Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) (14 page)

Frankie was determined to look on the bright side of having to drive a Kars-A-Chiefs’ courtesy car and to park two streets from home in the drizzle. One: there was little chance of bumping (literally) into Rhys and Jasper this far from home and Two: Jasper was on the mend. A busted headlight was a small price to pay in comparison. And although it was raining, at least the temperatures had stayed relatively mild. Now into December, the National Hunt season was hotting up and as yet, not one single meeting had been lost to frost or snow.

Clipping the outside rear hubcap against the curb, Frankie managed to wedge the unfamiliar Vauxhall As
tra into a parking space. She tried not to think about her beloved Mini sitting in a dirty Bristol garage surrounded by dismembered automobile body parts. She prayed that the Bonnie Tyler album jammed in the CD player wouldn’t count against the car’s assessment.

She zipped her Aspen Valley anorak up as far as it would go before opening the car door and stepping out into the murk. With her hands planted firmly in her pockets, she hurried across the road in the direction of her street. She jogged a couple of steps at the thought of a cup of hot tea and a toasted crumpet (
a few hours on the cross-trainer should see that away fine). What’s more, Tom had gone to London for the day to see a Social Services advisor about tracking down his birth parents and had sent Frankie a text twenty minutes ago saying he was only just leaving to come home. That meant she had the telly to herself for two and a half hours minimum.

Atticus Finch sat framed in the lounge window on the sill above the radiator. He watched Frankie jog up the steps to the front door with disparaging yellow eyes.

‘Hello, Atticus!’ Frankie called, tapping on the pane. ‘Ready to watch some
Come Dine With Me
on Catch-up?’

Atticus Finch blinked at her and flicked his knobbly grey tail. He licked his lips, Frankie guessed not because he was anticipating the eating programme, but because he associated her presence with food.

She shook her head happily and dug into her jeans pocket for her keys. She pulled out the courtesy car key attached to a grimy cardboard stump. But no house keys. Frankie’s blood ran cold. In her mind’s eye she saw herself giving her Mini’s keys to the Kars-A-Chiefs receptionist in their puny front office. Resting her forehead against the cold damp wood of the front door, she recalled blissfully handing over her house keys on the same key ring.

‘Oh, shit
,’ she groaned.

*

Standing beneath the relative shelter of the door canopy, Frankie dismally considered her options. She could drive all the way back into Bristol and retrieve her keys, but she doubted whether the garage would still be open by the time she’d got through rush hour traffic. Besides which, she didn’t really fancy driving all that way again.

She could go sit in the Golden Miller and wait for Tom to get back from London. As soon as that more attractive option occurred to her, she dismissed it. The Golden Miller was closed this evening as they prepared for some singing talent competition starting tomorrow
.

Her only other option was to sit here and wait for Tom’s return. Frankie looked out from the front step over to the green and skateboard park, blurry in the early evening rain. She groaned again and slid down the door to sit on the step. Two and a half hours, possibly more. Okay, she could do this, she told herself.
She tucked her hands into her armpits. If it got really cold she could always run back to the car and sit in there for a while.

*

The streetlamp opposite the house buzzed and flickered into life as the dusk faded to night and the seconds drifted into minutes. A plaintive meow sounded to Frankie’s right. Atticus Finch balanced precariously on top of the rickety garden gate that led down the side of the house. He leapt down and joined Frankie on the step, rubbing himself up against her legs. He looked up at her with round questioning eyes.

What are you doing sitting out here in the cold and wet?
he seemed to ask.

‘I forgot to separate
my house keys from my car keys.’ She sighed and stroked his bony back. ‘Wish we could both fit through the cat flap.’

Atticus
looked at her with disdain then sat down to begin the arduous task of cleaning himself with loud juicy slurps.

As the green became more indistinct in the sinking darkness, Frankie stretched out her cramping legs and considered repatriating to the courtesy car. Her movement triggered the security light above her head, bathing her in a deceptively warm golden light.

Uneven footsteps and canine breathing from the pavement made her look up. Frankie’s heart did its customary triple beat. She did her best impersonation of a tortoise and tried to withdraw into her Aspen Valley jacket. The limping figure and his equally-limping dog passed by and she breathed a sigh of relief. But, of course, a bright red anorak wasn’t exactly the best camouflage. A moment later, the figure stopped. He remained frozen, his focus still on the pavement five metres ahead of him. Slowly, he turned towards Frankie.

Frankie attempted a cheerful smile.

‘Evening, Rhys,’ she said.

Rhys continued to stare at her, his black curls plastered against his forehead. Jasper came loping on three legs back down the pavement to see what was keeping his master
. Then, seeing Frankie sitting in the glow of the security light like some spiritual apparition, he bounded up the steps to greet her. Atticus hissed and whipped over the garden gate to safety.

‘Frankie,’ Rhys managed at last. ‘What are you doing sitting out here in the rain?’

Frankie ruffled Jasper’s brown and white speckled ears and fended off his friendly licks.

‘I see you’ve forgiven me,’ she said
to the spaniel, letting the smell of damp dog clog her nostrils. She looked up at Rhys. ‘My car needed its headlight replaced after its run-in with Jasper and I forgot to take my house keys off the key ring.’ She felt a lot more stupid telling Rhys than she had telling Atticus.

Rhys surprisingly didn’t look as disgusted though.

‘Are you planning on sitting out here all night?’

‘No. Tom’s on his way back from London right now.’

Rhys moved a couple of steps closer to the path leading to her door.

‘When does he get home?’

Frankie shrugged and avoided meeting his eye.

‘Soon, I’m sure.’

‘Oh, right,’ Rhys said doubtfully.

‘He texted me about an hour ago.
Said he was just leaving.’ Frankie took her mobile out of her pocket and looked at the time. ‘Oh. Actually, make that only half an hour ago. It feels like longer.’

‘It’s going to take him ages to get back at this hour,’ Rhys said.

‘I’ll be fine. I’m not actually getting that wet under here. And if it does get worse, I can always go sit in the courtesy car the garage gave me.’

Rhys nodded and a
n uncomfortable silence settled. Frankie dropped her gaze and scratched Jasper behind his ears. He panted happily in her face.

‘You’re bigger than I remember. Is he a Springer Spaniel?’ she asked in an attempt to break the awkwardness.

Rhys’s mouth twitched into a smile.

‘No. He’s just a big Cocker.’

Frankie laughed. Jasper tried to lick her cheeks and she fended him off.

‘Jasper, stop that,’ Rhys commanded.

The dog turned at the call of his name and lolloped down the path and down the street again.

‘Well, goodnight then,’ Rhys said clumsily.

‘Goodnight.’

Rhys walked a couple of steps down the pavement then stopped again. Jasper’s bark from further down the road made him take one more hesitant step.

Frankie tried not to watch him. She picked at the dried mud on the cuff of her jacket.

Rhys spun on h
is heel and marched back up her path.

‘Would you like to
come wait at mine?’ he rushed.

Frankie stared at him in surprise.

Rhys looked away, embarrassment etched in every line on his face.

‘Really?’
Frankie managed at last.

Rhys shrugged.

‘I live ten minutes away. Seems stupid to let you sit out here.’

Frankie contemplated
turning him down. What horrors would the evening entail if she and Rhys were alone in each other’s company for long? Then she considered the rain, now falling with more persistence, and the nose-diving temperature.

‘Okay,’ she said, surprising herself and Rhys. ‘Thanks.’

Rhys swore beneath his breath as he unlocked the front door to his home and Jasper bulldozed past him into the front room.

‘
He doesn’t seem any worse for his run-in with my car,’ Frankie said.

Rhys grunted, flicking on the lights to reveal a comfortable modernised Georgian living room. Jasper headed for a beanbag in front of the fireplace and belly-flopped into its depths.
Rhys gestured vaguely to two obese sofas.

‘Make yourself at home.’

Frankie smiled her thanks and, feeling his eyes following her movements, walked across the creaking oak floorboards. She perched on the edge of one sofa, her hands clasped and looked up at him. Rhys stood stiffly to the side of the room.

‘Excuse
the mess,’ he mumbled.

Frankie looked at her surroundings. A flat screen television hung above a DVD
cabinet. A couple of what Frankie hoped were Jasper’s toys lay on the floor and a coffee table hosted a shaggy pile of
Racing Post
newspapers and a winding tower of books.

‘Mess?
You should see mine and Tom’s place if you want to see mess.’

Rhys attempted a smile.

‘Would you like a drink? I don’t have any alcohol. I, um, don’t drink very often.’

Frankie nodded fervently. She needed a couple of minutes alone to find her bearings.

‘Yes, please. Tea if you have any.’

‘Last I checked tea doesn’t contain hard liquor so yes, I do have tea.’

He exited the room through an archway at the rear of the lounge. Left to her own devices, Frankie removed her grubby trainers. A waft of smelly feet invaded the room and she hurriedly kicked her shoes beneath the sofa and waved the air in a futile attempt to disperse the odour. She padded around the room, brushing her fingers over a Mumford and Sons CD case lying on top of a stereo system. The mantelpiece above the fireplace supported an array of bronze horses, some framed landscape photographs and a solitary twenty-eighth birthday card. Frankie peeked at the inscription inside.

Dear Rhys, Happy birthday.
Mamà.

She moved on to examine the photos. She was mildly surprised to see none of Rhys himself. In fact, in a room which boasted an entire wall of photographs in addition to the mantel, there were no people in them at all.
Except for one, standing alone on a side table beneath a lamp. A beautiful Latino woman smiled at the camera. The fine lines at her eyes and mouth and the slight creping at her throat were the only giveaway signs of her middle-age. Frankie didn’t need to look too closely either to tell she was the one who had written the birthday card. Although Rhys didn’t share her smooth coffee-coloured skin, they both had the same straight narrow nose and deep-set eyes.

‘Ha,’ Frankie muttered. ‘I knew those cheekbones couldn’t be British.’

She moved to the adjoining wall, avoiding Jasper who was enthusiastically chewing on an old riding boot while keeping one boiled-egg eye on her. The blown up photographs hanging here looked professional. A derelict sea jetty at sunset; a bunch of sunlit daffodils stemming from crunchy snow; a grey heron wading through shallow water.

‘
Tea,’ Rhys’s voice interrupted her from behind. He put the mugs down on a side table separating the two sofas and sat down with a grunt. Frankie watched warily to see if her hidden trainers were still making their presence known. He wrinkled his nose. Maybe she could pin the blame on Jasper.

‘These pictures are amazing,’ she said in an attempt to distract him.

Rhys looked embarrassed.

‘Thanks.
’

Frankie’s mouth fell open in surprise.

‘These are yours?’ she said. ‘You did these?’

Rhys shrugged
and blew on his tea.

‘Photography’s a hobby. We all need hobbies, right? It can’t all be horses, horses, horses. What’s yours?’

Now it was Frankie’s turn to be embarrassed.

‘Girl Guides.
I help out once a week.’

Rhys’s
mouth twitched into a smile.

‘Not poker club then?’

Frankie’s laugh rattled, an octave too high. The mention of poker brought back memories of the night she’d won the ride on Dust Storm. And her win on Dust Storm she automatically associated with being given the National ride on Peace Offering. She wanted to broach that subject with Rhys about as much as she wanted a hole in the head.

‘Your tea’s here.’

She still wanted to look at the photos, but to appear polite she reached for her drink where its steam was blurring the picture of the Latino woman on the table.

‘Is that your mother?’ she asked.

Rhys nodded. Frankie took a slurp of tea and burnt her lip.

‘She’s gorgeous.’ A moment of panic followed as Rhys must surely know of his similarity to his mother. Would he think she was implying she thought he was gorgeous too? But following it up with a defensive
You don’t look like her at all
would also come across as insulting as well as a blatant lie. She looked at the picture’s lonely human significance in the room and figured he must be close to his mother. ‘Does she live nearby?’

Rhys shook his head.

‘She’s back living in Spain with my stepfather.’

‘Oh, that’s a pity.’

Rhys shrugged.

‘Not really, no. My stepfather’s a prick.’

Frankie could imagine Rhys being a nightmare stepchild too, but kept that to herself.

She turned back to the photographs on the wall, this time noticing a couple with horses in them. The first she had no trouble recognising. It was a shot of a tank-like racehorse crossing the Cheltenham finishing post with Rhys in red and white silks aboard.

‘Virtuoso’s Gold Cup,’ she murmured. ‘What a day that was.’

‘Were you riding that day?’ Rhys frowned.

Frankie shook her head.

‘No chance.
I’ve never ridden at the Festival. I’d love to though. There’s so much history in that course.’

Dreams of perhaps having her first Cheltenham ride for Aspen Valley followed her to the next photograph. The horse was unsaddled and there were no distinguishing jockey silks to identify him by. It was obviously an Aspen Valley resident because she recognised the stabling in the background, but the tall dark bay horse in the
foreshot didn’t look familiar.

‘Who’s this?’ she asked, turning back to Rhys.

Rhys’s face sobered.

‘Black Russian.
I took that photo a couple of weeks before last year’s Christmas Hurdle.’

Frankie remembered that Boxing Day meeting with clarity. She had watched it on television at home and along with thousands of others had witnessed Black Russian and
Rhys leading the field only to fall at the last. Black Russian had been killed instantly and Rhys had been flung into the ground like a rag doll.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, giving him a regretful smile. ‘That was when you broke your leg, wasn’t it?’

Rhys nodded.

‘For the second time, yes.’

‘Is that why you limp?’

Rhys took another sip of his tea before answering.

‘Yeah.’

Frankie hesitated, unsure whether continuing this vein of conversation was wise.

‘Does it still hurt?’ she ventured.

‘No.’ Rhys shook his head and placed his mug back on its coaster. He patted the seat next to him. ‘Come sit.’

Again, Frankie hesitated. Rhys patted the seat again.

‘Come. I want to show you something. I’m not going to bite.’

Frankie could think of much worse things than being bitten by Rhys. Once settled beside him, he stretched out his legs.

‘See?’ he said, pointing at his feet. ‘My right leg is about an inch shorter than my left.’

Frankie leaned forward to look at his black socks more carefully. A gurgle of laughter escaped and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s not funny, not funny at all.’

Rhys allowed a self-effacing smile.

‘At the time, maybe not.
I broke it in three places. Hurt like a bastard. Then the doctors proceeded to put a full set of Meccano in to fix it. I was out of the saddle for nearly four months.’

‘God, that’s awful,’ Frankie said, staring at
Rhys’s leg. She wondered if she would have the nerve to race ride again after such a horrific accident. ‘Do you ever get scared? Like, do you worry that you’ll fall and break it again knowing how sore it was last time?’

Rhys gave another of his indifferent shrugs.

‘I was a bit nervous when I first got back up. But it’s perfectly healed now—well, almost if you discount the fact that if I stand on my left leg I’m five foot eleven and if I stand on my right I’m five ten. After four months off the circuit I just wanted to get back into it so bad, fear was secondary.’

Frankie looked at Rhys with newfound respect.

He fidgeted under her admiring gaze and gestured to her tea left idling.

‘Your tea’s there. Better drink it before it gets cold.’

*

They sat in silence, only Jasper’s toy-gnawing and occasional
ear-scratching interrupting their thoughts.

‘Are you going to the Aspen Valley Christmas party?’ she asked.

‘Hmm. Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘I’ve been told it’s quite the highlight of the season bar Cheltenham and Aintree.’

‘So I hear.’

They lapsed into silence again
. Frankie wondered what he was thinking. His tension was almost palpable. She daren’t look at him, especially in such intimate proximity. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa.

‘That night in the Golden Miller,’ he blurted, ‘after the Becher
Chase…I–I’m sorry for the way I behaved.’

Frankie stared at him. Had Rhys just apologised?
To
her
? She opened and closed her mouth like a beached bass.

‘I’d been drinking and I
don’t often drink—you can tell why. I’m not exactly the happiest of drunks.’

‘
Ookaaay,’ Frankie said, her eyes still the size of saucers.

‘And that stuff
I said about you being scared—well, it was your first time over the big fences and I guess you were allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to be scared anyway, never mind when facing Aintree for the first time.’

Frankie was about to accept his stumbling apology when his last comment stopped her short.

‘I’m allowed to be scared?’ she repeated. ‘Why, because I’m a girl?’

‘What? No,’ Rhys said irritably as if this was the first t
ime he’d noticed she was female. ‘I mean I understand if you are. Scared that is, not a girl.’ He gestured to her body, hastily averting his eyes from her chest.

‘Why would I be scared?’ she asked with caution.

‘Because maybe you associate falls, and perhaps even just riding, with danger.’

‘I–
I don’t understand.’

‘Sorry, I’m not saying this very well,’ Rhys sighed. ‘I’m talking about Seth.’ He paused and Frankie stared at him in astonishment. ‘I’m just saying it’s okay if his accident scares you a bit when you’re riding.’

‘Seth?’ she echoed.

‘What happened to Seth was a freak accident. It could’ve happened any
time, any place.’ Rhys at last managed to meet her gaze with a consolatory grimace.

Frankie’s throat contracted.

‘How can you say that?’

‘
Well, because of–of…’ Rhys frowned. ‘Were you told what happened that day?’

Frankie forced herself to relive the moment her parents had come into her bedroom and
broken the news to her that Seth had been killed. She had been reading
To Kill A Mocking Bird
, her favourite book at the time. So unexpected had the news been, it had literally taken her breath away. No hints, no sense of foreboding. One moment he had been alive, the next he was dead. It was months before she was able to comprehend that he was never coming back.

‘They said he’d had a fall while working one of the horses and had hit his head.’

‘Do you want to know the full story?’ he asked gently.

She looked at him, wide-eyed, feeling more scared now than she’d done before any race.

‘H–how would you know?’

‘I was there when it happened.’

Frankie swallowed the swollen lump in her throat. Did she honestly want to know the intimate details of her brother’s death? Her parents had been so vague about his accident that every time she had probed for more, to understand what had happened, she had been made to feel like she was after the gory details. She didn’t blame them for that. They just didn’t want to go over such sensitive ground. And nowadays the accident was hardly ever referred to.