Heart of the Valley

by Cathryn Hein

  CATHRYN HEIN

  Heart of the Valley

  MICHAEL JOSEPH

  an imprint of

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  Letter from the Author

  Heartland Preview

  Heart of the Valley

  Cathryn Hein was born in South Australia’s rural south-east. With three generations of jockeys in the family it was little wonder she grew up horse-mad, finally obtaining her first horse at age ten. So began years of pony club, eventing, dressage and showjumping until university beckoned.

  Armed with a Bachelor of Applied Science (Agriculture) Cathryn moved to Melbourne and later Newcastle, working in the agricultural and turf seeds industry. A posting to France took her overseas for three years where she finally gave into her lifelong desire to write. Now living in Melbourne, Cathryn writes full-time. Her first novel, Promises, was published by Penguin in 2011.

  For Jim

  One

  Brooke cantered into the ring, heart pumping. The brightly coloured bunting separating the Ardellan Agricultural and Horticultural Society’s showjumping rings flapped and whirred in the early autumn breeze. A brief squeal sounded over the tannoy as the announcer turned on his microphone. Brooke placed her hand on Poddy’s dark bay neck and stroked his tense muscles, circling at the canter as she settled him.

  ‘Next in the final round of our feature showjumping event, the Carlyle Transport Stakes, we have Brooke Kingston from Pitcorthie in the Upper Hunter Valley, riding K D Poseidon.’

  A smattering of applause sounded from the showground’s historic iron-laced grandstand. Brooke halted in front of the ground jury’s box and saluted. Poddy shuffled with impatience, head shaking at the hold on his mouth. The bell rang, signalling the start of their forty-five-second countdown – the maximum time permitted before commencing their round. Acknowledgement complete, Brooke eased Poddy into another canter, shortening his stride until he bounced along like a rubber ball, power concentrated on his hocks, a coil of energy wound tight.

  As they approached the start flags she leaned forward to whisper into his twirling, black-tipped ears. ‘Let’s blow ’em away, Pod.’

  The words out, she released her hold.

  Poddy exploded through the gates, sailing over the first fence, landing cleanly, hunting for the next. Brooke braced her legs, using them to wheel his body into the sharp turn and racing him towards the second obstacle. He lined it up, calculating ahead, his muscles already stretching in anticipation of her aid to lengthen his stride. Bounding over, they hurtled to the next fence, a straight upright, and took it at an angle, cutting the corner and saving valuable time.

  A multicoloured oxer followed, then a rustic gate. Poddy’s hoof rattled the timber but Brooke barely heard it, her mind on the approaching combination – another upright succeeded two short strides later by a parallel bar. Poddy tossed his head, fighting as she reined him in. Stride set, she lowered her weight, driving him forward. Up they rose, then down, two compact strides and up again. Excitement trilling through her veins, she gave him his head and urged him home.

  They took the final triple bar at a gallop, tearing through the finish flags and out of the ring, almost barrelling over a fat pony as Brooke fought to pull up. High on adrenaline and laughing from the sheer thrill of the jump-off, she cantered back to the ring edge, joyfully slapping Poddy’s sweaty neck.

  She pulled up alongside Andrew Chiang, who was lounging in his saddle with a deceptively sleepy look on his face. Tanned from a long Australian summer, his Chinese-Australian skin glowed golden and lustrous, the colour set off by a black bespoke riding coat cut to make the most of his lean figure. His long, slim but muscled legs, encased in pristine white breeches, dangled free of the stirrups, the buffed surface of his long, black, hand-crafted leather boots as glossy as Poddy’s coat. Only his helmet, a bulbous monstrosity they were all forced to wear at events, spoiled the picture of privileged glamour.

  Andrew’s long-nosed dapple grey regarded them with equally sleepy eyes before returning to his doze. Like Poddy, Sir Barnaby – or Barney, as he was fondly known – had seen it all before.

  Brooke poked her tongue out and grinned. ‘Beat that, Chiang-man.’

  He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, the unsecured strap of his helmet swinging. ‘You call that fast?’

  Poddy snorted and shook his mane as though insulted. He jigged on the spot, nostrils flaring and wet neck shining like polished timber, still high on the fever of the jump-off.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You won’t do better.’

  ‘Want a bet?’

  She eyed him, heart still pounding, breath still coming short. He had that look on his face, the mischievous one that had dragged her into trouble more times than she could remember.

  Oh, well, nothing like living dangerously. ‘What’s the prize?’

  He licked his lips, theatrically preparing them for a sloppy kiss. ‘You. Tonight. On top of the Ferris wheel.’

  She shook her head, smothering her laughter, knowing the come-on was faked. They’d known each other since they were ten, when Pony Club and children’s games ruled their lives. Kissing Andrew would be like kissing one of her brothers. ‘How about dinner instead?’

  ‘Wuss.’ He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and fastened his helmet strap. ‘All right. Pub or takeaway?’

  She screwed up her nose, thinking. The pub would make a nice change but leaving the horses made her anxious. If it was only Poddy she wouldn’t worry – nothing upset the old campaigner – but Sisyphus had a bad habit of living up to his Sod nickname, and her needy other mount, Odysseus – Oddy for short – fretted when left alone for too long.

  ‘Takeaway. I saw a Thai place on the way in to town.’

  He gathered his reins. ‘You’re on.’

  Like a machine switched into action, Sir Barnaby immediately perked up. His eyes widened and his ears twirled, alert for his master’s commands. Overconfident as always, Andrew threw her a cheeky wink. ‘Better get your purse out, Brooke, because when the Barnstormer and I hit the track, you won’t be able to see us for dust. You’re going down.’

  ‘Not a chance, Chiang-man. Not a chance,’ she called to his back as Andrew and Barney trotted off to the warm-up area. Grinning, she slid off Poddy and, chatting nonsense to the horse as she worked, ran the stirrups up the leathers and loosened the girth, before reaching for the lightweight fleece rug with navy-blue and gold trim she’d left near the bunting. The wind held too much of an edge to leave Poddy standing sweated up and without cover.

  Show noise filtered across the grounds. The varying calls of livestock, screams from the stomach-tumbling rides, squeals and babbles of hyperexcited children. Lively sounds of people enjoying a sunshiny day, and very different to the previous year when it had rained so hard they’d practically had to bog-snorkel around the grounds. There’d been one plus that year, though: using her superior driving skills to extract a humiliated Andrew’s four-wheel drive from the mud had provided Brooke with crowing rights for months.

  Task complete, she unfastened the brass buttons of her riding coat, a dark-navy, feather-light wool-blend jacket with a nipped-in waist that gave her s
lim, colt-legged and boyish figure flattering curves. The coat was a present from her fashion-conscious mother, who insisted Brooke look her best in the ring. ‘Even if you lose, you should still look like a winner’ was Ariel Kingston’s motto, and one she stuck to with preened perfection. But no amount of expensive tailoring or hairstyling could change Brooke’s casual attitude to her appearance. To her mother’s eternal frustration, Brooke remained at heart a scruff, albeit a well-dressed one.

  She undid the straps of her helmet and tugged it from her head, dragging strands of golden-brown hair from the loose bun she’d hastily fixed that morning. She brushed them off her face, the sweat on her forehead turning cool in the breeze, and wished she’d remembered to bring a drink. Or, better still, asked her mother or her best friend Chloe to strap. But Chloe was stuck in Scone styling a bridal party’s hair and her mother was at Rosehill Gardens for Ladies Day, the opening event of the Sydney Carnival. Brooke’s racehorse-trainer father and brothers needed her mother far more than she did. Ariel Kingston’s owner-schmoozing ability was as legendary as her poise and elegance.

  As Brooke observed the other competitors and waited for Andrew’s round, she nattered to Poddy, the bay’s ears twitching as she caressed his nose and blew adoring kisses, telling him what a champion he was. While she loved all her horses, Poddy remained her darling. Her father had given her the prestigiously pedigreed but achingly slow ex-racehorse as an eighteenth birthday present and at first she’d been dismayed. The animal was greener than spring grass, three years old and still maturing, but he possessed the temperament of a gentleman and she’d always relished a challenge. It had taken six years of hard work, frustration and joy to bring him to the standard he was now. And it’d been worth every second.

  The steward called Andrew up. He cantered past, holding his big silvery mount beautifully collected, the horse’s pace as easy as a rocking horse. He threw Brooke another wink and a cheeky grin before floating gracefully into the ring like Pegasus. The announcer called the combination, the last pairing in the jump-off. Brooke and Poddy still held the lead but only by three quarters of a second and Sir Barnaby was perfectly capable of beating their time. He had before. On multiple occasions.

  Brooke tickled Poddy’s chin, his black velvety muzzle silken against her fingertips. ‘But he won’t this time, will he, Pod-baby?’

  Her body tensed as Andrew raised his whip hand to his helmet and saluted the ground jury. For comfort, she tangled her fingers in Poddy’s mane, grip tightening as Andrew wound Barney up for the first fence. With a subtle leg aid and quiet slackening of his hold, Andrew sent Barney catapulting through the starting gate.

  He cleared the first, second and third obstacles with ease, cutting corners and jumping at an angle as Poddy had done. The bigger horse’s stride was longer than Poddy’s but that made his turns less tight. Brooke’s breath caught as Barney gave the oxer a solid rap, only for the pole to bounce back into the cup and stay put. Her fingers dug harder into Poddy’s neck as Andrew and the horse easily cleared the gate and made a lightning-fast turn towards the combination.

  Barney soared over the upright, a good four inches clear, but his speed carried him too far into the gap. Sensing the danger, Andrew tightened his grip, trying to rein the horse in and shorten his stride. Brooke held her breath, hope rising as Barney took off too close to the second element. Muscles bulging in his rump and as courageous as ever, the horse hauled himself up, his dark-grey forelegs tucked to his chest. His front hoofs cleared the front bar but a single trailing back hoof caught the rail and this time it didn’t bounce back into the cup. With a rattle and thud it fell to the ground.

  Though they galloped for the final triple bar, Andrew’s wry smile showed he knew he’d lost.

  ‘You can buy a bottle of wine with that dinner,’ Brooke called as he cantered past.

  He wheeled back, grinning despite his loss, and slopped his tongue over his lips. ‘Kiss for the loser then?’

  She laughed, shaking her head, joining him in the walk back to the float area, Barney blowing hard, his grey coat charcoal from sweat. ‘And what would your lovely Mel have to say about that?’

  ‘Nothing. We broke up.’

  Brooke stared at up Andrew. ‘You didn’t? When?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘How come you never said anything?’

  He shrugged and she cast him a sympathetic look. Sometimes these things were hard to talk about. Brooke had only broken up with her boyfriend of nineteen months eight weeks before. She knew how it felt, how it still felt if she dwelt on it too hard. Yet Jackson was never going to last, not after he took that job at the mine and their interests began to diverge so much. It hurt at the time but she could appreciate now that the affection they’d shared in the past wasn’t strong enough to keep them going into the future, whereas Andrew and Mel had seemed perfect for each other. Both outwardly warm and laidback, but possessing cores of steely ambition. And they looked stunning together, too. Effortlessly graceful with their sinuous, athletic bodies and expensive clothes. Even their bluntly cut, glossy black hairstyles matched.

  She reached up and placed a comforting hand on his knee. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He covered her hand with his own and squeezed. ‘Don’t be. It was never going to work out.’

  ‘Why not? I thought you really liked her.’

  ‘Nah, my heart belongs to you, remember?’

  ‘And mine belongs to Poddy so you’re wasting your time.’ Brooke kissed Poddy’s cheek for emphasis, laughing as Andrew clutched his hands over his heart and pretended deep hurt.

  They parted ways, Andrew riding back to the stables and Brooke heading for her Ford truck and matching dark-blue goose-neck horse trailer, her transport and accommodation for the two days of the show. The gold Kingston Lodge Racing logo, with its fancy writing and streaming-maned horse’s head, glittered brightly on the side.

  Unlike most competitors, who housed their horses in the show-ground’s ageing stalls and enjoyed raucous nights of bed-hopping and boozing in the town’s hotels and motels, Brooke preferred to keep her horses in the gooseneck’s custom-designed portable yards. Their night-time snorts, stamps and snuffles helped her sleep, and the gooseneck’s facilities, while cramped, were more than adequate for her needs.

  Oddy whickered in delight at her approach. She fondly caressed his ears while unhooking the gate to Poddy’s yard and leading him inside. True to form, Sod ignored her, concentrating instead on tearing hunks of lucerne from his haynet. Having competed in two classes in the morning – for a second and a fourth placing – the horse was finished for the day and enjoying a well-earned rest.

  ‘Hey, cranky-pants,’ she said, ducking into his yard to pinch his bucket of water. Sod eyed her warily as she approached, relaxing and letting her rub his chin when she made no move to strip his rug.

  Unlike his stablemates, who both possessed gorgeous natures, Sod had the temperament of a crotchety old man. He bit when upset, bucked when grumpy, shied at the slightest thing and farted loudly at inappropriate times, but he also jumped like a kangaroo, turned as fast as a polo pony and could be as affectionate as a puppy when the mood took him. Of the three horses, Sod would be the one to take Brooke places. Provided he augmented his prodigious talent with some manners.

  With Poddy untacked, his coat rubbed dry and a fresh haynet hung, Brooke gave him a last kiss on his perfect white star and left him to prepare Oddy for his class. The cheery chestnut kept rubbing against her as she tacked him up, as though unable to believe she was paying him attention. For the thousandth time she marvelled at his sweetness. He was a lovely creature, although she sometimes wished he harboured a fraction more spirit. In the showjumping game, horses needed to be as competitive as their riders.

  No matter their personality, she adored her three boys. Other horses waited at home – her father’s spelling racehorses and a couple of youngsters she was bringing on – but Poseidon, Odysseus and Sisyphus were her lights. They filled her he
art. She couldn’t imagine life without them.

  Once Brooke had Oddy groomed, tacked up and booted, she led him out to the warm-up area where Andrew waited with his second-string horse, Amazing Jake, for the designer to open the course for walking.

  He squinted into the afternoon sun. ‘Looks tight.’

  Brooke nodded, eyeing the designer who was measuring the third element of a treble with a tape measure. ‘But no problem for the Oddster.’

  ‘That sook.’ Andrew tugged on Jake’s ear. ‘Jake’ll walk all over him.’

  ‘You want another bet?’

  ‘Yeah, why not.’ Andrew rubbed his chin, espresso-coloured eyes narrowing wickedly. Recognising the look, Brooke braced herself. ‘How about this time, if I win, you kiss me.’

  She made a face and then stopped, staring at him. A knot formed in her belly. He smiled but something in his expression – the crinkle of his eyes or the not-quite steadiness of his mouth – told her he was serious.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d seen that look. Twice in the last month she’d noticed it. The first occurred on a sweltering evening at Willowgrove, Andrew’s luxurious property on the southern side of Scone, when he’d invited her up for a swim in his pool. Instead of her usual modest black one-piece, to help beat the heat she’d donned a white designer bikini, another of her mother’s gifts. As she hauled herself from the water, refreshed after the swim, Andrew’s face had stilled. For five squirming seconds he stared at her so intensely she was sure the bikini had become transparent. Embarrassed, she plunged back into the pool and swam to the opposite end only to find on emerging he had his head stuck in the bar fridge and was paying her no attention at all.

  The second happened only last Thursday night in the pub car-park after their habitual post-work catch up with Chloe. On the way out, Brooke had spied Jackson with his new girlfriend and though she was over him, her heart had still ached at the happiness in his eyes. Happiness that had been sadly absent during their last weeks together. Noticing, Andrew had walked her to her car, not talking, just staying close, there in case she wanted to talk or cry or yell. They’d leaned against the car and stared up at a night sky cascading with stars. She’d felt his gaze and glanced across. That same intense, hungry expression had skittered across his face and then vanished, making her wonder if she’d seen it at all. But she had, and then, as now, it made her insides tighten and nervous prickles race up her spine.