Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  He warmed the mare up as for a normal schooling session and took her over one or two jumps. She behaved well, apparently in one of her better moods. Ross’ spirits rose a notch or two. The rain increased to a steady drizzle.

  From his pocket, he took two small flat pieces of wood that he had dug out of the toolshed earlier. Letting the mare walk round the school on a loose rein, he gently tapped the pieces together. The mare flicked her ears back enquiringly. He patted her, talking all the while, and then tapped them again.

  Gradually he increased the volume of the taps. Ginger became a lot more edgy, but didn’t panic. Ross made much of her. He was so absorbed that he didn’t see a mackintoshed figure come and lean on the gate. After another ten minutes or so, Ross began to allow himself a glimmer of hope. The mare was trying hard.

  In the field beside the school, one of the Colonel’s spaniels, on a rabbiting expedition, put up a brace of pheasant with a flurry of clucking and flapping wings.

  Ginger’s nerves, already stretched, snapped. She bolted blindly.

  Ross was ready for her. With his legs clamped hard on her sides, he put both hands on one rein and pulled her head round. With her muzzle touching his boot and her white-rimmed eye almost at his knee she could do no more than stagger sideways for a few yards.

  For a moment, Ross thought she would fall but she managed to retain her balance and halted, splay-legged and shuddering violently. He could feel her extreme tension still and knew that if he released her head she would probably bolt again. Keeping the rein tight over her neck, he slid off the opposite side and stood talking quietly to her.

  Slowly, she relaxed. Ross found he was shaking with reaction as he released the rein. She stood beside him, the picture of dejection, and he felt sorry for her.

  He considered getting back on but couldn’t raise much enthusiasm for the idea. The rain was now a steady downpour; he had just lost half-an-hour’s progress in a split second and he hadn’t the heart to start again.

  He shied away from the thought that he just plain hadn’t the heart.

  Patting the mare’s rain-sodden and steaming neck, Ross unsaddled her and turned her loose. He took off his crash hat and let the rain run through his hair and down his face. Tired and dispirited, he limped back towards the yard with the saddle over his arm. He was almost at the gate before he lifted his head enough to see that someone was there and he’d been watched. His spirits fell another notch.

  When he saw the blonde hair under the waxed cotton hood, Ross didn’t know whether to be relieved or sorry. On the one hand, Lindsay was the person to whom he had always found it easiest to talk; on the other, he was slightly ashamed that she had witnessed his weakness in not remounting.

  He scanned her face for scorn but found none.

  ‘Hi, Princess,’ he said wearily.

  ‘Hello.’ Her tone was absent-minded and she was gazing at the horse.

  Ross balanced the saddle on the top rail of the gate and leaned on it, too down to care that the rain wasn’t doing the leather any good. He would oil it later.

  Lindsay looked sideways at him.

  ‘Is it because she’s a chestnut?’ she asked abruptly.

  Ross didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. It was a question he had asked himself a thousand times. Ginger . . . the horse in America . . . the one in his nightmares . . . they were all the same colour. Was it possible that his trouble with Ginger stemmed from a subconscious connection he’d made between them? Was he tense, and communicating his tension to the mare?

  Maybe a little, he admitted, but surely the basic problem was with her. Why couldn’t anyone else see that she was crazy? Could it be his imagination?

  ‘Simone is a chestnut,’ he reminded her defensively.

  ‘What then, Ross? What’s happened to you? You used to ride all the roughest, baddest horses. People said you had no nerves at all.’

  Ross sensed that Lindsay longed for him to reassure her. After all, it was she who was responsible, in the main, for his being in England and riding the Oakley Manor horses. He noted her use of the past tense.

  ‘Perhaps I should have quit while I was ahead,’ he said, taking refuge in flippancy.

  Lindsay wasn’t amused. ‘But she bothers you, doesn’t she? You surely can’t deny there’s a problem?’ she demanded. ‘Especially after what happened just now.’

  ‘And what do you think happened just now?’ Ross asked in brittle tones.

  ‘I saw one of the toughest riders on the circuit let a novice horse get away with blatant disobedience. I saw him break the first rule of training – any training – that you should always end on a good note.’ She was watching his face closely as she spoke. ‘Oh, come on, Ross! Don’t you know what they’re saying about you?’

  ‘People always talk,’ he observed mildly. ‘You don’t have to listen.’

  ‘Damn you!’ Lindsay cried vehemently. ‘Don’t give me that “I don’t care” routine. I know you better than that.’

  He turned his back to the gate and stared into the middle distance, eyes bleak, face shuttered.

  There was silence for a moment, then she put a tentative hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t shut me out, Ross,’ she pleaded. ‘We used to be friends. I just want to help.’

  Ross didn’t respond. Rain dripped off his hair and ran down his neck inside his denim shirt, which was in any case plastered to his back. He wished she would go and he needed her to stay, but each word she uttered twisted the knife a little more. How would it help to admit to her that he was beginning to doubt himself?

  ‘Ross!’ Losing patience, she gripped his arm and pulled him to face her. ‘Talk to me, damn you!’

  She caught him off guard. For a moment he gazed down at her upturned, impatient face, glistening with rain, and then his control slipped. With one finger he tilted her chin and when she made no move to resist, bent to kiss her in a fashion far removed from the brotherly embraces of the past.

  Lindsay froze for an instant, then her hand stole up into his wet hair and pulled him closer.

  For a moment nothing else mattered until, abruptly, Ross pulled away.

  ‘That was bloody stupid!’ he said roughly. ‘I’m sorry. Better forget it.’

  Lindsay recoiled, hurt. ‘Consider it forgotten,’ she retorted roundly, and turned to open the gate.

  Ross put out a hand to stop her. It seemed more important than ever that she should understand about Ginger.

  ‘I’m not afraid for myself,’ he said, trying to find the words to explain. ‘At least, I don’t think so. It’s just – the nightmares – the children – that child, screaming. I can’t let it happen again.’

  Lindsay heard the desperation in his voice and turned back, her eyes full of compassion. ‘But it won’t, Ross. It was a once-in-a-lifetime fluke. You have to put it behind you. Vixen had a tumour. Ginger’s a completely different horse.’

  ‘Ginger is insane,’ he stated bluntly.

  ‘She doesn’t look it,’ Lindsay said doubtfully, surveying the chestnut mare who stood quietly, tail turned to the driving rain. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Last year at Annie’s she was frightened by some idiots with a firecracker and lost her foal. I don’t know whether it turned her mind or what, but now any sudden loud noise makes her freak out. She stops thinking and just runs. Won’t stop for anything. If anyone got in her way . . .’

  ‘Is that what happened just now?’

  Ross nodded. ‘It would have, if I hadn’t caught her in time.’

  ‘Can’t she be accustomed to loud noises? You know, desensitised or something?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what I was trying but I can’t see Fergusson giving me the time. He’s just as likely to whisk the horses off to some other yard if I say I don’t want to compete on the mare for a bit, and I can’t risk that. I’m already in danger of losing the ride on his horses, if not my job.’

  Lindsay watched him steadily, rain running off the tip of her nose.

  ‘It won�
��t come to that, Ross, surely? Won’t Uncle John speak to him?’

  ‘I saw your uncle this morning and he said he’d talk to me tonight. He didn’t look like a man about to increase my paycheque,’ Ross told her dryly. ‘He wasn’t happy yesterday. He stands to lose a lot if Fergusson pulls out.’

  Lindsay bit her lip. ‘I don’t suppose it’d do any good for me to have a word with him?’

  ‘Thanks, but no, I think it’s beyond that now. If your uncle is going to stick with me, it has to be his decision.’

  She glanced at Ginger again, frowning. ‘Are you sure about her, Ross? Is she really dangerous?’

  He studied her thoughtful face for a moment, realising that she still wasn’t convinced.

  He sighed. ‘I don’t know, Princess. Perhaps you’re right and I am biased against chestnut mares. I suppose time will tell. I just have a bad feeling about her and I don’t want anyone else to be hurt. Least of all me,’ he added with a self-deprecating grin.

  Lindsay still looked troubled and Ross felt enough had been said. He smiled brightly at her. ‘Come on. Let’s go in and have some coffee. Maggie’s been baking. If we stay out here we’ll get wet.’

  Lindsay surveyed his sodden clothing and laughed. ‘That would be a shame,’ she said. ‘Honestly, I shouldn’t think you could get much wetter if you went and jumped in the river. Why on earth didn’t you put a coat on?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ross whistled to Ginger, who came willingly towards him. ‘I guess I need someone to mother me.’

  ‘Like hell!’ Lindsay spluttered. ‘Look, I really came to see Gypsy. She cut herself yesterday and I wanted to make sure it hadn’t swollen up.’

  ‘It’s a clean wound,’ Ross said, leading Ginger to the gate. ‘Couple of days and she’ll be fine.’

  They wandered down into the yard where Ross took the mare back to her box and rubbed her down.

  ‘So, where’s your dog?’ Lindsay asked, following him back to the tackroom. ‘He’s not usually far away.’

  It still hurt, to think of the dog. Ross gave her the potted version that he had already given the others, about the storm and the swinging door.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Ross! Oh, the poor lad!’ Sympathetic tears shone in her eyes and he longed to take her in his arms again.

  ‘So how is he now?’ Lindsay scanned his face. ‘You haven’t rung, have you? Oh, Ross, you must! You can’t just leave it like that.’

  ‘I know. I’ll ring later.’ Impossible to tell her that even if the dog should recover, he couldn’t take the chance of having him back.

  Lindsay checked on Gypsy and together they headed for the cottage and Maggie’s fresh bread and cakes.

  They were back on an even keel, their easy relationship apparently restored, but Ross could not help but feel that it would never be quite the same again.

  ‘I want you to be straight with me,’ the Colonel said by way of opening the inquest. They had both settled into leather armchairs with glasses of sherry to hand.

  ‘Sure.’ Ross nodded.

  ‘I don’t mean to imply that you haven’t been in the past,’ the Colonel added. ‘It’s just that sometimes I find you – shall we say, inscrutable? I find I have no idea what’s going on in your head.’

  You and me both, Ross thought, ironically. He surveyed his sherry glass, smiled faintly and said nothing.

  ‘By the way,’ the Colonel said, glancing round, ‘where’s your dog tonight?’

  ‘He’s at the vet’s. Had an accident Friday night,’ Ross said shortly.

  ‘Poor old chap. What happened?’ The Colonel, who was very fond of his own small pack of dogs, seemed genuinely concerned.

  ‘He was hit by something. It happened in the storm.’

  ‘What? On the road? A car?’

  Ross shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I found him in the yard. The barn door was swinging – I thought it was probably that.’ It was a good start for the policy of glasnost, he thought wryly. But how else to explain without a long, involved account that would undoubtedly stray into forbidden territory? Interesting that Roland had apparently said nothing of the matter to his father.

  ‘Is he going to be all right?’

  Ross had spoken to Roger West’s partner earlier in the evening and learned that the dog was holding his own but no more than that.

  ‘He may be paralysed. It’s touch and go.’

  ‘That’s a damned shame,’ the Colonel said. ‘He’s a nice dog.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Ross had no wish to talk about it.

  They sat in silence for a moment, the Colonel thoughtfully swilling the sherry round his glass. Ross, for his part, felt strangely detached now that the crunch had come.

  ‘Robbie Fergusson called this morning,’ his boss said finally, holding his glass up to view the contents and then watching Ross over the top.

  Ross waited, poker-faced.

  The Colonel half-smiled to himself. ‘I told him about Bishop and explained that he was obviously uncomfortable yesterday. Robbie conceded the point but doesn’t accept that you were right to withdraw the mare.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ Ross murmured. ‘So what now? Have I lost the ride?’

  ‘I think that’s up to you,’ the Colonel said. ‘Fergusson may be a pompous, overbearing bastard but he’s not stupid. He’s a tactician by profession and even he realises that you get a sweet tune out of Bishop. The thing is, we obviously have a problem. He’s not happy about the rumours he’s been hearing concerning you.’

  ‘Which one in particular?’ Ross asked, flippantly. ‘The one that says I’m practically an alcoholic or the one that says I’ve lost my nerve? Or do you subscribe to the popular view that I drink to conquer my fear?’

  ‘I take no notice of hearsay, myself. You should know that by now.’ The Colonel wasn’t amused. ‘But, quite apart from that, you must admit there’s some kind of problem with Ginger?’

  ‘I do.’ Ross had a strong sense of déjà vu.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I don’t care if I never sit on her again,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘Are you going to tell me why?’

  ‘I don’t believe she’s safe. She’s mentally unstable.’

  ‘I see.’ The Colonel raised his eyebrows but sounded neither surprised nor incredulous. On the other hand he gave no sign of being precisely convinced, either. ‘Given that, what do you intend to do about her?’

  Ross sighed. ‘If it’s a choice between riding Ginger and losing them both, I’ll ride the mare. But I’d like it to go on record that in my opinion she’d be far better retired to stud. If her instability arises from a trauma, as I believe it does, it wouldn’t be hereditary.’

  The Colonel shook his head.

  ‘Fergusson wouldn’t hear of it,’ he stated with conviction. ‘He doesn’t believe the mare’s at fault.’

  ‘And you?’

  The Colonel considered his reply. ‘I believe that some horses and riders are incompatible, just as some people find it impossible to get along with one another. But having said that, I respect your judgement.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen nothing so far to persuade me otherwise.’

  Ross sipped his drink, wishing it was a beer, and wondered how far the Colonel’s trust would stretch. God knows, there were enough people determined to put it to the test.

  ‘Look, Ross,’ he said suddenly. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you don’t have to prove a bloody thing. If you don’t want to ride the mare – for whatever reason – it’s not the end of the world. I’m sure we can withstand the loss of Fergusson’s horses. No one here would blame you.’

  Ross looked up, surprised and grateful for this gesture of support. ‘It wouldn’t do my reputation much good,’ he observed. ‘Besides, Bishop is by far the best horse I’ve ever ridden, maybe the best I’ll ever ride, and I’ve no intention of watching somebody else ride him into the ring if I can possibly prevent it.’

  ‘Fergusson wants to see the mare jump
at the New Forest Show next week,’ the Colonel warned softly. ‘She’s entered in the Open and he says he’ll be there to watch.’

  ‘Fergusson’s a pain,’ Ross said, with feeling. Danny had told him just the day before, how much of a tourist event the Brockenhurst show was. Hardly ideal conditions for a nervy horse.

  ‘Privately, I agree,’ the Colonel said. ‘But in this instance I’m afraid he holds the reins.’

  ‘I’d be happy to let him,’ Ross responded dryly.

  ‘Another sherry?’ The Colonel rose and poured two without waiting for an answer. He held one out to Ross.

  ‘What about my reputation?’ Ross asked, lifting one eyebrow ironically as he accepted the glass.

  The Colonel collapsed back into his chair, narrowly missing a spaniel which had taken up residence in his absence. ‘Should I be worried?’ he asked, his shrewd grey eyes on Ross’ face.

  ‘No.’ Ross returned his gaze steadily.

  The Colonel pursed his lips and nodded, apparently satisfied.

  Not for the first time, Ross felt he was very fortunate in his boss.

  ‘Were you aware that my son was intending to buy a horse?’ the Colonel enquired.

  Ross blinked. ‘No. Well, not exactly. I mean, he did say something once but, no offence meant – you know how it is – I didn’t pay much heed.’

  ‘I know exactly how it is,’ the Colonel said heavily. ‘But apparently, this time Roland was quite serious. The horse is to arrive on Wednesday but beyond that he will tell me nothing. God knows what sort of animal he’ll have turned up.’

  Wednesday was progressing in the manner of many Wednesdays past when the sleek blue horsebox pulled into the yard.

  It was mid-afternoon and Ross had just finished a satisfying schooling session on Trooper Joe when the new horse arrived. Roland swung his immaculately shod feet off the office table where he’d been lounging, drink in hand, since lunchtime and wandered out into the yard. Sarah and Danny emerged from stable doorways and Bill turned from his discussion with Ross to regard the vehicle with reluctant curiosity.

  Ross knew the stable manager considered Roland’s unexpected venture into ownership as a frivolous and very likely short-lived affair, dreamt up on a whim. Ross was not so sure. He’d begun to suspect that Roland put a lot more thought into his actions than he would have anyone believe. What those thoughts were, though, was often anyone’s guess.