Cut Throat (51 page)

Or until they take my licence, Ross thought, thanking him.

‘Well, actually, it was Darcy's idea,' Franklin admitted. ‘It only sits around doing nothing. It's a bit rough, I'm afraid, but roadworthy.'

‘You want to watch the clutch,' Darcy said, coming over. ‘It's a bit of a sod. And one of the front wheels needs balancing, as I remember, but basically it's okay.'

Ross thanked him as well and he shrugged and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Hey, forget it. It's no big deal and it'll do it good to be used. We'll drop it by later.'

‘That's great. I need to go over to Amesbury on Monday and I'm not quite sure whether I'm allowed to use ours at the moment.'

If Darcy had indeed been jealous of Ross' popularity with Peter, as the Colonel had suggested, then he appeared to have got over it now, Ross reflected as he trudged wearily back to the horsebox with Clown after they left. He couldn't have been more amiable. Perhaps he found it easier to contend with a tarnished idol. Peter had certainly seemed subdued. No doubt it was uncharitable, but Ross couldn't help wondering just what Darcy might have said to the youngster.

‘A penny for 'em,' a voice said at his elbow

‘Mick!' Ross turned, delightedly. ‘Nice to see you. How's tricks?'

‘Collarbone's good as mended and I'll have the plaster off my foot next week, all being well,' Mick Colby declared cheerfully. ‘All in all, better than you, from what I've been hearing. How're you doing?'

‘I'm workin' on it,' Ross said. ‘I suppose you read the papers?'

Colby nodded, grinning. ‘You just can't bear to be out of the news, can you? So, who got you into that little mess?'

Ross looked at him sharply. ‘Why do you say that?'

Colby shrugged. ‘Oh, I don't know. I've seen enough of you, one way or another, to know that it's not your style. Crazy you might be but you're not stupid.'

‘Thanks. I appreciate that,' Ross said sincerely.

‘So, how's that red tornado you've been riding lately? Is he here today?'

‘Not today,' Ross said, pleased to let the uncomfortable subject drop. ‘He's got two classes tomorrow, though, and he's fighting fit.'

Mick seemed disposed to stick around and with his cheerful company the rest of the day passed very pleasantly. He got on well with Danny and when Roland turned up shortly before lunch, good spirits turned to hilarity. Bill regarded their determined light-heartedness with open disapproval but said little.

Ross' success with Telamon appeared to have dampened the rumourmongers' efforts a little and for the first part of the day he encountered if not friendly smiles, then at least no open hostility. As the day wore on, however, it became apparent that someone had been busy spreading the details of his latest misdeeds and his reception in many quarters turned a little frosty.

He found he'd grown used to the cold.

By the time the last round had been jumped and the horses loaded, the Oakley Manor team had collected two trophies, several rosettes and a respectable amount of prize money. Ross was dog-tired and never happier to leave the driving to Bill.

‘You should take it easy, Yank. You look like death only slightly warmed up.' Mick seemed genuinely concerned.

‘Thanks! The original Job's Comforter. Couldn't you think of anything really depressing to say?'

Mick laughed. ‘I just thought you could do with a little advice from a friend. See you tomorrow, maybe.'

‘Sure, Limey,' Ross responded. ‘If I make it through the night!'

In fact, Ross slept through most of the return journey, shifting restlessly to ease the discomfort of his cracked ribs and throbbing knee. Despite his light-hearted banter with Mick, in his waking moments he seriously wondered how much longer he could keep going with his troublesome knee, even if he was given the chance.

The second day of the show was almost as successful as the first, although the proceedings were complicated somewhat by the wind, which had strengthened still further overnight and blew the ring decorations and some of the flimsier fences over with what became a monotonous regularity.

The horses reacted variously to this when it happened, ranging from Woody's bombproof reliability to Telamon's professed terror, which Ross suspected was a total sham. Nevertheless, counterfeit or no, it didn't stop the stallion bucking him off in the middle of the main ring when nearly five foot of planks collapsed dramatically a few yards away.

Ross picked himself resignedly up off the turf and followed the chestnut from the ring to the accompaniment of sympathetic applause.

In the collecting ring he found Stephen Douglas had caught the horse, and walked over, expecting to be on the receiving end of a snide remark or two.

His rival, however, seemed disinclined to gloat. ‘He's a bugger, isn't he?' Douglas remarked with what looked suspiciously like the beginnings of a friendly smile.

‘You can say that again,' Ross agreed, slightly bemused by this completely unheralded behavioural swing. Thanking Stephen, he took back the reins.

When Telamon more than redeemed himself later by winning one of the biggest classes of the afternoon, ahead of Stephen Douglas and Danielle Moreaux, Ross was over the moon. He felt a certain affinity with the rogue horse. After all, they were both badly in need of proving themselves.

‘You did it, you crazy son-of-a-gun!' he said, slapping the arching red neck as he remounted for the prize-giving. Telamon tossed his head, sensing as some horses do that he'd done well and feeling pleased with himself.

As they lined up to receive their rosetes, Stephen Douglas glanced across at Ross with an uncertain smile.

‘Well done. You gave him a great ride,' he said, reddening a little.

Ross blinked. ‘Thanks,' he said.

It appeared to be a day for surprises and not all of them pleasant.

After having collected an unlucky four faults on Woodsmoke in his final class, Ross rode Bishop into the ring feeling heartily glad that it was his last ride of the day. The black had fully recovered from his injury and jumped with smooth precision, giving each obstacle a good clearance and never looking like making a mistake. In spite of his own fatigue, Ross was lifted by admiration for the horse.

As he gave him a loose rein and walked him towards the exit, the loudspeaker announced, ‘A lovely clear round there for Ross Wakelin and Black Bishop. Maybe one of the last times we shall see this partnership, as I believe the horse has been sold. A shame, that. Next to jump we have number two-two-five, Sally Patterson on her own Magpie.'

Ross was stunned.

Where the hell had they got their information? How could it be that the show commentator knew before he did? His face stony, he rode through the collecting ring and on to the public thoroughfare before he dismounted.

‘Ross! Is it true?' Danny was instantly beside him. ‘Who told them that?'

‘How do you feel about losing the ride, Mr Wakelin?' a voice enquired unctuously at Ross' shoulder, and he turned to find Harry Douglas smiling at him from behind a hand-held tape-recorder. ‘Oh, I'm sorry. Can it be that you didn't know? Mr Fergusson phoned me this morning.'

‘And you didn't waste any time spreading the glad tidings. I should've guessed it was you,' Ross added through clenched teeth. ‘Don't you ever give up? What have I ever done to you to make you hound me like this? Surely it's not still about Stephen? Can't you see he's better off where he is now?'

‘Hound you? You're imagining things, Ross. I'm a reporter. I merely report what I see. People have a right to know.'

‘And you have a right to stir things up when they get a bit quiet, I suppose?' Ross was aware that they were attracting a fair amount of attention, both inside the collecting ring and out, but he was too incensed to care. ‘Well, I hope you're happy now you've dragged my reputation through the mud, because there's one advantage to being in my position – I've got absolutely nothing to lose!'

There and then, heedless of the fascinated gaze of the gathering crowd, he hit Harry Douglas with all the weight of weeks of frustration powering his fist.

The
Sportsman
's star reporter reeled back into the arms of the startled onlookers and slid down to sit on the trampled grass with an almost comical expression of amazement on his face.

‘Put that in your bloody paper!' Ross said with tremendous satisfaction and turned away without a second glance. The crowd parted to let him through, and a ragged cheer and amused applause followed his departure. It seemed he wasn't entirely without friends after all.

Stephen Douglas materialised at his side as he plodded across the showground in the wake of Danny and Bishop.

‘I've been wanting to do that for years,' Douglas Junior said, casting a satisfied glance back to where his father was being helped up and dusted down. ‘He's been interfering in my life ever since I can remember. He tried to make me hate you because you took over my rides, but I lost that job before you ever came to England. I can see that now. He's sick! He told me you were going around telling people I couldn't ride to save my life. Said you were always bad-mouthing me, but nobody I spoke to could ever remember you having said anything against me at all. And then I was talking to Annie the other day – you know, Annie Hayward who does backs – and she put me straight on a few things. And well,' he paused, awkwardly, ‘I just wanted you to know I'm sorry. I hope you'll believe I had nothing to do with the things he wrote.'

Ross waved a hand wearily. ‘Forget it,' he advised. Then, mindful of the courage needed for such a speech, ‘But thanks. And don't worry about it. You can't choose your relations.'

With evident relief, Stephen drifted away to his next ride and Ross was joined first by Roland, then Lindsay and James.

‘Is it true about Bishop?' Lindsay demanded immediately.

Ross hadn't seen her since she'd confronted him in the yard and didn't know where he stood with her exactly. He hesitated.

‘Well?' she prompted, impatiently.

‘Who knows? Probably,' he said, depressed now that the euphoria of delivering Douglas' comeuppance was ebbing away. ‘Harry Douglas said so.'

‘By the way, lovely right hook, old chap!' Roland declared. ‘Couldn't have done it better myself.'

‘But how could Harry Douglas have found out first?' Lindsay persisted. ‘Surely if it's true Uncle John would have been told? So why didn't he say anything?'

‘Perhaps it was Fergusson's way of getting back at me,' Ross suggested. ‘There's no love lost, you know.'

‘But that's too much! It's
so
unfair!'

‘Oh, Princess. When will you ever learn?' he said despairingly. ‘Not everyone has your sense of fair play, you know. You just have to roll with the punches.'

‘There speaks a man of the world,' Roland observed dramatically, adding gently to his cousin, ‘He's right, m'dear.'

Lindsay stopped in her tracks, glaring first at Roland, then at Ross. ‘All right, make fun of me! But if you had a little more backbone, perhaps you wouldn't be in this mess!'

She turned away abruptly and, with a patient shrug, James peeled off and followed her.

‘Oh, dear!' Roland murmured as they departed. ‘Well, can't you think of any way to insult
me
? I warn you, I'm frightfully thick-skinned but I am particularly touchy about my ears . . .'

In spite of himself, Ross smiled. ‘I can see why,' he said with a sly grin.

Bishop managed a very creditable sixth place in the jump-off, against stiff opposition, but Ross could find little pleasure in it now. He travelled home lying on the sofa-bed while Bill drove slowly in the ever-strengthening winds.

Soon after they reached the yard the Colonel phoned Bill at the cottage to confirm that Fergusson had received, and was likely to accept, a substantial offer for Bishop from a wealthy farmer with a string of horses in Yorkshire.

As Bill imparted this news to the team, his eyes rested on Ross with bitter accusation, and the unloading and settling of the horses was carried out for the most part in depressed silence.

To Ross, the news seemed to signal the beginning of the end and even the memory of Telamon's wonderful performance failed to keep his spirits afloat. He wondered gloomily what Roland would do with the horse if the yard did break up.

The other horses would doubtless find places in other yards but he couldn't see Roland bothering to find another rider for the stallion that he'd bought on a passing whim. Judging by the horse's past record, he wouldn't find it easy to place him either. Ross wondered if Roland would consider selling Telamon to him.

Alone in his room, after a late meal eaten half-heartedly, Ross sprawled on the sofa listening to the wind howling round the stables. Bill had said that Ross needn't bother to come down for the late rounds, the implication being that he would rather do them alone. Having climbed painfully up the stairs once, Ross was quite content to let him.

The pain in his knee was many times worse than it had been when he first came to England and he knew he couldn't put off consulting a specialist for much longer. They would say he ought not to have left it so long. He was supposed to have had a check-up at the end of June but had known they would probably want to operate and surgery would put him out of action for several weeks.

So what? It probably wouldn't matter now.

Three weeks ago he'd been measured for a new pair of leather riding boots with an elastic insert in the left one to ease the pressure. He was due to pick them up in the morning. It hardly seemed worth the bother.