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

by Hannah Hooton

  ‘What did that Ron Mc-whatever say?’

  ‘That’s the weird thing. He wouldn’t tell me. Said that I should ask Dad. What do you think the big deal is?’

  Tom frowned.

  ‘Dunno. Have you asked Rhys? He might know.’

  Frankie shook her head.

  ‘No. And to be honest, I’m not sure that he would know. He doesn’t much like talking about his father.’

  ‘Maybe you should do what that Ron guy said and ask your dad again. Like outright. It might shock him into telling you the truth.’

  Frankie pursed her lips in contemplation.

  ‘Maybe. I’ve just got to find the right time.’

  ‘Frankie, you and your dad haven’t been on proper speaking terms for weeks. Is there ever going to be a right time?’

  ‘Good point, Watson.’

  Chapter 38

  The downside to having one’s birthday on Valentine’s Day was that Frankie had spent her youth picking up the pastel-coloured envelopes that had fallen through the letterbox and opening each with a trembling hope that one might be from a secret admirer. Usually they would contain birthday wishes instead. Of the five that landed on the mat that Saturday morning she was unsurprised to find that none of them were Valentine’s Day cards. She hadn’t expected anything from Rhys, it wasn’t his style. Besides, they were going to watch a fireworks display after racing tonight and he had promised her dinner at some swanky Ascot restaurant.

  Frankie sat in the changing rooms, tying and retying the red ribbon on the cap of her helmet. She could hear the commentary for the Ascot Chase in which Rhys was riding Virtuoso coming from the television and from the PA system, but she wasn’t listening. She couldn’t remember feeling so nervous prior to a race before. Sure, every race got to her to a greater or lesser degree, but this one—when she knew she needed to stay calmer than she’d ever done before—this one was different. In this one, she would be riding Ta’ Qali.

  Rhys was riding another Aspen Valley novice, Asante, in the same race and they both knew that if the Ta’ Qali that impressed so much at home turned up then his stablemate would have no hope. But the chances of a calm and collected Ta’ Qali making an appearance were slim. She needed to relax. For everyone’s sakes.

  She was roused out of her worry pit by the commentator’s cries and she winced as she heard last year’s Cheltenham Gold Cup winner, Zodiac, called home a neck clear of Rhys and Virtuoso.

  It wouldn’t be long now before the weighing room would begin to fill up again, noisy with the adrenalin-high jockeys arguing, joking and taunting each other after their race. The valets would be busy making sure saddles had the correct weight cloths for their jockeys’ next race. Then it would be crunch time. Frankie closed her eyes. She prayed her time wouldn’t be too crunching.

  *

  The grounds surrounding Ascot’s immaculate parade ring were packed. A glimmer of sunlight had replaced yesterday’s snowfall and racing fans were taking full advantage of it. She and Rhys made the short walk from the jockeys’ rooms in silence. As Frankie had suspected, Rhys hadn’t looked particularly pleased about losing out so narrowly on Virtuoso, but like all the best sportsmen his moody composure had changed for the better as his next challenge arose.

  Frankie scanned the outer reaches of the ring for her mount. There he was. Billy was leading him, digging his elbow into the black horse’s shoulder to keep him steady. Ta’ Qali wore the same fluffy white noseband as before, but in addition he also wore a lip-chain.

  A flutter of hope rose inside her. The lip-chain made him look like he was snarling but the pressure on his gums was obviously releasing the intended endorphins that kept a horse calm. Not that Ta’ Qali was exactly the quietest of the runners, but he wasn’t going berserk. Yet.

  Jack was waiting for them both in the centre of the ring.

  ‘Frankie, your guess is as good as mine about how to ride Ta’ Qali, probably better. Just get him to settle. That horse over there, Raphaelite, is bound to set a good gallop so that’s one good thing. Ta’ Qali has the ability to win this, but only if he settles.’

  His face was grimmer than usual, Frankie noticed. This wasn’t just another runner for him. Ta’ Qali was his horse and his horse to sell. If he lived up to his potential on such a high profile race card, Ta’ Qali could be sold within a week. But if he mirrored his last two runs, it was doubtful he would get any serious offers for the rest of the season.

  The bell rang for the jockeys to mount and Jack addressed Rhys.

  ‘Asante likes to come off the pace. Don’t leave him out the back though, else he’ll just fall asleep. Come on, Frankie. I’ll leg you up. Good luck both of you.’

  *

  Through the tunnel and onto the course, Frankie’s breath evaporated. Ascot’s arcing grandstand stretched all the way to the far turn and the crowds that had come to watch the clash between two Cheltenham Gold Cup winners in the last race still packed the rails a hundred deep.

  Frankie shivered as Ta’ Qali upped his pace and an icy wind blew through her. With his lip-chain removed, it seemed her horse’s more fractious nerves had returned. But with these crowds she couldn’t blame him. Helensvale Market Day couldn’t hold a candle to Ascot. Frankie sat lower on her haunches, gently sawing at the reins as they galloped down to the two mile start.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ Rhys asked her once they were circling behind the tape.

  Ta’ Qali shook his head as if he had a fly in his ear and pawed at the lush carpet of grass.

  ‘Not great,’ she replied.

  ‘I wish I could give you some advice, but if anyone knows how to ride him, you do.’

  Frankie smiled grimly and nodded. Her reins were slick from Ta’ Qali’s sweating neck and she tried to dry her gloves on her breeches. She followed her rivals in a haphazard circle, trying to avoid the worst of the sixteen-runner traffic. The field turned sharply, catching her unawares and carried her forward as they rushed towards the tape.

  Ta’ Qali stretched out his neck, pulling her out of the saddle and bounded forward. The orange tape, ribbing in the breeze, was too close. The starter wasn’t even on the steps of his platform. She hauled back on the reins, but the momentum of the field continued to push them forward.

  ‘Get back! Get back!’ the starter roared. ‘Take a turn! You!’ he said, pointing at Frankie. ‘Take a turn! Go on, all of you! Get back!’

  Ta’ Qali fought angrily with Frankie. Another horse shot out of the pack and nearly clothes-lined its jockey on the tape. Frankie’s heart sank. What little hope she held for Ta’ Qali dwindled. Groans and mutters rumbled from the others as they all turned away. More delays, more time for her horse to psyche himself up. The runners retreated behind the start and the tape was painstakingly retied across the track.

  ‘Okay, on you go!’ the starter shouted.

  Ta’ Qali wheeled round on his hocks and set off like a cannonball. Frankie’s hands slipped on the reins. Apart from two other horses on her outside, she was out in the clear. She hadn’t had much of a game plan to start with, but heading affairs had definitely not been part of it. The first of the nine hurdles bounced into her line of sight. She gritted her teeth and tried not to close her eyes. Ta’ Qali was running wild. She was scared. Ta’ Qali was scared. He cat-jumped over the first, rapping the top of the hurdle with his knees and pecking on landing.

  ‘Whoa, boy. Whoa,’ she tremored. ‘Come on, slow it down, Ta’ Qali. Please.’

  Ta’ Qali jinked sideways and bumped a horse coming up his inside.

  ‘Watch it, Frankie!’ the rider shouted.

  She turned to see Donnie glaring at her.

  ‘Sorry! I—’ She couldn’t concentrate on a reply. Ta’ Qali was too much for her. He threw his head, whipping her face with his mane. She didn’t feel the sting, she just felt the fear.

  The second hurdle was quickly upon them and Ta’ Qali stood off a stride early. He stretched out his neck and forelegs to clear it, for a moment forgettin
g to fight his rider, but as soon as they were on the other side and galloping into the shade afforded by the grandstand, his mind was back on the struggle. The noise of the crowd rolled in waves around her, so loud that she hardly heard the snap.

  She looked down. The reins were still tight in her fists; her stirrups were still straining against their leathers. Then she saw Ta’ Qali’s breastplate flap around his chest.

  ‘Damn,’ she muttered. The force of Ta’ Qali’s erratic gallop had torn the piece of tack clean from the saddle. She tried to calm herself. It wasn’t serious. Horses didn’t need breastplates, they were just there as a precautionary measure to keep the saddle from slipping.

  *

  They rounded the long sloping turn that would take them up to the highest point of the course. With Donnie half a length in front of her and two others ahead, they galloped in fourth. Over the third hurdle, Frankie caught a glimpse of just how good Ta’ Qali could be. Her arms ached. Lactic acid burned through her thighs as she balanced her weight in opposition to her mount’s tearaway speed.

  The ground began to fall away as they raced towards the next hurdle. Ta’ Qali was breathing harder than Frankie yet his legs carried him faster down the descent. Frankie leaned back. Her desperate tugs garnered no response. Ta’ Qali took off unbalanced and flattened the hurdle. He stumbled in the thick turf on landing. Frankie’s heart leapt into her throat. She looked down between her knees. Her saddle was inching up Ta’ Qali’s withers with every stride he took. Panic tightened her chest but lent her strength. She pulled back on the reins. But every time she did so, she was forced to push down in her stirrups. The saddle crept higher. Frankie felt her balance begin to teeter.

  ‘Stop, Ta’ Qali!’ she cried. ‘Please! Whoa, boy!’

  She looked up and felt her body go furnace hot with dread. Up ahead was their next obstacle—another hurdle going downhill followed by a sharp turn. She snatched at the reins, hoping the saddle wouldn’t slip any further if she stopped the constant hauling.

  Ta’ Qali shook his head and snatched back, tearing the reins through her fingers. Frankie gasped and clutched thick handfuls of his mane to stop herself toppling over his shoulder.

  She scrabbled with her reins and tried to calculate whether she had enough time to pull Ta’ Qali wide and miss out the looming jump. She pulled on her left rein, careful to keep her weight balanced in both stirrups.

  ‘Hey!’ an angry voice shouted.

  Frankie darted a look sideways.

  Shit. She hadn’t checked to see if she had a clear path. She looked round further. The chasing field of fifteen were right behind her. Blood pounded in her ears. The hurdle stretched out across the course. Frankie bit her lip and gripped Ta’ Qali’s black mane with her fingers. He took off. Another loud snap. One of the girth straps gave way. They landed and the saddle climbed higher.

  Jolted forward, she flung her arms round Ta’ Qali’s neck then pushed herself back upright. Panic overcame her. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t throw herself off. Not only were they going at a breakneck pace, but she also had the cavalry on her heels. But she couldn’t keep her balance for much longer. Ta’ Qali’s neck was a lot narrower than his back. She tried to push against him, but her centre of gravity was too far forward. Ahead was the bend. Her chest tightened. She would never stay on going round that. The heavy drum of hoofbeats and the harsh breathing of another horse loomed on her outside.

  ‘Frankie!’ Rhys’s bellowing voice reached her like a life-ring to stranded swimmer.

  She turned her head. Asante was drawing level, his head stretched low, his nostrils wide as he galloped flat out.

  ‘Rhys!’ she cried. ‘My saddle’s slipping! I’m going to fall!’

  ‘Hang on!’

  Ahead the white running rail began to curve inward. Rhys reached out and grasped her upper arm. His fingers dug into her straining muscles, but it was the most comforting pain she’d ever experienced. With it came stability. Asante bumped shoulders with Ta’ Qali and Frankie teetered. She looked across at Rhys. She knew her face was stricken with fear. She didn’t care. Rhys wore a look of thunderous determination.

  ‘Just hold on! Okay?’ he shouted.

  She nodded dumbly. With Rhys’s arm steadying her, they skirted the turn.

  ‘I’m slipping!’ she yelled, feeling her centre of gravity shift right.

  ‘Push down with your left foot!’

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Yes, you can! Push down!’ He pulled on her arm as he shouted.

  Frankie tore her lip with her teeth as her balance wavered.

  ‘Hold on to me, okay? I’m going to let go—’

  ‘No! Don’t!’ she cried.

  ‘I have to. I’m going to stop Ta’ Qali. Just hold on.’

  Frankie let go of her horse’s mane and flung out her arm to grasp Rhys’s shoulder. He leaned forward and snagged her reins. She felt the pressure of her straining hold on Ta’ Qali’s mouth lessen as he took up the fight. Ta’ Qali shook his head. The saddle slipped further. Frankie cried out and grabbed a handful of Rhys’s blue silks. The rumble of the approaching field grew louder as Ta’ Qali’s pace slackened. In seconds they were surrounded, Asante grunting as he took the bumps of the advance. Then the field raced on. Ta’ Qali slowed to a ragged trot beside his stablemate, jarring Frankie, when the final girth strap snapped.

  Her landing was relatively soft considering other falls she’d experienced. Ta’ Qali’s toe glanced off her shoulder but her body protector took the brunt of the force. She lay for a moment in the moist grass, looking up at the patchy sky. She was alive. She rolled onto her knees. Up ahead, Rhys was pulling up both horses. He spun Asante round and hurried back to her. Ta’ Qali threw his head at Rhys’s rough treatment.

  ‘Stop it, you stupid fucker!’ he growled.

  Ta’ Qali rolled his eyes. Rhys jumped off and rushed to Frankie’s side.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She climbed to one knee. It was trembling so much she nearly fell over again. She looked up at Rhys’s desperate expression and felt like crying. Instead she reached out and let him hold her, safe, solid, secure.

  Chapter 39

  Frankie rolled over in Rhys’s bed and sleepily reached out for him. When all she felt was cold empty bedding, she opened her eyes. The room was dark and lonely apart from the ticking clock on his bedside table.

  ‘Rhys?’ she said blearily.

  She craned her neck, but no, he hadn’t fallen out of bed either. She winced; her shoulder was stiff and achy from Ta’ Qali’s ill-judged kick. Settling back into a more comfortable position, she smiled to herself as she relived their evening together. Dinner had been smooth and pleasant. Unlike so many of her previous dates, Rhys hadn’t criticised her choice in menu by saying, ‘Come on, you have to put some meat on those bones!’ She’d used to hate that. Didn’t they realise that given the choice she would much rather have chosen the roast dinner with Yorkshire puddings or battered haddock smothered in tartare sauce? But Rhys knew that dieting was part and parcel of a jockey’s life. He even went so far as to seek advice from a nutritionist so that he could stay as healthy as he could on the miniscule portions he ate.

  Dinner had been followed by half an hour of Sparks in the Park back in Helensvale. It had been cold and the ground was still frozen with snow, but the white carpet they’d stood on had added to the atmosphere. The green and red Catherine Wheels had lit up the ground as well as the sky. Frankie had been mesmerised. Rhys had seemed less enraptured with the display and on a couple of occasions she’d caught him watching her. The glow of glittering chrysanthemums had danced across his cheekbones and jaw, and Frankie hadn’t known which was more beautiful to watch. It had been the perfect way to erase her hair-raising ride at Ascot that afternoon.

  *

  Frankie shivered as she left the warmth of the bed and left the bedroom. The flat was quiet and her socked feet padded noiselessly across the floorboards. In the lounge she found Rhys
sitting with his back to her, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, watching the television on mute. In the darkness the reflection of the screen flashed across the walls. She watched him. He was replaying a race recording. He let it play for a few seconds then paused it, rewound and slow-mo-ed each jump.

  ‘Hey,’ she said gently when she felt no longer comfortable spying on him.

  Rhys leapt in the air and dropped the remote control.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, shuffling in and sitting beside him on the sofa. ‘Whatya watching?’

  Rhys let the recording play on and sat back.

  ‘Virtuoso’s Ascot Chase. I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘You never sleep.’

  Rhys shrugged, not denying his insomnia. He offered Frankie some of the blanket he had slung over his knees and she gratefully pulled it over her. The silvery light cast by the television made him look even more hallowed and his eyes looked bruised with fatigue.

  ‘Why do you torture yourself by watching it over?’ she said.

  Rhys looked surprised.

  ‘I’m not torturing myself. I just wanted to see where I could’ve saved ground or ridden a better jump. Improve for next time. It’s part of the job.’

  Frankie looked at him uncertainly. Dare she admit that she hardly ever watched her races over? She hated watching herself. She always seemed to grimace over each fence. She didn’t mind watching the races that she had won, but Rhys appeared to do the exact opposite. He watched the races that he’d lost and no doubt beat himself up about it.

  ‘Second place isn’t so bad though,’ she said. ‘Especially in a Grade One.’

  Rhys looked confused.

  ‘That’s when it’s the worst. No one remembers who comes second.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘Who came second to Faustian in last year’s Grand National?’

  Frankie paused to think.

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Exactly. Who came second in the jockey’s championships?’