Pitch Black: A Romantic Thriller (Blackwood Security Book 1) (8 page)

“What days would I work?”

“Monday to Friday, with a half-day over the weekend. I’ve got a couple of part-time teenagers who come in to do the rest on Saturday and Sunday.”

“Is there any riding?”

“No, we have someone else who does that. You get a nice long lunch break. Would you be happy with that?”

“It sounds reasonable.”

“The job’s yours if you want it then.”

“It sounds like just what I’m looking for.”

“Good, good. The accommodation’s a bit basic, but I can pick up your belongings if you don’t have a car. How soon can you start?” he asked.

Somewhere to live—now that was an unexpected bonus. It looked like another one of my problems had been solved. I gave him a smile, my first genuine one since I’d arrived in the country.
 

“I can start tomorrow if you like?”

Chapter 8

AT THE END of my first week at Hazelwood Farm, southern England was in the midst of a cold snap. When my alarm went off just before 6 a.m., the moon shone from a clear sky, and Jack Frost had decorated the inside of the windows. I was looking forward to having the afternoon off. Maybe I could clean the hovel I now called home? Or walk to the bakery and buy a donut? Okay, two donuts.

When George mentioned accommodation, I’d been surprised but pleased. I could save money on rent, and I wouldn’t have to walk to and from work each day. Carol had been sad to see me go, but she was off on a seniors’ cruise next week, so I doubted she’d miss me too much.

I’d been slightly less upbeat when I saw where I’d be living. My new abode was a mobile home situated behind the hay barn. It had definitely seen better days, say, around twenty or thirty years ago.

From the state of the place, I’d say maintenance of the staff accommodation wasn’t high on George’s list of priorities, most likely falling somewhere between “go clubbing in Ibiza” and “run for Prime Minister.” The hot water only worked when it felt like it, and a single bar electric fire provided heating so inadequate it was like trying to melt a glacier using a Zippo lighter.

While I’d stayed in some shitty places in my life, for the last thirteen years, I’d had the luxury of going home to a mansion at the end of it. My stay here had no expiry date, and I was sick of cockroaches.

As I crawled out of bed, my breath fogged in the chill as I walked the few short steps to the tiny bathroom. I said a quick prayer to every god I knew of that the sodding pipes hadn’t frozen again. Yesterday I’d had to borrow a hairdryer to thaw them out. A bonus would be if the shower was warm, but I couldn’t expect miracles.

I turned the tap on over the grimy, soup bowl sized basin and did a silent fist pump when the water slowly dripped out, the flow gradually increasing as the ice build-up cleared. I did my bit in the bathroom then returned to the freezing bedroom to get dressed. Layering was definitely the way to go in this weather.

Carol had held a whip-round of various acquaintances, who donated a selection of clothes ranging from unfashionable to downright scary. I was now the proud owner of a waxed jacket, and the knitting club had gone overboard with the scarves.

Once I was suitably attired, I stood in front of the cracked mirror and put in my contact lenses. My roots were still good at the moment, but I’d need to put hair dye on my shopping list for the near future.

So far, I’d been going through the days like a robot, telling myself do this, do that, don’t think, don’t feel. The numbness still hadn’t begun to shift. I wondered whether it ever would.

“Miss you,” I whispered, turning my head to gaze at the blackness outside. When I looked back in the mirror, I barely recognised myself. I had the desolate stare of a broken woman.

Before my husband’s death, I’d been full of energy. We were a team, complementing each other. I had a tendency to jump straight into things, wanting to get tasks done and adapting to circumstances on the fly. He was more of a thinker, preferring to run everything through in his head and work out the best plan before acting. Together, we’d achieved what others thought was impossible.

Not any more.

My mind was black inside.

My whole life was black.

All I could do was get on with things as best I could.

The cold wind hit me as I stepped out the door. I had eight horses to muck out, and the longer I procrastinated, the more they would shit.

I checked the temperature on my newly acquired phone. I’d bought it off some dude in The Coach and Horses, and I was almost sure it was kosher. Bollocks—it wasn’t due to rise above freezing all day.

As it was Saturday, the part-timers from the village were doing the other barns. During the week, I worked with Hayley and Susie. They lived at the farm, too, sharing a little cottage next to my trailer. It wasn’t in much better condition than my place, but because it was brick-built, it stayed a bit warmer in the winter.

The first thing I did when I got to my barn was defrost the taps using a kettle full of water. I was careful not to spill it everywhere because the walkway would end up an ice rink if I did. I might be all right on a pair of skates, but the horses wouldn’t be.

One by one, I tied them outside and mucked out their stables. It was hard work, but it warmed me up, and by the time I’d finished, I’d shed my jacket and was wishing I hadn’t put on thermal leggings under my jeans.

After the stables were clean, I needed to groom the horses. That was my favourite part of the job. It was peaceful, just me and them, and I liked to brush their coats until they shone. I didn’t have the radio on like the other girls, preferring the silence, interrupted only by the munching of the horses eating their hay and the occasional quiet whicker.

I knew it was the calm before the storm, though, and sure enough, the thunder started half an hour later when two of the owners, Jessica and Marianne, strode into the barn. One of them turned the music on at full volume as she walked past, and the pair of them clattered around as they hauled stuff out of their lockers.

Their voices had no mute button, and by the time I’d finished brushing the horses, I knew that Marianne had just been dumped by her boyfriend. Not only that, the boyfriend was an asshole who didn’t understand her, she could do better than him anyway, and he’d been sleeping with a girl who’d had breast implants and a nose job.

Jessica had been out clubbing last night, and her cell phone, keys, wallet and dignity were just the beginning of what she had lost in the process. She claimed to be hung-over, but I had my doubts about that. If she was at death’s door as she claimed to be, she wouldn’t be screeching so loudly.

Throughout their conversation, they ignored me. I was the hired help, there to pick up their shit and keep out the way. I was used to that. It was a ploy I’d used many times over the years. People ignored the invisible army of worker ants—in fact, the best way to break into a building was to put on a hi-vis jacket and carry a toolbox.

Thankfully, my next job was preparing the horses’ food. I had to go to the hay barn and feed room to do that, thus escaping from the two headaches. My ears had suffered enough, and I was out of aspirin.

Chapter 9

I HEADED FOR the hay barn first. I had to fill twenty-four haynets, which would be hung up in the stables for the horses to eat. They got one in the morning, one at lunchtime and another in the evening. It wasn’t my favourite job because of the dust, but at least it was quiet.

I was stuffing haynet number twenty when Susie and Hayley walked past, Susie pushing a wheelbarrow and Hayley carrying a mucking-out fork.

“What are you doing out here? Don’t both of you have the day off?” I asked, knowing full well they did.

“Um, we thought we’d give you a hand,” Susie said, carefully avoiding eye contact.

“I’ve been out here almost four hours. Nearly everything’s done. Now tell me the real reason you’ve dragged your asses out into the cold to shovel shit.”

“Portia Halston-Cain’s just arrived,” said Hayley, as if that would explain everything.

Portia owned three of the horses in my barn. She rarely visited on weekdays, so I hadn’t met her yet. Gameela, Samara and Majesty, her Arabian horses, were all stunningly beautiful, but according to Susie, she only ever rode two of them.

“Why doesn’t she ride Majesty?” I’d asked.

“He’s too clever for her. He’s worked out she’s not a good rider, so he dances round until she falls off,” Susie said, trying, and failing, to keep a straight face.

“Why on earth doesn’t she sell him to somebody who
can
ride?” I couldn’t understand why someone would waste a horse like that.

“Because then she’d have to admit she can’t. Plus he’s pretty, and she imported him from Qatar. He was stupidly expensive, and she likes to brag about it.”

I was fond of Majesty. He reminded me of Stan. Plus he had the measure of his owner, which made me like him even more. Still, none of that explained why Susie and Hayley were traipsing out to see her.

“From what I’ve heard, Portia being around is a good reason
not
to be out here.”

“Her brother’s come with her,” Susie said, a faraway look in her eyes.

“So?” I was still mystified.

“Just wait until you see him.”

I finished filling the haynets then returned to the barn to fetch the feed buckets. When I walked in, it seemed as though everybody at the farm had gathered there.

Susie and Hayley were walking up and down, looking for non-existent poop while Jessica and Marianne brushed horses that had already been groomed. Half a dozen girls whose horses lived in the other barns were pretending to talk to them, while a couple more hovered around Arabella. She was sitting outside her horse’s stable stuffing her face with crisps.

All heads were pointing in the direction of Samara’s stable, and I could hear a high-pitched whine coming from inside. Portia, I assumed.

“She’s got dirt on her rug. She needs a new one.”

A second voice replied. That one was male—low, gravelly and seemingly exasperated. “If you get her a new one, she’ll get that dirty too. She’s a horse. She doesn’t understand she needs to stay clean. Couldn’t we just get it washed?”

“No! That’s not the same. She doesn’t want a used rug. Besides, this colour doesn’t suit her.”

“But you chose the colour,” the man said.

“Well it was hard to tell the exact shade in the shop. But now she’s wearing it I can see it doesn’t suit her.”

“She probably doesn’t realise that.”

Ooh, wrong thing to say. I felt sorry for the guy as Portia’s voice rose an octave and the volume increased.

“Well she might not know, but everyone else does, and they’ll think I’m a stupid colour-blind person who can’t even pick a rug that matches her horse. Sammy can’t wear it any more. Majesty and Gameela need new rugs as well, because if Sammy has one and they don’t they’ll think I love her more than them.”

Impeccable logic there. I’m sure horses talked about things like that all the time when the humans were asleep.

The poor bloke sighed and admitted defeat. “Okay, get them new rugs then. Just make sure they’re the right colour this time because you’re not buying more next week.”

Now she’d got her own way, Portia’s voice turned sickly sweet. “Ooh, you’re the best brother ever.”

The guy emerged from the stable, and there was a collective intake of breath from everyone except me. He breathed deeply himself, leaning against the wall outside Samara’s stable, his eyes closed. The set of his jaw and his clenched fists showed he was desperately trying to keep calm.

I took the opportunity to get a good look at him. He was just over six feet tall, with tousled, dark blonde hair a couple of weeks past needing a cut, and a day’s worth of stubble. His jeans were either well-worn or expensive designer. It was hard to tell which these days.

Bradley, who looked after my wardrobe, had presented me with a pair full of holes a while back and informed me they cost over a thousand dollars. I’d counted up—sixty dollars per hole. I told him to go with the cheap ones next time and I’d do the holes myself.

Next time. A sigh escaped. When would that be?