One In A Million

by Coleen Singer

  Phoebe groaned as the pain of her injuries began to register. Her left leg throbbed furiously and she peered through the blurry veil distorting her vision in an attempt to inspect the damage.

  “Jesus! Love, are you okay?” a dim and distant voice was asking her.

  “I’m not sure,” she managed.

  “Don’t move, let me have a look at that leg.”

  She felt a sharp stab of increased pain and yelped as the driver of the tanker probed her injured limb.

  “I don’t think it’s broken, but I can’t be sure. Did you hit your head?”

  The man’s face swam into view. He looked ashen with worry.

  “No ... no, I don’t think so. Anyway, my hat’s pretty tough, even if my head isn’t.” Murphy shifted and Phoebe suddenly realised she was still holding the reins. “Is my horse okay?” she asked woozily. “Please look to see if he’s injured.”

  “Bugger the horse, love, it’s you I’m worried about!” he said sharply.

  “I — I’m fine,” she mumbled and struggled to her feet despite the throbbing in her leg.

  The tanker driver took her arm and supported her as she tested her full weight on the leg. It hurt like the devil, but clearly wasn’t broken. She quickly inspected Murphy. Clean as a whistle, but sweated up quite badly.

  “Can you help me back on board,” Phoebe asked him.

  “What? You’re not going to get back on it now, are you? You’ve just had a nasty fall, love. Let me call someone for you. You must know someone who can take the horse. You need to see a doctor.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “No, I’ll be okay. If you’d be so kind as to walk alongside as far as the bridle path home. He’ll be fine the rest of the way back. We won’t have to cross any more roads.”

  The driver shook his head and sighed. “Look, I don’t like this. You’re as white as a sheet. You might have a concussion. You need to see a doctor. I’m picking up at Gosforth Farm, do you know it?”

  Phoebe nodded. “Dave Timpson’s place, yes.”

  “Right, well you call someone to come and get the horse and I’ll take you to Dave’s. He can get you to a doctor.” He unclipped his mobile phone from his overall pocket.

  Phoebe considered it for a moment, but after the initial shock she didn’t feel too bad. There was only one person she knew of who could handle Murphy well enough—Sharon Leslie. But Sharon was in Holland at the International Dressage finals. That only left Susan, another horsey buddy, but Susan was tiny, and not very experienced. She’d never handle Murphy and the last thing Phoebe wanted was for someone else to get hurt. There was one other who could deal with him—Brian Curtis, but Brian and Peter were good friends and she dismissed the idea quickly. She didn’t want Peter finding out about this and turning up out of the blue.

  “No, thank you. If you’ll just help me on board, I’ll be fine. I’ll call a doctor as soon as I get home.”

  The driver huffed and puffed, but finally lifted her back into the saddle. Her leg ached like crazy; she’d have no strength in it if Murphy decided to act up again.

  The driver walked alongside until she was on the path home and Phoebe thanked him. He apologised profusely for having been the cause of the accident, but Phoebe simply shrugged and said, “Not your fault, just one of those things you have to face up to with a youngster. Could have been worse.”

  Murphy was as good as gold all the way back, but the throbbing in Phoebe’s leg—and as it happened, her head—was beginning to make her feel sick. She untacked the horse and quickly inspected him once more before turning him out with Remus, then hobbled indoors to inspect her own damage.

  In dreadful pain, she peeled off her jodhpurs to see that the fresh bruise had already begun to turn a purplish blue all over her thigh and hip. She wiggled her toes and rolled her ankle. It worked just fine, though her muscles had already begun to stiffen. She had a few minor cuts and scrapes, but figured that she’d actually saved herself major damage by keeping hold of the reins, thereby keeping most of her body off the concrete surface. Thank God she was wearing tall boots and chaps!

  She made herself a cup of sweet tea and sat gingerly, her leg extended, and swallowed three strong painkillers for the throbbing ache in her head. She could find no actual sore spot anywhere on her scalp, but did remember feeling a pretty resounding thump when she first hit the ground. Good crash helmet! Then, inevitably, her thoughts turned to Tom’s reaction would be when he saw the damage. If she told him the truth, he’d probably fuss and worry every time she climbed back on board Murphy. He’d probably also explode about her refusing the driver’s offer.

  But Tom knew nothing about horses, he would not appreciate the fact that she couldn’t hand over a beast like Murphy to just anyone. Brian Curtis popped up in her head again and she felt a twinge of guilt. He could have handled Murphy easily; he was one of the best horsemen Phoebe had ever met. And he lived only half a mile away. If she’d asked for his help, he would have given it willingly. Probably would have come out with the lorry and picked Murphy up straight away. Yes, he was good friends with Peter, but he was also a good friend of hers. If she’d asked him not to mention this to Peter, he most likely wouldn’t have, but ever since the break-up she’d avoided Brian. She wasn’t sure why exactly, but rather felt it might be better to put a little distance and time between the end of her and Peter’s relationship and their mutual friends.

  If Tom ever discovered the truth, he’d go berserk—and she knew only too well what that meant! But how could he? No one else witnessed the accident. She never gave the tanker driver her name, or told him where she lived. There was no need to worry Tom with the truth. She’d just have to invent something plausible to explain her injury. She’d not lie outright, that would be too difficult to maintain. It would have to be something to do with horses. Perhaps she could say Murphy spooked on the yard and knocked her down—or along the stony track to the arena. Christ! He’d very nearly done that a number of times in the past and he was a huge animal. Yes! It rang quite true and her injuries were consistent with the story.

  Phoebe’s heart began pounding, however. She had a good story, but her conscience was going to beat her like crazy. Tom had a remarkable penchant for spotting lies. Well of course he did! He was a bloody psychiatrist!

  * * *

  That evening Tom babied and cared for her like no other man ever had. He wouldn’t allow her to move an aching muscle. He cooked dinner, cleared away, washed the dishes—everything.

  He was horrified by the ugly bruising that had materialised on Phoebe’s leg, and gave her a furious telling off for not having called him straight away, or calling a doctor. He made no move to physically chastise her, but warned she was due a sore backside as soon as she was fit enough to take it. Phoebe saw that the threat was half-hearted, though. He swallowed her story hook, line and sinker, and apart from neglecting to inform him immediately, he had no reason to be angry with her.

  She’d gotten away with it.

  He carried her up to bed early as she confessed to a headache—shock, probably, she said—and he snuggled up close, gently stroking her pain away.

  Fortunately, Susan was quite happy to deal with the horses for a few days. She said she’d bring her husband with her to help lead the boys out. Remus was a pussycat—a child could handle him—Jeremy could take Murphy, so Phoebe could at least rest her leg and recover.

  Despite her success at covering up, Phoebe was haunted by guilt at having deceived Tom. But, she’d made her bed. Now she’d just have to lie in it.

  * * *

  The following three weeks passed in a blissful haze. Phoebe’s leg healed nicely and she only received a few light-hearted taps on the behind for not calling Tom. Murphy seemed untroubled by the incident and she’d tackled the main road a number of times since, just to make him revisit the demon. Though, she waited until Sharon’s return from Holland so that she could ride Remus—a rock solid traffic veteran—to accompany the nervous Murphy.

  Sh
e spent pretty well every night with Tom—and for the few days Susan was looking after the horses, he took Phoebe to his place. His home was magnificent, overlooking Topsham Bay. It had been the family home and he’d bought his brother’s share from him after their father passed away. It was a sixteenth-century Manor House, similar in date to Phoebe’s farmhouse, but far, far larger, more refined and stately. His taste in furniture and trappings was also remarkably similar to Phoebe’s and they discovered another mutual interest—antiques.

  The more time they spent together, the deeper in love they became and Phoebe slowly, but cautiously, opened up a little more each day. Tom was kind and understanding. He also made her laugh, sometimes until she ached, especially with the stories from his life in the army. They had not exchanged a harsh or irritable word for weeks. Then Tom asked Phoebe if she’d like to come and watch him play Rugby one Saturday at his club.

  * * *

  Tom was an impressive sight in his Rugby kit. All muscle and sinew—gorgeous! Phoebe sat on the benches wrapped up against the cold as the two teams crashed, thudded and tackled their way through the game. By half time she could barely distinguish one team from the other, they were so caked in mud. But as Tom trotted past her and blew a kiss as they went into the changing room, Phoebe swore she recognised the man behind him. He’d looked straight at her and a faint look of recognition had crossed his face, too. Phoebe dismissed it almost immediately; she might have met him at some time before. West Dorset wasn’t a huge place after all.

  After the game—won by Tom’s team—the celebrations were in full swing in the club bar. Tom was elated, especially as he’d made a spectacular tackle that freed the winger to score a blinding try. He stood at the bar, arm wrapped around Phoebe’s waist, laughing and joking with his friends, when the familiar face—now cleaned of mud—appeared alongside Tom and sent Phoebe’s heart leaping to her throat.

  “Hello there. I thought I recognised you,” he said jovially. “How was your leg after that dreadful fall?” He grinned and shook his head. “I bet you didn’t go and see a doctor, did you?” He winked at Tom. “You’ve got a real toughie there, mate. I’d never have climbed back on that mad beast after the fall she had!”

  Phoebe didn’t even need to look at Tom. She felt him tense. His friend must have noted the look on his face too, because he held up his hands and said, “I insisted she get someone to come and get the horse, whilst I took her to my next call, but she wouldn’t have any of it, I swear, Tom, mate.”

  Phoebe made to move away from Tom’s side, but his fingers closed tightly about her waist.

  “So, tell me about it, Clive. Phoebe might have missed out one or two details.” His voice was tight with repressed fury.

  Phoebe swallowed hard and felt her cheeks flushing as Clive related the whole sorry tale, including the fact that he was sure she’d been knocked half senseless by the “bleary-eyed glaze’ she had.

  After Clive had finished his story, he winked at Tom and said—probably quite innocently—’I’d give her a good, hard smack on the bum, if I were you!” Then left them to join the other revellers.

  Tom swivelled Phoebe around and lifted her chin so she had no choice but to finally look at his face. His eyes were ablaze with frosty fury.

  “You are going to remember this day for a very, very long time, young lady. I’ll let you think about it for a while longer, whilst I calm down, because if I dealt with you right now—” His jaw flexed and he drew a deep calming breath. “Go and sit over there by the window. It’s going to be the last chance you get to sit for a while.” He turned her and with a surreptitious, but firm slap, propelled her toward the small table in the corner.

  Phoebe was close to tears. She’d seen him angry, but nothing even bordering on the explosive anger he had raging inside him right now. What a fool she’d been! If she’d confessed the day it happened, he wouldn’t have had the heart to punish her, not in the state she was in. And by the time she was fit, he would have calmed down considerably, especially so if she’d told the truth. Now, though, she was as fit as a fiddle and he was primed and ready to give her the thrashing of her life.

  Her heart pounded with a thundering ache, her mind whirling with wild entreaties. But there was nothing she could say to dampen his fury. She’d lied like a flat fish and now she was going to pay—dearly.

  Twenty long, agonising minutes passed before he approached the table and towered over her. “We’re leaving,” he said simply, his voice toneless and implacable. She rose and walked ahead of him, her backside tingling in anticipation of the inferno he would inflict as soon as he had her alone.

  The drive back to her farmhouse was travelled in absolute stony silence. She didn’t dare open her mouth for fear of making him even madder—not that she believed that was possible under the circumstances.

  By the time they pulled up outside, Phoebe felt quite exhausted from the tension knotting every muscle in her body. He didn’t lay a finger on her as they walked inside. Nor did he pull out a kitchen chair and drag her over his knee. This was a terrifying new development in his repertoire.

  “Go upstairs and put on your long T-shirt. Then bring down my holdall,” he said quietly.

  He kept a bag with a change of clothes in Phoebe’s wardrobe.

  She obeyed without question. Now was definitely the time to be submissive. As she slipped off her jeans and sweater, she noticed just how much she was trembling. And unlike the previous punishment sessions, she didn’t feel even the slightest quiver of excitement. This time it was going to be really bad. This time he was going to teach her a ruthlessly hard lesson.

  She reached inside the wardrobe and withdrew his bag, wondering why he wanted it, but not daring to look inside. She padded down the stairs barefoot, wearing nothing but her T-shirt as ordered and entered the kitchen. He had placed a chair in the middle of the room, but he had also cleared two more from the table, leaving a wide open space. Phoebe shivered as the reason for this dawned upon her and she stared, wide-eyed at him. He returned her gaze with a slight nod of confirmation, his eyes as hard and heartless as ever she’d seen them.

  “Put the bag on the table and look in the side flap,” he said, looking away momentarily as he rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  Phoebe slipped her hand inside and felt something smooth and hard. Her heart skipped a beat as she withdrew the paddle, fifteen inches of gleaming hardwood, a handle at one end, a spatula shaped, four-inch slab at the other.

  “Oh, my dear God!” she breathed, “No! Tom, please, I’m begging you, no!” She stared at him through the tears springing to her eyes, her chest heaving with panicky gasps.

  “Bring it to me now, Phoebe!” he bellowed fiercely, glaring at her with undisguised fury. Then he took a calming breath and lowered his voice to a level, menacing tone. “Don’t even think about arguing with me. You’ve sincerely earned this introduction to the paddle. I knew you would eventually, that’s why I brought one with me.”

  One! God, how many of the fucking things did he possess? A solid, unyielding slab of wood had never even entered her fantasies.

  “Don’t make me come and get you, Phoebe. You’ve more sense than that, surely?” he said, placing fists on hips.

  The few paces between them felt like a long mile to Phoebe as she shuffled toward him, holding the offensive item in her trembling hand. She passed it to him, wearing a genuine expression of fear and remorse, but it had no effect on his icy gaze.

  “Now stand in the corner, nose to the wall, and bare your backside,” he said darkly.

  Phoebe obeyed.

  “Now then, can you think of one tiny reason why I shouldn’t spank you to within an inch of your deceitful little life?”

  Phoebe shook her head.

  “Answer me, Phoebe!”

  “N… no,” she stammered.

  “No, what?”

  “No, sir.” She was getting the hang of this, very quickly.

  “What have you got to say for yourself—and it bett
er be good, Phoebe.”

  Phoebe couldn’t begin to think where to start. Her mind was spinning with the fear of that paddle.

  “I ...I’m sorry I lied to you. And ... and I’m sorry for not being sensible and letting Clive help me. And—oh, Jesus, Tom! Just fucking get it over with, will you!” she cried as the fear and humiliation overwhelmed her.

  “Not good, Phoebe. Not good at all!” he barked.

  She heard the paddle whip through the air a split second before it impacted with an almighty crack across both cheeks.

  “Ow!” she screeched and immediately brought her hands around to rub. Big mistake.

  Tom grabbed her wrists and held them in the small of her back, then dealt three more stinging blows in quick succession. Phoebe screamed and wriggled, but he held her firm in an iron grip. Tears were already coursing down her cheeks as she blurted out a stream of apologies.

  “I’ll never lie to you again! Please, Tom, I promise! Don’t hit me with that thing anymore, please!”

  “Don’t you dare touch your backside again! Do you hear me?” he hissed.

  “No, sir, I won’t, sir,” she whimpered as he released her wrists.

  “Tell me what you deserve for your abominable stupidity and deceit, Phoebe. And I’m warning you, be generous with yourself, or I’ll be twice as lavish with my attentions!”

  Phoebe gulped back her sobs. “I deserve at least a hundred and fifty across your knee, but please, Tom, not with that weapon!”

  “A hundred and fifty, eh? Very good, Phoebe, very good. I think I can oblige you. How does this sound? You take the first thirty from my hand, just a little warm up, you understand. Then the next thirty you’ll take lying across the table—seeing as you lie so well—and those will be dealt with the paddle. Then you’ll spend a little more corner time contemplating your crimes. And after that I’ll repeat the exercise until you’re done. Agreed?” It was a rhetorical question and one that brooked no reply.

  Phoebe wailed and stamped her feet, though without conviction. She felt utterly helpless. The few whacks he’d already administered with the paddle had seared into her bare flesh like red-hot knives. She couldn’t take—she calculated quickly—sixty more! And knowing him, he’d round off the alternating punishment with another thirty just for good measure! The image of her crawling on her knees begging for clemency flashed through her mind, but he’d probably enjoy it, so she dismissed it out of hand. She hadn’t sunk to that level of submission anyway, and she doubted she ever would, even if he thrashed her every day for a month!