Pitch Black: A Romantic Thriller (Blackwood Security Book 1) (7 page)

“I’m not on the council myself, dear,” Carol said. “But the Women’s Institute has an outing there each month. The arguments can be quite entertaining. It’s a bit like Jeremy Kyle but with better refreshments.”

She was right. It was all I could do to stop myself from smacking their heads together after an argument about whose turn it was to organise the litter patrol for the Best Kept Village competition.

I hated to admit it, but Carol’s distraction technique had some merit. With all the bullshit she filled my days with, I didn’t have time to dwell on more difficult subjects. Still, I couldn’t help wishing for something more interesting to do. The old dudes were kind, but I felt out of place being the youngest by thirty years. I could easily live without discussions over the best brand of incontinence pad, the need for which wasn’t helped by the endless cups of tea they all drank. I know I was English, but I was sick of tea. My palate craved a decent espresso, but asking for one would have been sacrilegious round here.

Yes, my waking hours I could cope with. It was the nights that caused me a problem.

Rather than sleeping, I’d lie there for hours, thoughts tumbling through the blackness of my mind. How had my life turned into such a mess so quickly? And more importantly, what was I going to do about it?

Chapter 7

I SAT UP in bed, sweat dripping off me. The mattress was damp, the outline of my body dark against the maroon sheets. Did I scream in my sleep? I had in real life when it happened.

Once again, I’d relived my husband’s death, the moment seared in my mind like the climax of a horror movie. I’d do anything to rewind the film.

I tried to calm my breathing as I listened for signs of movement in the house, but the only noise was a car on the road outside. Good, I hadn’t woken Carol. Sleep wouldn’t come again that night, I knew from experience. It would just be me and my wayward thoughts until morning. As always, my husband was on my mind.

A huge hole gaped in my chest where part of me died with him, and the pain was almost unbearable. We’d planned what would happen in the event one of us died young, but I realised now that had only been paperwork.

There were so many things I wished I’d said. Above all, I should have told him I loved him, really loved him, in the way I’d pretended not to for fear he wouldn’t feel the same way. I’d have sold my soul to the devil to be held in his arms one last time. He was the person who kept me sane, and now I’d lost my mind.

Lucifer wasn’t dealing, though. My husband was gone, and I was here.

I couldn’t risk going home yet, so I needed to think of a plan to survive. The cash I had with me wouldn’t last forever, which made getting a job a priority. Something that wouldn’t involve my name getting into any databases, and something that didn’t require a reference.

I had two options—low-paid, manual work, or something illegal. The second wasn’t a road I wanted to go down at the moment. Not because I had a problem with breaking the law—the world ranged from black to white, and I walked on the dark side—it was more that with my head screwed up the way it was, I didn’t trust myself not to get caught.

By morning, I’d set myself a time limit of a week to start looking for work. One week to get my head in order. One week of living in a bubble before I had to rejoin the real world. One week, and the clock was ticking.

Little did I know luck would be on my side, for once. Only two days had passed when Carol informed me of another outing.

“The horticultural society committee’s meeting tomorrow morning, and Vera’s making her chocolate fudge cake. You don’t want to miss that.”

“Could you bring me a slice back?”

She gave me a dirty look over her glasses.

“Okay, okay. I’ll come.” What could I say? I was a sucker for cake.

The meeting was held in the village hall. There was a long table, a variety of old people, tea and hallelujah, the promised chocolate cake.

Without my Toby on my back, I was eating too much junk food, but I didn’t have the energy to work it off. At this rate, I’d be buying a variety of yoga pants and learning the number of the local takeaway. It was a slippery slope to the life of a couch potato, and I stood perilously close to the edge.

I took a seat next to Carol as the others talked about plants. My horticultural knowledge covered three areas—what I could eat to survive, which plants had healing properties and those I could use to poison people. The characteristics of a prize-winning dahlia passed me by.

“We’ve booked the hall and chosen the judges for the annual show,” said the man at the head of the table. “We just need to agree on the classes.”

The eight members of the committee immediately started arguing. I think they’d been getting tips from the parish councillors because nobody wanted to listen to anybody else, and they couldn’t agree on anything. While fascinating to watch, my nerves were wearing thin. If this kept up, I’d miss lunch and Carol had promised sticky toffee pudding for dessert. I waited for the next gap in the conversation, which took such a long time to appear I began to think the manned probe to Mars would arrive back sooner, and that hadn’t even taken off yet, for crying out loud.

“Why don’t you have a vote?” I asked.

They looked at me like I’d grown another head, so I elaborated. 

“How about we put all the ideas on a list, and each one that gets six or more votes goes on the schedule?”

There were murmurs of assent from around the table.

“About bloody time someone came up with a sensible idea,” muttered a man wearing a flat cap. He looked as if he’d be more at home on a tractor.

We soon had the number of classes down to thirty-five, which everyone agreed was reasonable. I looked at my watch. Eleven thirty. I just had time for another slice of cake before we went back to Carol’s.

I was trying to balance my teacup and cake in one hand while I pulled out a chair with the other when tweed-cap man sidled up to me.

“George,” he said, sticking his hand out.

I gave up and put everything down on the table. “Ashlyn.” I reached out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“I was wondering if you’re going to be a permanent member of the committee? We could do with some younger people, especially ones that have got their heads screwed on straight and don’t try to include a class for the potato that looks most like Elvis,” he said, referring to one of the more bizarre suggestions to come out of this morning’s brainstorming session.

“Afraid not. I’m staying with Carol at the moment, but I’m not sure how long for. I need to look for a job, and I doubt I’ll find anything suitable near here.”

“What kind of job?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Maybe waitressing or bar work. Or cleaning. Something casual.”

“Do you know anything about horses?”

As a matter of fact, I did. I had one back home, just one more thing I was missing.

When I acquired him, I hadn’t been planning to buy a horse. I was driving back to the airport from a meeting in southern Spain, in heat so oppressive I thought my brain was going to melt out through my nose. The only things I’d been looking to purchase were a cold drink and maybe a plane ticket to the Arctic.

Traffic slowed to a crawl as I drove past a livestock market, and when I slowly edged to the front of the queue, I saw what was causing the hold up. A black horse was going crazy in the road. Nostrils flaring, it stood up on its back legs, and the guy on the ground had a hard time holding on to the rope. The horse leaped sideways as two more swarthy men whacked it with plastic piping, then lashed out with its hooves. That drew forth a string of swear words and another beating. 

Now, I may not be shy with my fists, but I can’t stand cruelty to animals. Nothing gives a man the right to take his frustrations out on an innocent creature like that.

The heat forgotten, I was out of my car in seconds. As I strode towards the little scene, I realised the horse was covered in scabs and scars, suggesting this wasn’t the first time it had been at the end of a human’s anger. The poor thing was sweating and showing the whites of its eyes.

The temptation to put all three men on the ground was immense, but while there was no doubt in my mind I could have done it, it wouldn’t have helped the horse. Getting myself arrested was never constructive.

After a bit of negotiation and a liberal application of Euros, I was left at the side of the road, holding a snapping horse on a rope as the men trundled off in their decrepit lorry. A few phone calls later, I managed to find a sympathetic vet, and with the help of some tranquillisers and a lot of swearing, we got my new purchase onto a horse transporter. He lived at a rehabilitation yard in Spain for a few months, and when he’d healed up well enough, I took him home. The staff at the rehab place had a party when he left. There was a good reason I christened him Satan.

I went through six grooms in my first three months of ownership, until I found an old cowboy called Dustin who understood him. Although my horse still had his moments, he mostly behaved himself. He lived in luxury at my place in Virginia with Dustin’s mare to keep him company, and his name had been shortened to Stan.

That wasn’t a story I could tell George, so I settled for, “I know a little about horses. I took riding lessons when I was a kid and helped out at the local stables.”

“Well, if you’re interested, I’m looking for a groom to work at my stable yard. The last girl ran off with a bloke she met at the travelling fair without giving any notice, so I’m a person short.”

“How much does it pay?”

“Only minimum wage, I’m afraid. Cash every Friday.”

It could be perfect. At least horses wouldn’t ask questions about my state of mind, or try to drag me along to the needlepoint club. I was sick of pasting a fake smile on from dawn to dusk.

“Can I come and have a look round?” I asked.

“I’m in all day tomorrow.”

I set off on foot after breakfast the next morning, sheltering from the rain under a golf umbrella Carol lent me. George had given me directions, and as I reached the outskirts of the village, the houses got progressively bigger and more expensive.

The walk took twenty minutes, and the bottoms of my jeans were soaked through by the time I got there. As I trekked up the driveway, I passed well-kept paddocks on either side, and the horses in them raised their heads to peer at me curiously.

“Where can I find George?” I asked a girl sweeping the stable yard.

She motioned at a house to the left then leaned on her broom as she watched me walk towards it.

The bell echoed, followed by the din of dogs barking inside. The sound made me miss my Doberman, Lucy, who I’d left back home with Dustin. He always looked after her when I was away. At least she’d be getting plenty of walks.

When the door swung open, an excited pack surrounded me. They ranged from a tiny Yorkshire terrier up to a German shepherd with a huge tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. George appeared behind them, wearing the country uniform of cords, wellingtons and a waxed jacket. All he needed was a shotgun and a brace of pheasants, and he could have stepped straight from the pages of C
ountry Life
magazine.

“I hope you’re all right with dogs,” he said.

It was a bit late if I wasn’t. “Yes, they’re fine,” I said, stifling a laugh as the Yorkie humped a chair leg.

“Come on, we can talk as I show you round the yard.” George herded the dogs back inside and pulled the door shut then motioned me to follow him.

Hazelwood Farm was a livery yard, a hotel for horses if you like. Judging by the looks of the place, it had a five star rating. I’d rather sleep in one of the stables than the dive I’d ended up in on my first night in London, at any rate.

George led me round, showing me where things were and asking me to demonstrate different tasks, which I managed easily. It wasn’t that difficult to fill a bucket of water or clean out a stable. The yard was beautifully kept, split into three large barns, each with eight horses.

“Each girl looks after one barn. It’s an early start to feed and muck out the horses, then they get put to bed at five. You’d take it in turns with the other girls to do a late check,” he said.