Cut Throat (10 page)

Normally the voice of the commentator merged into insignificance with the other background noises, but Ross was surprised into listening to this rather unflattering description of his recent history. The bell went for the start of his round and, all else forgotten, he set to work.

King pulled out all the stops that afternoon and Ross rode him on a fluent, time-efficient line, turning tightly, but not so tightly as to interrupt his rhythm. As they turned to the last line of fences, Ross knew they had a chance. He pushed King for every ounce of effort, lifting him with hands and heels at each jump. They flew the triple bar, King's toes just clicking on the top pole as they went over, and steadied for the upright to finish. The crowd cheered and clapped as horse and rider shot between the timing beacons to stop the clock. Ross patted King's sleek bay neck as they pulled up and praised him quietly, his blood still racing with the familiar thrill of competition.

‘A lucky clear round there for Ross Wakelin on King's Defender,' the commentator remarked over the loudspeaker. ‘Mr Wakelin goes into the lead with a time of forty-two-point-eight-five seconds.'

Ross stared at the commentary box, dumbfounded, as he rode past. What was lucky about it? King had jumped beautifully. He shook his head in bewilderment.

Colonel Preston was waiting outside the collecting ring accompanied by a tall wiry man with a shock of red hair and piercing blue eyes that were almost hidden by low bushy brows.

Ross jumped down and patted King again.

‘Ross, this is Robbie Fergusson,' the Colonel announced.

Ross had guessed as much. He held out his hand with a smile.

‘Hi. How d'you do? This is one hell of a horse, you know.'

Fergusson's clasp was strong and brief.

‘It's the first time he's been ridden properly for months,' he said, somehow making the compliment sound more like a complaint. ‘That Douglas boy couldn't ride a seaside donkey!'

Ross didn't feel it was his place to comment. From what he had seen and heard, there was little wrong with Douglas' riding that wouldn't be put right by a little more experience.

‘I'm not too good on donkeys myself,' Ross admitted with a grin.

Apparently humour wasn't the Scotsman's strong point. He fixed Ross with a bright blue gaze. ‘I'll expect significant improvement from all my horses this summer,' he told him. ‘I pay a fortune to keep them with the Colonel and lately I've seen sod-all in return. I've had a mind to give it all up.'

‘I'll do my best,' Ross promised soberly.

Fergusson maintained his visual probe for a moment longer, then nodded and turned to the Colonel, effectively presenting his back to the American.

‘I hope you're right about him,' he remarked, not troubling to lower his voice.

‘Oh, I think so,' the Colonel replied as they turned away, and Ross took a deep breath to quell rising irritation.

Over King's saddle he caught sight of Leo approaching, riding Clown who was now considerably quieter and flanked by Franklin and Peter Richmond.

‘They're calling you for your other class,' Leo told Ross as he jumped off the skewbald and held out the reins to the American. ‘I left Danny looking after the box.'

‘Lead King up and down for me, will you? I might need him again if we've won anything.' Ross vaulted on to Clown's back and turned towards the novice ring.

‘How's he going, Ross?' Peter asked excitedly as he hurried alongside.

‘Oh, fine,' Ross lied cheerfully. ‘But you must remember it's all very new to him and not expect too much.'

Clown's class, though still novice, was somewhat more testing than his earlier, disastrous one had been and Ross didn't hold out much hope of completing the course, but he could but try.

The skewbald surprised them all. After an experimental buck as he began to canter, he settled down and actually started to concentrate on the job in hand. They left the ring with eight faults and a feeling of satisfaction on Ross' part. What the horse felt he couldn't say for sure, but Ross had a suspicion it was smugness.

Peter was thrilled with Clown's progress, showing a maturity of understanding far beyond his years. Together with Franklin, they made their way back to the main ring.

‘How many more to go?' Ross asked one of the other riders.

‘This is the last and you're still the fastest clear.' Then as a pole dropped to the turf for four faults, ‘That's it! You've done it! Well done!'

Ross tightened the girth and mounted, accepting congratulations from his fellow competitors. He wondered what Fergusson would have to say about it. Probably not much. He rode into the ring to receive his rosette and prize and once again was aware of Stephen Douglas scowling at him from lower down the line. He didn't let it bother him.

When he left the ring after a lap of honour, the Colonel was waiting to congratulate him. Of the Scotsman there was no sign.

‘Want to ride King back to the box?' Ross asked Peter.

‘Can I? Brilliant?' Ross tossed him into the saddle where he looked tiny, like a toddler on a Harley-Davidson. Peter's face was radiant. King's Defender plodded good-naturedly, switching off like a pro after the job was done.

Ross' last classes of the day were for Black Bishop. He left the other three horses being settled for the journey home and took the big black to warm up.

Both Bishop's classes went well. The horse proved to have the perfect competitive temperament. Completely unruffled by the occasion, he jumped everything high and wide with intense concentration, never looking like hitting anything. Ross forgave him unreservedly for his recent bad-tempered behaviour and his own sore hand.

Their second class was in the main ring and the big German-bred animal attracted not a little attention from Ross' fellow riders.

‘Come up in the world, haven't we?' a husky female voice commented from slightly behind Ross.

He turned. ‘Danielle!' he exclaimed delightedly. A petite, pretty brunette, Danielle Moreaux was a successful international rider from Belgium and a girl he had dated a time or two before his accident.

‘Ross, it's nice to see you again,' she said warmly. ‘Back on the winning track I see, too. I was told in America you had given up.'

‘I had.' Ross grinned.

‘But now you've come out of retirement?'

‘For one last try.'

‘You have some nice horses this time, I think,' she said, running her eye over Bishop approvingly.

Ross nodded. ‘This fella's one of the best I've ever ridden,' he agreed. ‘But he's young yet. I don't want to rush him.'

‘Well, it's time you had some luck. You deserve it, you really do! Oh, number thirty-five, that's me! Come on, Bosun. Wake up, you lazy lump!'

She gathered up her reins and Ross watched appreciatively as she rode away towards the ring entrance, a neat figure in black jacket and cream breeches astride a grey thoroughbred.

In due course, Bishop jumped an immaculate clear and followed it with another in the jump-off, half an hour later. Ross didn't push him for a fast time, unwilling to do anything to upset the young horse's wonderful rhythm and balance at this early stage. He was well satisfied with the horse's performance.

‘A clear round,' the commentator confirmed. ‘But a slow time of fifty-eight seconds. You'll have to try a bit harder than that, Ross. Put some heart into it!'

He was furious.

‘What's with that guy?' he demanded of Danielle as they passed in the collecting ring. ‘Why can't he keep his smart-ass comments to himself?'

‘Well, I suppose you can't expect him to be your biggest fan,' Danielle said matter-of-factly.

Ross looked blankly at her.

‘You mean, you don't know who he is?' she asked, swinging her horse round to come alongside.

‘Should I?'

‘Oh!' the Belgian girl exclaimed, exasperated. ‘Where have you been all these years? That's Harry Douglas. Everybody knows him! He does the commentary on TV and at all the big shows over here.'

‘Okay. But why pick on . . . ? Ah.' The light dawned. ‘Douglas, as in
Stephen
Douglas?'

‘Exactly.' Danielle nodded. ‘In his eyes you're riding the horses his son should be riding. The fact that Stephen made a mess of the job is presumably beside the point to daddy's way of thinking.'

Her number was called and she rode away, leaving Ross to reflect that with opposition in such influential places, gaining recognition in England could prove to be just as hard as it had been in the States.

The next morning, Ross was busy schooling Barfly in the arena when the Colonel appeared and stood watching with Bill at the gate.

Fly was an unrewarding pupil. He had the ability, but his attitude left a lot to be desired. Ross had started early with the young horse, before the sun made any exertion uncomfortable, and when his employer appeared he was about ready to stop. He did another ten minutes or so and then rode over to the gate where the Colonel waited, alone now.

‘He's a bit of a bugger, isn't he?' he observed as Ross dismounted.

‘You're not kidding,' Ross agreed. ‘It's not that he can't, he just doesn't try.'

‘Mmm. We could see he was being stubborn. I thought you were remarkably patient, considering.'

‘Well, he's young yet,' Ross said, setting Barfly free to roll and wondering if there was a purpose to the Colonel's apparently casual visit.

‘You're good with the youngsters,' the older man went on. ‘Even Robbie Fergusson was impressed. He rang me this morning.'

‘Just to tell you that?' Ross was sceptical and wary. Something in the Colonel's body language told him this was perhaps sugar to sweeten a bitter pill.

‘Well, no, as a matter of fact,' he admitted. ‘Ross, I'm afraid Fergusson has decided to sell King. He had a good offer yesterday and sees it as a way to cover some of his expenses. I think perhaps things are a bit tight at the moment.'

Ross' face hardened against the familiar disappointment.

‘I see,' he said tonelessly.

‘I'm sorry.' The Colonel sounded genuinely so. ‘The thing is, King is in good health and the form of his life but at fourteen, as you know, his value can realistically only go down. He'll only have two or three more years at the top, however careful we are.'

‘Sure, I understand,' Ross said with resignation. ‘You know he qualified for Birmingham yesterday?'

‘Yes, I know,' the Colonel said quietly. ‘That clinched the deal.'

‘Instant success. Bought, not worked for,' Ross said wryly but without bitterness. It was a familiar scenario. ‘When will he go?'

‘Probably at the end of the week. Look, I've got to go now. Come up to the house later, for a sherry.'

When he had gone, Ross tacked up Ginger and, coming across Danny in the yard, invited the boy to accompany him on Simone. Danny, who had a day off school due to something called a ‘teacher training day', was a very able rider; a talent which his father did little to encourage.

‘Did
you
go to college, Ross?' he asked as they clattered along the country lanes with the dog at their heels. ‘Dad wants me to go to college but I don't want to. I don't need A-levels to be a jockey.'

‘Sure I went,' Ross said. ‘And I went on to law school too. My father wanted me to be a lawyer and join the family firm.'

‘But you didn't, did you?' Danny said eagerly. ‘You went your own way. Why can't Dad see I've got a right to live my own life?'

‘I guess he only wants what he thinks is best for you,' Ross said, cringing inwardly as he heard himself echoing generations of parents with his words. ‘And it never hurts to have some academic qualifications too. Horses are a risky business – look at me, I almost had to go back to studying law.'

Danny was not convinced. ‘I could always turn to training if I couldn't ride any more,' he said with the easy optimism of youth. ‘And anyway, Dad doesn't want me ever to be a jockey. Not now. Not in two years' time. Not ever!'

The American suppressed a smile at his boyish despair. ‘In a year or two he won't have any say in the matter, as far as I can see,' he observed. Then, as they turned off the tarmac surface on to a grassy woodland track, ‘Come on, let's get some practice in now, anyway.'

He hitched up his stirrups five or six holes and waited while Danny did the same, then, crouched jockey-like over their horses' necks, they put them into a gallop and thundered down the track between the trees. It wasn't until they pulled up, legs aching from the unaccustomed position and faces glowing with exhilaration, that Ross remembered it was Ginger he was riding.

Ross spent the afternoon cleaning tack. It being Monday, Bill was on his own and it didn't seem fair to leave extra work for him. As he worked amongst the smells of leather, saddle soap and metal polish, Ross pondered his own, so far unrewarded attempts to befriend the man. Scott might, as the Colonel alleged, have an exhaustive fund of equine knowledge locked away in his head but to date that was where it had stayed. Apart from when it was absolutely necessary, he had shown no inclination whatever to talk to Ross.

He had a strange feeling that Bill regarded him as a failure just waiting to happen, and although the horses' recent successes had undoubtedly pleased the man, his cold reserve where Ross was concerned had not noticeably warmed.

As though summoned by Ross' thoughts, the stable manager appeared in the doorway.

‘I could have done that,' he observed dourly.