Cut Throat (41 page)

Applause rippled round the arena as the vehicle made its way out. Ross reflected that he had probably made their day.

Outside the collecting ring, he climbed stiffly down from the ambulance, thanked and reassured the medical crew for the umpteenth time, and was nearly bowled over by an enthusiastic embrace from Lindsay.

‘Ross!' she cried. ‘For a moment I thought . . . I mean, it was just like last time. I was
so
scared! And you
were
right about Ginger, weren't you?'

He unwound her arms from about his neck, partly in deference to James, who was watching with an expression that was unreadable, and partly because her hug was making contact with a lot of sore places in a way that made his vision swim a little.

‘I expect it looked worse than it was,' he said steadyingly. ‘I was winded, that's all.'

He turned to where Danny was leading Ginger up for the vet to see. Her panic spent, she looked dejected, her chestnut coat dark with sweat and ears drooping unhappily. It didn't take an expert to see that she was heavily lame. She could hardly put her near fore to the ground.

Ross wondered what Fergusson would have to say about the afternoon's events and felt suddenly tired and depressed, himself. He accompanied Danny and Ginger back to the horsebox, limping almost as heavily as the mare.

The Colonel joined them en route, concerned for Ross' well being and anxious for the horse. He firmly vetoed the American's declared intention to stick to his schedule and ride Telamon but eventually gave way on the question of Woodsmoke.

‘All right. But if you do yourself any further injury, I won't be answerable to Franklin,' he warned. ‘What did the vet have to say about Ginger?'

‘He wasn't happy,' Ross reported. ‘He thinks she may have cracked a bone in her pastern. She'll have to be X-rayed. There could well be a problem with her back, too.' He looked round significantly. ‘Where's the worried owner?'

The Colonel sighed. ‘He said to forward the vet's report. He's gone home. Bloody man!'

Ross grunted an amen to that.

By the time Ross had jumped Woodsmoke to second place in the jump-off and all the horses were loaded and ready to travel, almost two hours had passed and he was feeling pretty much like a football must feel after a particularly gruelling Super Bowl.

Dismounting from the big bay, the ground had threatened to jump up and hit him, and he'd sat down rather rapidly on the horsebox ramp.

Riding had been a less than joyful affair but not quite as bad as he had feared it might be. Even so, had it been any horse but Woodsmoke, he would probably have been forced to admit defeat. With Woody though – steady dependable Woody – it was mostly a case of pointing him in the right direction and staying on. The horse did the rest.

In the end, there were only two clear rounds in the jump-off, other riders trying too hard for speed and sacrificing fences. Ross was easily beaten on the clock by Stephen Douglas, who jumped a fast clear on China Lily but for once seemed to have no inclination to gloat.

Ross travelled back to the yard sprawled on the sofa bed in the living-quarters of the lorry. Danny had offered his company but Bill had said with surprising insight that he thought Ross would prefer to be alone.

Ross did prefer it. On his own he didn't have to maintain a stoic façade. He reflected that probably Bill spoke from experience. After all, who should know better than a steeplechase jockey what it felt like to be trampled by half a ton of struggling horse?

By the feel of it, now the adrenalin had ebbed and subsided, he would soon be sporting several hoof-sized bruises. His head ached heavily, as did his ribs, and if he twisted or tried to bend too far, a sharp pain discouraged him in no uncertain manner.

None of these discomforts worried him unduly. He would be stiff, he knew, but it wouldn't be the first time and he felt very sure it wouldn't be the last. Time would heal.

What did worry him was the added damage that had undoubtedly been done to his knee. The mare had to pick
that
leg to roll on. Still, he supposed being very lame on one leg was better than being lame on two.

His thoughts turned unhappily to Ginger. If anything, she had looked to be in a worse state than he was. Her best hope lay in being unfit to finish the season, then maybe Fergusson would sell her on to someone who had time to tackle her problems.

At some point in this unsatisfactory train of thought, and despite the fierce competition between head, ribs and knee for his attention, Ross drifted off to sleep.

Consciousness returned quite suddenly.

One moment wild and muddled dreams, the next a hazy light and the heavy ticking of a clock. Ross lay and watched the light from behind his lashes. He wondered what time it was, hoping he didn't have to get up too soon.

It seemed like any other morning until he shifted position and a thousand damaged nerve-endings screamed in protest. It was a bad moment, and as he lay still, waiting for the sensation to pass, he realised he couldn't actually recall going to bed.

The stairs creaked and the door swung open. Not used to receiving company early in the morning, Ross rolled his head to view his visitor, hoping fervently that whoever it was wasn't bent on doing him harm. In his present state, he'd be a pushover.

Maggie Scott appeared round the dividing curtain. ‘Oh, you're awake then,' she observed, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘How do you feel?'

‘I've been better,' he admitted. ‘What time is it?'

‘Gone midday,' she said, walking round the bed and drawing the curtains at the window. The sun streamed in, making Ross wince. ‘You had us worried last night, you know. Fainting like that. The Colonel was proper cut up. Said he never should have let you ride Woody in that last class.'

‘I've never fainted in my life,' Ross protested.

‘Well, you did last night, or something like it. We had a job to wake you at all when the lorry got back. You were very groggy. Anyway, halfway across the yard you collapsed again; nearly pulled Bill over. James had to half-carry you upstairs. Proper to-do it was.'

Ross frowned. ‘James carried me?'

‘It was touch and go whether we called the doctor or the ambulance,' Maggie went on, relishing the memory of the drama. ‘The Colonel was afraid you had delayed concussion, but I said I was sure they would have checked you for concussion in the ambulance at the show.'

‘They did,' Ross agreed.

‘I said they would have,' Maggie said knowingly. ‘I said all you probably needed was a good sleep, and the doctor agreed. He knows I've done some nursing and was quite happy to leave you in my care.'

‘Thank you.' Ross was genuinely grateful. ‘I'm sorry I caused such a fuss. Uh . . . did the doctor say anything else?'

Somewhere along the line he had changed, or been changed, from his riding gear into the shorts he wore in bed, and it was too much to hope that his heavily strapped knee would have gone unnoticed.

‘He said he thought you had some sore ribs and there would be a lot of bruising. Oh, and he asked about your knee but the Colonel said that was an old injury.'

‘The Colonel was in here?'

‘No, of course not. Just Dr Brougham and me,' Maggie said, full of self-importance. ‘The Colonel waited in the cottage with Bill and the others. Anyway, the doctor said you were lucky to have got off so lightly, by the sound of it.'

‘And Ginger?'

Maggie hesitated, uncharacteristically. ‘She's not too good, poor old girl. But there'll be time enough to worry about that when you're on your feet again.'

Ross eased himself gingerly into a sitting position. ‘Well, if you'll excuse me, that won't take too long,' he said.

Maggie protested, her maternal instincts aroused. The doctor had said two or three days, she argued.

‘I'll get bedsores!' Ross exclaimed in mock alarm. ‘No, honestly. The sooner I'm up and about, the sooner the stiffness will wear off. I'll be okay.'

Though unconvinced, Maggie eventually conceded defeat and when all her offers of help were politely refused, left the room. She would have something to eat ready for him in the cottage, she said.

When Ross finally made it to the yard, after taking a ridiculously long time to shower, shave and dress, he found it a hive of activity. Lindsay, Sarah and Danny were hosing down Joey, Blue and Fly; Roger West's Range Rover was parked by the stable office, dusty as ever, and its owner stood talking to Bill and the Colonel outside the tackroom.

Ross eased away from the doorpost he had been leaning against and limped across to them.

‘Ross!' The Colonel was the first to see him. ‘Should you be out of bed?'

‘I figured I'd had a long enough lie-in,' he said, embarrassed as always by the concern focussed on him. ‘How's the mare?'

He could tell instantly, by their faces, that all was far from well.

‘I'm afraid there's not much we can do for her, Ross,' Roger said unhappily. ‘I took a couple of X-rays of that near-fore earlier and I'm afraid it confirmed what we feared.' He held up one grey picture, pointing with the corner of the other. ‘See, there. She's chipped her short pastern, just behind the coronet. And here.' He indicated the other X-ray. ‘What do you see?'

Ross looked, gloomily. ‘She's cracked her pedal bone,' he said, recognising the crescent-shaped bone within the hoof. ‘Poor old girl. She must be in a lot of pain.'

The vet nodded. ‘She must have clouted it pretty hard. There's evidence of damage to the ligaments and tendons, too. The Colonel thinks she may have got her leg through that gate yesterday and wrenched it trying to pull herself free. In addition to that, she's not at all comfortable in her back and seems mentally distressed too. She'll not jump again; may not even be fit enough to ride, and from what I've been hearing, it would be a bit of a risk to breed from her. Basically, we're just waiting to hear from Mr Fergusson.'

‘I see.' Ross had expected it, deep down, but it didn't make the thought any the more palatable. The mare had run out of time. ‘I'll go see her.'

‘I've given her a sedative,' Roger said, ‘and a pain-killer but she's still not happy. I hope Fergusson isn't too long getting back to us.'

Ross nodded and made his painful way over to the covered stables. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lindsay start towards him, then pause as she read his expression. Silently, he blessed her for understanding his need to be alone.

He spent quite a while with the mare. Talking to her, trying to calm her. Apologising for not understanding soon enough and finally telling her that she had nothing to fear; soon everything would be all right.

As ever, he couldn't reach her. She seemed to be in her own private hell. A world not only full of fear and mistrust, but now filled with pain, as well. He couldn't reach her but he experienced empathy with her. In some ways, he felt, they had had a lot in common.

Ross was with the mare also, three hours later, when two men came from the local hunt kennels and she was destroyed humanely in the home field, out of sight of the other horses, with her head in a bucket of oats and carrots.

It was not the first time he had stood with a horse in its final moments but it never got any easier. One moment a thinking, feeling being, a personality you knew and with whom you had shared moments of joy and sadness; the next an awkward, undignified corpse, dull-eyed and insentient.

Ross turned away as soon as it was over, leaving the two men to finish their unpleasant but necessary task alone. Behind him he heard the drone of the winch motor as the heavy body was hauled into the van.

Bill was waiting at the field gate. He had offered to take Ross' place but even though circumstances had dictated that they never became close, Ross had felt he owed the mare his company in that last act. What always got to him was the sense of betrayal he felt. Horses stood so quietly. Infinitely trusting. He supposed it was better that way. No apprehension. No fear. Just suddenly – nothing.

‘Bloody business,' Bill growled as Ross reached him. ‘You never get used to it, do you?'

Ross shook his head. ‘You always wonder if there was anything else you could have done.'

‘You do the best you can at the time,' Bill said. ‘No use torturing yourself. And if it's any comfort, I should have listened to you about that mare. I'm sorry.'

Ross was surprised. ‘It helps,' he said. ‘Thanks. But it's too late.'

They wouldn't let him work or ride, so Ross had a hot bath to try and ease his bruises and stiffening muscles, and then spent an hour or two stretched out on his bed, prey to self-pity and depression.

The only thing about the day that held any promise was the news from Roger West that, contrary to expectation, the dog had begun to rally. There were signs of movement in his back legs although it was still too early to say whether he would regain full mobility.

The vet suggested that in a day or two, if he continued to make progress, the dog should go to Annie Hayward's to convalesce. She had a way with sick animals of all kinds, he said, and had immediately offered to help when she heard about the dog.

Ross was deeply grateful.

The evening found him making his way up to the main house in response to a request from the Colonel. Although the walk was irksome, on the whole it was preferable to an evening spent in his own company or the doubtful entertainment of British TV.

The Colonel was not alone in his study when Masters showed Ross in. Roland lounged nonchalantly in one of the worn leather armchairs, sipping sherry.