Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) (7 page)

When she opened the front door to her parents’ house later that afternoon, she could hear the racing on the lounge television battling for supremacy with the hair dryer in her mother’s home salon. She entered the lounge where her father was concentrating hard on listening to the racing presenters discussing the upcoming race. Distracted, Doug Cooper looked up from his armchair.

‘Hello, Frankie.’ He proffered a whiskery cheek for her to kiss.

She struggled to keep the excitement, which had been bubbling inside her, under wraps. She wanted to appear cool, to wait for him to ask.

‘How’ve you been?’ she asked.

Doug grunted and shrugged.

‘They’re about to jump off in the Arc.
You?’

Frankie’s shrug was a carbon copy of her father’s.

‘Pretty good. Bit of a hectic week, I guess. Then of course, racing at Exeter today.’

She sat on the arm of his chair and nonchalantly picked at a scab of mud on her jeans. She stole a discreet glance at Doug, waiting for him to press her for details, but saw he’d returned his attention to the television. Her spirits drooped but she quickly forgave him. The Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe was one of the biggest flat races in Europe and featured high on every racing fan’s list of Must
Sees. She bit her lip, resisting the urge to interrupt. No, it was no use.

‘I w
on today. For Jack Carmichael—you know, my new boss.’

He gave her a bright smile.

‘Well done, honey.’

Frankie sat on tenterhooks, wanting to relay every stride of the race, but equally she wanted an interested audience and Doug’s focus had already drifted back to the horses parading in the leafy Longchamp paddock.

‘I started at Aspen Valley on Monday. There’s over a hundred horses in training there,’ she tried again, disgusted with herself for sounding so obnoxious. ‘I’ve got five really nice types to look after.’

‘That’s nice. Are you enjoying it?’

At last, an unprompted question! Yet contrary to launching into her week’s adventures, a shawl of disappointment wrapped around her. Yes, she’d got what she wanted: her father’s attention, but she felt cheated that shed almost had to force it out of him.

She shrugged like an insolent teenager.

‘Yeah, it’s not bad.’ Then as she thought about her past week—her race on the gallops against Rhys, Ta’ Qali and the Chifney Rhys had given her, the poker game, Dust Storm’s win—the excitement returned. ‘There’s bag loads of quality in the yard. Jack’s a master at training. He knows all the horses inside out—well, almost. He says he’s still trying to figure out Ta’ Qali. He’s one of my horses. He’s a full-brother to Sequella!’

‘Mmm. Sequella’s old stablemate Caspian’s going to jump off in the Arc in a few minutes. I’ve got fifty quid on him.’

‘Then there’s Dory, or rather Blue Jean Baby. She’s got a screw loose, but boy, can she jump. Then I’ve got Foxtail Lily. She won at Cheltenham a few years back. And Twain…’ Frankie’s voice drifted into the ether. The horses on the television were cantering down to the start and she’d lost Doug again. ‘Is Mum downstairs?’

‘Yeah, but Mrs Banks is down there too, having her hair done.’

‘Oh, maybe not then.’ Mrs Banks was lovely but a terrible gossip, and Frankie didn’t trust herself to speak in Mrs Banks’ presence. ‘Me and Dust Storm beat Rhys Bradford today.’

Doug looked up so fast, he nearly gave himself whiplash.

Frankie didn’t care how arrogant Rhys was, at least his name had got Doug’s attention. In fact, the Arc field were being loaded into the starting stalls and Doug was still staring at her. He even looked a little pale on closer inspection.

‘You know Rhys Bradford, right, Dad? He also works at Aspen Valley. He’s obviously their first string jockey. He was champion jockey a couple of seasons ago, won the Gold Cup on Virtuoso. Dad, are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he replied, abruptly turning back to the television. The race had already started, but Doug didn’t appear to be taking any of it in.

Frankie wavered.

‘Was it something I said?’

‘No, no. I thought Rhys Bradford had retired after he smashed up his leg last year, that’s all.
But steer clear of him, Frankie. Those Bradfords are bad news.’ He sighed wearily and looked over at the mantelpiece above the stone fireplace. Frankie sagged as realisation dawned on her. It wasn’t her job or Rhys Bradford or the fact his bet in the Arc appeared to be trapped at the back of the field that was upsetting him. She followed his gaze to the photographs on the mantelpiece. She was in some of them, in family shots, and there was one of her smiling gap-toothed and freckled in her third year school portrait. But the majority of the pictures were of a boy, honey-blond like Frankie, and lanky, always grinning at the camera. There winning the 13.2hh and Under pony race at Ascot; there clearing a sparkling red and white show jump on their old pony, Toffee; there standing with the winning owners when he won his first point to point. Throughout the photos, Seth’s boyish good looks matured from skinny seven-year-old to strong twenty-three-year-old. And there the photos abruptly stopped.

‘Do you know what else
was this week?’ Doug asked.

Frankie hung her head and nodded. The thrill of starting at Aspen Valley with all its champions seeped away to be replaced with an acute sense of guilt.

‘I didn’t forget,’ she muttered.

Doug turned to her, his eyes almost accusatory.

‘I didn’t see any flowers on his grave. Didn’t you go see him?’

‘Dad, I was busy with the new job. I couldn’t get there on the day. I did light a candle for him though.’

‘It’s just one day a year, Francesca. One day! And you couldn’t even find the time to pay your respects to your brother. Seth always made time for you!’

All of a sudden, Frankie felt close to tears.

‘He would also understand that I’ve just been given a massive career boost—the same one that he got before his accident—and that maybe that might take priority.’

Doug stared at her, bewilderment swimming in his eyes.

‘Priority over your own brother?’

Frankie looked away. She gave a defensive shrug.

‘He’s dead. I’ve visited his grave every anniversary for the past five years. This year I lit a candle. What’s the difference?’

An awkward silence fell. Frankie swallowed the lump at the back of her throat, but
daren’t look at her father in case his hurt triggered the waterworks. With the hairdryer now switched off downstairs, the commentary from the television blared around the house. ‘Caspian makes a late charge! He has the lead! He’s got it! Caspian wins the Arc de Triomphe! The Epsom Derby and Champion Stakes winner adds
another
Group One to his tally. He must surely clinch the Horse of the Year title with that!’ Doug and Frankie sat in stony silence.

‘How much did you win?’ she asked eventually.

‘Two hundred and twenty-five,’ he replied without enthusiasm.

‘Maybe I should go see Mum,’ she began, but her mobile phone vibrating in her pocket stalled her exit. She twisted on the chair arm to retrieve it.

Number withheld
.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Frankie? It’s Pippa Taylor. Remember me? We met at the Golden Miller.’

‘How could I forget?’ Frankie gave Doug a brief look then took
herself into the kitchen for some privacy.

*

‘I saw you won today. Congratulations! Jack tells me it was only your third ride too.’

‘Oh, um, thank you.’ A small frown creased Frankie’s brow. This was going a bit beyond the call of duty, wasn’t it? Yes, she was thrilled she had won a race so soon into her partnership with Aspen Valley, but it wasn’t an earth-shattering event for anyone else and certainly didn’t warrant her boss’
s fiancée ringing up. Maybe Pippa was the exception to the rule though, she reconsidered, remembering how Pippa and labouring Emmie had appeared very good friends.

Pippa gave a nervy laugh and Frankie rethought again. Maybe this wasn’t the norm. Her blood froze. Was she being fired, but Jack didn’t have the balls to do it himself? She
had
fallen off her second ride. These irrational thoughts broke a cold sweat over her body.

‘You’re probably wondering why I’m ringing,’ Pippa said.

‘A little, I must admit.’ She pushed the kitchen door to. If she was going to get fired she would probably cry and she didn’t want her father to witness her tears.

Pippa cleared her throat.

‘Do you remember the conversation we had that night at the hospital?’ she asked.

Frankie wildly sifted through her memory bank. Most memories of that night involved Emmie howling in pain, Emmie getting stuck in the car and poor Billy getting his head bitten off.

‘Er…’

‘We were talking about Peace Offering; about the Grand National and your rea
sons for wanting to ride in it.’

‘Oh yes. I said I
wanted to win the National for—’

Through the slit in the door, Frankie watched her father slumped in his armchair. The tired lines on his face seemed etched deeper as he mourned the loss of his son once more. How could she ever make him smile again?

‘For your father,’ Pippa provided. ‘And I thought that was a lovely reason—the best, in fact. It’s got nothing to do with personal conquest or personal gain. It seems to me everyone wants to win for
themselves
. But you don’t. Your reasons are completely unselfish.’

Frankie’s cheeks tinged with heat.

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ she said. ‘I mean, there would be some sense of personal achievement.’

‘How would you like to ride Peace Offering in the Grand National?’

Frankie’s vital organs shut down. Her lungs refused to draw in oxygen. She was sure her already fragile heart had given up the ghost. Her brain couldn’t connect basic thought sequences together. Had she heard correctly? She couldn’t possibly have.

‘Frankie, are you there?’

‘Ye–yes, I think so. Sorry, Pippa, could you repeat what you just said? I think I might have misheard you.’

Pippa laughed.

‘I said would you like to be Peace Offering’s jockey in next year’s Grand National?’ she said, her voice slow and deliberate.

‘Really?’
Frankie laughed in joyous disbelief. ‘Oh my God, yes! Yes, most definitely I do! Are you sure? No—don’t answer that. Oh my God!’

‘I watched the racing today. I saw you take a fall. Yet you picked yourself up and dusted yourself off then came back and won the next race. That’s a very brave thing to do, in my opinion. And I think you need that to ride in the National.’

Frankie’s whirring thoughts barely registered what she was saying.

‘You want me to ride Peace Offering in the National?’ she squeaked. A sudden thought occurred to her. ‘What about Jack? What does he think about this? What about Rhys?’

‘Hmm, yeah. Jack and Rhys,’ Pippa said evasively. ‘Well, I haven’t actually told Jack yet. The National’s still a few months away. I’m going to wait for the right moment, I think.’

Frankie’s spirits sank. Jack would surely overrule Pippa when he discovered what they’d agreed to. Pippa was quick to fill in her despondent silence.

‘Peace Offering’s my horse though, remember. I’m free to choose whichever jockey I want to ride my horse. Rhys might need to employ someone to polish his trophies every day, but Jack certainly wouldn’t have hired you as an Aspen Valley jockey if he didn’t think you were good.’

Confidence restored once more, Frankie grinned.

‘Oh boy, Pippa. Thank you! Thank you so much!’

*

Their conversation over, Frankie stared at the kitchen cupboards without seeing them. Her phone lay limp in her hand. Then it hit her.
She was going to ride the favourite in the Grand National
. With a gasp, she burst back into the lounge. Doug looked up, startled.

‘I’ve just been given Peace Offering to ride in the National,’ she cried.

Doug blinked at her, his face a mixture of shock, delight and fear.

‘The National?’ he choked out at last. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes! Isn’t it amazing?’ Frankie sprinted to the doorway leading to the basement salon and hollered down the stairs, ‘Mum! Mum! Come quick!’

‘Not the Foxhunters Chase for amateurs?’ Doug said. ‘You might be getting confused. It’s run over the same course, but the National has mostly
professionals
riding in it.’

‘No, she definitely said the National. That’s the race Peace Offering’s favourite for.’ Frankie skipped around the room.

‘But—’

‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ Vanessa Cooper clung to the doorframe trying to get her breath back. Her thick dark curls were held back by a bandana reading
“I rocked with Rod – Wembley ’78”
and her too tight jeans were unfashionably torn.

‘I’ve been given Peace Offering to ride in the National,’ Frankie squeaked. ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’