt intended – with the earlier one about drinking. Two callers Ross had spoken to himself; the others – he didn't know how many – had been fielded and dealt with by Bill. Knowing the censure was unjustified didn't stop it leaving a nasty taste in his mouth.

He began to think about issuing a statement in his defence, after all. It seemed he had underestimated the depth of feeling the article would arouse.

At the show, waiting just inside the collecting ring on Simone and trying not to notice the nudging and whispering, he was hailed by Mick Colby who was attending the show as a spectator.

‘Does everybody read that bloody paper?' Ross asked, as Mick came over.

‘What paper?' his friend enquired innocently. ‘No, don't you dare touch my shoulder.' He moved his bandaged arm back out of Ross' reach. ‘But honestly, I shouldn't worry. They'll get over it. It'll be somebody else another day. You're just flavour of the month at the moment.'

‘Some flavour,' Ross remarked dryly.

By midday he discovered he had become more or less immune to the stares and pointing fingers, and when during the afternoon Clown unseated him in the practice area and he heard several smothered giggles, it troubled him not at all.

In fact, when he had remounted the flighty skewbald, he rode past the offending group, said with a creditable imitation of Roland, ‘Hilarious, wasn't it?' and had the satisfaction of seeing their faces redden in discomfort.

At least it seemed the horses were on his side. They all jumped competently and behaved well, and the lorry cab was decorated with a smattering of rosettes as they joined the queue of slow-moving traffic leaving the showground that evening.

By the time the horses were unloaded and settled for the night, all their gear sorted and cleaned, and the horsebox made ready for the next day, there was only time for a few hours' sleep before the whole performance began again.

Four horses made the journey to the show on Wednesday. The two mares, Ginger and Flo, occupied the two foremost stalls in the lorry, with the stallion, Telamon, at the very rear. In between was one empty section and the solid figure of Woodsmoke, who effectively quelled any romantic notions the big chestnut might otherwise have nurtured.

Ross had another busy day. Ginger behaved herself, although she could not, by any stretch of the imagination, have been described as eager.

Robbie Fergusson was at the show, Ross knew, but he kept himself to himself which suited Ross just fine. Flo excelled herself, placing in both her morning classes – one an important qualifier. The Oakley Manor team ate lunch on the hoof, and the first of Ross' rides for the afternoon was Telamon.