Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) (6 page)

Frankie’s first ride for Aspen Valley coincided with Exeter Racecourse’s curtain raiser meeting of the season. She had three rides on the card: Aztec Gold in a three mile steeplechase, Asante in a novice hurdle, and Dust Storm—her poker game ‘bonus’—in the feature race. With the early October sun bathing the undulating course, she jogged the last two hundred metres of the home stretch, dressed in a thick tracksuit, in an attempt to burn off the extra two pounds she was over.

Feeling like she’d run a marathon, she ducked under the running rail and made her way past the barren grandstand, where only the bookmakers setting up their stands and the busy ground staff were in attendance.
Her throbbing pulse had more to do with her ride aboard Aztec Gold in three hours’ time than her exertions though. She’d taken a quick peak at the racecard when she’d arrived and had felt a full body flush when she’d seen
her
name alongside Jack Carmichael’s. It made her wonder if she’d ever get over working for the king of National Hunt. She knew she wasn’t expected to win today, but just by association her forecast odds had shortened into joint fourth favouritism. Naturally, Rhys, riding South of Jericho, was the clear favourite.

She wondered, as she climbed the steps to the weighing room, how he would treat her in this rematch now that they were on the same side, so to speak. Greeting the valets and stewards she recognised, she stepped onto the scales, tensing as she waited for the needle to swing round and settle.

‘Urgh. Bloody hell,’ she groaned. Despite the energetic run around the course and skipping two meals, she was still one pound over Aztec Gold’s featherweight.

‘Looks like it’s the sauna for you,’ Tom said with a wide grin as he passed. Frankie tried to bat him across the head, but he held up the saddles in his arms for protection. He knew how much Frankie detested the sauna. Not only was it energy-sapping but it was also full of naked men. Frankie tried to look on the bright side. They were fit naked men, but naked, nonetheless. Racing might be changing to accommodate female jockeys, but they hadn’t gone so far as to give them separate saunas yet.

*

Neither had they done much in the way of changing rooms, she mused a few moments later. Trying to pull off her sweater and leaning against the bench, she managed to crack her elbow against the opposite wall.

Finally, feeling ever so slightly vulnerable in just a towel, she hazarded her way to the sauna door. With any luck there wouldn’t be anyone in there. It was still early, after all.

The first thing that hit her was the hot steam, punching the air out of her lungs. The next was the sudden hush in conversation, like a radio had been turned o
ff. Frankie gulped. Six cocks—no, six
jocks
looked in her direction. Frankie focused hard on looking at their faces. Evan Townsend, Mick Farrelly, Tony O’Hare, Gary Hudson, Donnie McFarland—crikey, usually one would have to subscribe to see things like that—and Rhys Bradford. Frankie faltered. Rhys looked horrified at her entrance and swifter than lightning—Rhys lightning—he’d whipped a towel over his crotch. The ill-concealed discomfort on his face as his haste made him unnecessarily forceful almost made Frankie laugh. Then she realised a woman walking in on a group of naked men and bursting out laughing might not be received with much enthusiasm. Averting her eyes, she hurried over to a space, now just as keenly aware of her own state of undress.

Paranoia and claustrophobia set in. At this rate she’d have lost that wretched pound in thirty seconds. Glancing up beneath her fringe, she noticed Rhys was still the only one to have made an effort to cover up. Where to focus her eyes? Everywhere she looked seemed unnatural. She stared up at the ceiling. Yet still, even if she didn’t look at Rhys directly, she was still aware of his toned chest and its sprinkling of black hair, his abdominal muscles disappearing beneath the towel to his groin and the single track of ha
ir from his navel.

She frowned.
This is ridiculous, she scolded herself. There’s nothing in this room that you haven’t seen before—with the exception of perhaps Donnie’s donger. You are an adult, not some silly teenager.

‘This is a nice surprise, Frankie,’ said Donnie, making no attempt at modesty. ‘Early bird catches the worm, eh?’

Frankie forced a cool smile onto her lips.

‘No worms worth catching in here,’ she replied.

To her relief, this was met with raucous laughter. Though she dared not look, she thought it might have even raised a smile from Rhys. With the tension somewhat eased, the conversation she had interrupted resumed.

‘And so I say yes,’ Welshman, Evan, went on with his story. ‘Of course I can look after him for the holidays. He’s only fifteen, my nephew. I know some good films the likes of he
would enjoy and what have you. Maybe show him the local arcade. So I leave him watching Toy Story to go racing at Newton Abbott. When I come home he’s on the couch with a girl! At it like rabbits, I tell you! I mean, what do you say to that?’

From the corner Frankie was most aware of, Rhys spoke up.

‘How about “have you got any tips”?’

Again, the sauna reverberated with laughter. Even Frankie managed a giggle. She looked at Rhys, impressed that he possessed anything remotely resembling wit. As his compatriots roared, a smile tugged at his mouth, his humour more introverted.

*

Two hours later, his manner was decidedly reversed as, lining up for the start of the three-mile chase, he bullied his way to the front. Frankie sat astride Aztec Gold, two pounds lighter. The cool breeze had a refreshing effect after her dreaded sauna experience and the weak sun bounced off her psychedelic jockey silks. She felt as if a My Little Pony had thrown up over her. The familiar clench of fear knotted her stomach muscles. Eighteen fences between her and the finish line.
Eighteen opportunities to mess up. It wasn’t the falling that scared her. It was the split second prior to falling when you knew the inevitable was going to happen.

The field pressed together and jogged towards the start. Frankie found herself being pushed back in the hustle for position. With a snap, the tape whipped back and the horses plunged forward. Frankie hardly had a moment to assess their position before the first of two plain fences was upon them. The early leaders crashed through the top of the jump. In a fluent leap Aztec Gold was over and galloping towards the next. With one such confident jump behind, the thrill which fear had obliterated moments earlier, swelled i
nside Frankie.

Veering to the right in search of the perfect stride, Aztec Gold bounced over the next like a seasoned hurdler. Riding high in her stirrups, Frankie watched South of Jericho, Rhys’s mount, swing the field round the bend. Quickly upon them was the first open ditch. Aztec Gold took off half a stride early. The fear returned. Frankie flung herself forward so as not to impede her mount
. Aztec Gold reached over the fence. She breathed a sigh of relief when they touched down safely.

By the time the field had rounded the home turn for the first time, Frankie was still only two from the rear. The crackling commentary floated over to them as they straightened up to face four more fences. Aztec Gold popped over them so neatly they passed two other horses in
mid-air.

Frankie felt the rush of the grandstand noise greet her as they passed the winning post and swung away for the final lap of the course. She nudged her mount up alongside Donnie on Aspen Valley’s second string. In tandem, they cleared the next. Donnie looked across at her and grinned, his blue gum guard not doing his battle-scarred face any favours. For a moment, Frankie saw only Donger McFarland. The hiss of flying birch as the leaders tackled the next fence brought her sharply back. They hit the
jump hard.

With her heart beating that little bit faster, she recovered her position. On their outside, Mick Farrelly was riding his horse along with intent. The second open ditch loomed. Frankie saw her stride and asked Aztec Gold to lengthen. To her right, Donnie was on the same stride. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mick, to her left, was half a stride wrong. His horse suddenly veered inwards. Aztec Gold puffed as his opponent rammed his shoulder. Frankie didn’t have time to check him. The ditch was under them. Unbalanced, the trio took off together. Frankie felt like the meat in a ham sandwich. Mick’s horse bumped them again as they landed and in a domino-
effect, Aztec Gold ricocheted into Donnie’s horse. Aztec Gold scrambled for a foothold. Donnie and his horse disappeared in a nosedive. Frankie hauled at the reins and threw her weight back to counterbalance her horse’s momentum. With relief, she felt him find a level footing and right himself. The bump had knocked the stuffing out of Mick’s horse and she saw him stand up in his stirrups in surrender.

Aztec Gold galloped on round the highest point of the course and began the descent down the backstretch. Frankie eyed the three horses in front. Rhys was a good ten lengths clear and, by his immobile posture, looked to be going strong. The jockeys in second and third were lowered over their horses’ necks in varying degrees of animation. She might not be able to catch Rhys and South of Jericho, but runner-up would be nice, especially in her first ride for Aspen Valley. But there were another eight jumps to tackle. On a downhill slope the next two fences came fast. Less than a mile to travel and the gap between herself and the third horse began to shorten. Frankie pushed for more. When Aztec Gold jumped flat over the next open ditch, the birch dragged his momentum from him. Maybe she had less horse under her than she’d thought.

As they entered the home straight with only four fences left to take, the third-placed horse was running erratically, a sure sign of exhaustion. The pair overtook them in mid-air three from home. Gritting her teeth, Frankie put her head down and drove Aztec Gold forward for all she was worth. Her chest tightened painfully with the effort. When she steadied for the second last, she saw Rhys well clear. There was no chance they’d catch him unless he fell at the last. The rolling hindquarters of the second-placed horse taunted her four lengths ahead. Yet try as she might, try as Aztec Gold might, they couldn’t close the gap.

Aztec Gold jumped awkwardly over the last, his energy reserves teetering on zero. The roar of the crowd urging them home barely registered to Frankie. Far more concerning was the thunder of hooves coming from behind. She ducked her head to look behind.
Evan, that of the promiscuous nephew, was making a late bid from the rear of the field.

Frankie knew she couldn’t win, second place was also out of her grasp, but she’d be damned if she was going to forfeit third.

‘Come on, Aztec!’ she tried to yell, but only a croak broke from her burning lungs.

Like a weary climber grasping for higher and higher rope, Evan’s horse began to inch up beside them. The horses bumped shoulders. Frankie’s toe dug into her opponent’s girth. Aztec Gold refused to give way. With one last effort, he lengthened his stride, pulling a nose clear. But with fifty yards still to go, it wasn’t enough. Evan’s horse pegged them back once more then th
eir momentum carried them past.

As they staggered over the finish line, Frankie slumped in her saddle. For a moment, disappointment dragged her south, more so perhaps because she knew Aztec Gold had given everything. But then the reality hit her. She had just completed her first race as Aspen Valley’s jockey and had come fourth! She hadn’t fallen off. She hadn’t made any terrible blunders. And starting fourth in the betting, they hadn’t done any worse than expected. A grin split her face as she pulled up a grateful Aztec Gold. She leaned down, pressing her cheek against the horse’s sweaty neck.

‘Triumph in defeat, my boy. Triumph in defeat.’

*

Two more races down the card, Exeter’s cheering grandstand loomed on Frankie’s left as she urged Dust Storm along the last hundred yards of the run-in. She stood up in her stirrups and punched the air as they galloped past the post, three lengths clear of their nearest rival. She clapped her mount’s chestnut neck and whooped in ecstasy. Even though it was only a nondescript handicap hurdle they had won, those three golden words glowed through her body.

They had won
.

She
had won. And in no small way was it thanks to Rhys. The foggy snorts of the runner-up neared as she pulled Dust Storm up. She turned to see Romulus, Aspen Valley’s second string bearing down on them. She looked at his rider, an uneasy feeling gathering in her gut.

Rhys pulled down his goggles. Frankie gulped. Apart from looking e
xhausted, he looked disgusted—with himself and with her.

Dust Storm changed down to a ragged trot and Rhys and Romulus pulled up alongside. Frankie open
ed her mouth to say something—she wasn’t sure what. To thank him? To apologise? But then Rhys granted her a grudging smile that made Frankie sit down in the saddle with a thud.

‘Remind me never to play poker with you again,’ he grinned before swinging Romulus towards the track gateway.

Frankie watched him jog away, her body and brain numb. It might have been the shock that he was being so unnaturally gracious in defeat, especially considering Dust Storm should have been his ride. It might equally have been the joy of winning her first race for Aspen Valley. But as Frankie let her horse trot down the chute back to the paddock, she knew in all honesty, that that rare smile—she wouldn’t have known he had teeth before if it wasn’t for his gum guard—had changed her opinion of Rhys Bradford from this moment onwards.