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 their 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 exhausted, he looked disgusted—with himself and with her.
Dust Storm changed down to a ragged trot and Rhys and Romulus pulled up alongside. Frankie opened 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.
Chapter 7
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 won 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 alrea
dy 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 reasons 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 se
nse 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.’
Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) Page 6