The Horse Thief

by Téa Cooper

  She lifted her eyes, those storm cloud eyes and he waited, chest heaving, for the thunderclap.

  ‘I’ll give away Helligen. I’ll come with you.’

  His breath hitched and he rubbed his face with the heel of his hand. The sheer impossibility of her statement made him want to bay like a rabid dog. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you could never give Helligen away any more than I could give away my dreams.’

  ‘I would for you, Jim. I would.’

  ‘Do you know why your father hit me? Do you know why I took the punch? Not for me. For my father. I can’t stay. It will simply be history repeating. I have a debt to pay before I can call myself a free man.’ He settled his hat on his head and tugged at Jefferson’s bridle. ‘The past can’t be rewritten, but the future doesn’t have to be the same. History doesn’t have to repeat itself.’

  Thirty-Five

  History certainly wasn’t repeating itself and India could do very little to rewrite it. Hiatus was the best word to describe the situation. Everyone else had moved on to new chapters while she stayed locked in a hell of apathy. Cecil and Violet’s wedding and the reception at Potts Point was the most glamorous affair and filled the society pages of The Sydney Morning Herald. And then last week they’d departed with much pomp and ceremony on their long-awaited Grand Tour. London, Paris, Rome—Violet was beside herself with excitement. Marriage to Cecil had fulfilled her every dream.

  Even Mama and Papa forged ahead, the despondency of the past fifteen years firmly behind them. Mama had received a clean bill of health and had settled into Sydney life. She planned to travel with Papa aboard The Cloud on his next trip to the East and Anya would finally get to see her homeland once more. Whereas India remained locked in some well of indecision and waiting. Waiting for the mares to foal, waiting for the foals to grow, and then it would be years before she’d know if she’d bred a racehorse.

  ‘Well, Peggy, it looks as though it’s just the two of us. A couple of old women, both of our lovers lost to us.’

  ‘Least yours hasn’t gone off in search of fool’s gold.’ Peggy pushed a plate of oatmeal biscuits across the table.

  ‘He might as well have done.’

  ‘A man has his pride. You wouldn’t want him if he didn’t.’

  ‘He rejected me.’ And Helligen, the very job he said he wanted, and his dreams, their dreams.

  ‘Give it time. Give it time. How much does he owe your father?’

  ‘Thirty pounds.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he’ll come up with it.’

  India pulled the pot of tea towards her. No matter what Peggy said it was not to be. There was only one constant in her life—loyal, unchanging and forever forgiving—and that was Helligen. Even Peggy had deserted her, taken sides. A man has his pride! Well, she had pride, too. She’d give Helligen her very best, follow her dream, and if she had to do it alone then so be it.

  ‘Now, what are you going to do about employing some more people? You’ll need someone to give you a hand, especially once the foals are born.’

  ‘I could run an advertisement …’

  Peggy slammed her hand on the table. ‘I’m not living through that all over again. Can’t you employ a few more people from the village?’

  ‘I do need some help. Fred has an uncle who’s looking for a new position. I’ll employ him. And I’ve decided to send three of the brood mares out for mating. It’s just … I don’t seem to be able to summon any enthusiasm.’

  The best thing about being alone at Helligen was the peace and the quiet. The knowledge that at long last the past had been laid to rest. Old wounds healed and for everyone else the promise of the future. Her dreams hadn’t changed. She would do as she always intended and one day present Papa with the Melbourne Cup—not a watch anymore, now they presented a cup. It would sit well on the mantle in the library under the portrait of Goodfellow. A fitting end to a long drawn-out saga.

  ‘I’ll go and check on Fred and then do some paperwork in the library. As silly as it sounds now, I rather miss my afternoon visits to Mama.’

  ‘You do that. Me, I’ve got things to do. No-one’s appetite seems to be missing. Shall I lay the table in the dining room?’

  ‘No, it’s a waste of time. I’ll eat in here with you and Fred and Jilly.’

  ‘Sounds as good an excuse as any. Can’t get you out of those work clothes no matter how hard I try.’

  India tucked her shirt into her gauchos and threw Peggy a wink. It was as well Violet was no longer around to reprimand her about her attire. She couldn’t even bring herself to look at her blue evening dress that Peggy and Jilly had so laboriously restored. It hung in some cupboard along with all her Sydney clothes, consigned to the past, to a time when hope had sparked an odd moment of vanity. She wouldn’t wear them again.

  The warm summer sun beat down on the top of her head as she crossed the courtyard and made her way to the small yard next to the vegetable garden. Goodfellow greeted her with his usual supercilious stare and tossed his head before nudging at the gate. He had become more of a companion, ambling around after her, picking and choosing his spot in the sunshine and the tastiest treats in the garden.

  Really he was too old to ride although a quiet walk would do him little harm. She slipped the rope bridle over his head, pulled her old cabbage palm hat from the peg by the door of the stable, then mounted the old horse bareback. Needing no encouragement Goodfellow followed the path out through the gate and took the track past the lagoon, through the edge of the paperbark forest to the river.

  The ibis foraging in the shallow waters turned beady eyes on her progress, more interested in their search for food than a lonely woman invading their territory. As she crossed into the bushland she searched for the goanna, but it had found a better place to sun itself than the hard-packed dirt of Helligen. In the distance the mighty Hunter wound its perpetual, lazy way through the empty paddocks.

  The river drew her gaze, to the wharf where Papa had taken her to paddle her feet in the cool water, chase the dragonflies as they danced and skimmed across the tranquil surface. The memories surfaced. Not memories of Papa this time. Jim occupied her thoughts and her dreams.

  Safe and secure astride a large bay stallion, the hot sun beating down on her cheek. The warm breeze and the scent of leather, sweat and saddle-soap. All poignant reminders of that one stolen afternoon before the past had caught up with her. Jefferson’s steady gait and flawless motion, Jim’s warm breath tickling her neck, his fingers light as a feather over her cheek and along her lips. His hard muscles as he pulled her into his arms, holding her firm, drawing her close. A lifetime of regret yawned in front of her.

  Goodfellow picked up his pace, sniffing the welcome scent from the river, longing for the cooling relief of the water as much as she did. Summer had taken its toll; the paddocks beyond the lagoon were no longer the verdant green of spring and the ground cracked and crackled as they picked their way along the track. She pulled back on the reins. It was too hot for an old horse, but he had a mind of his own. He broke into a gallop, his mane flicking and the heat from his body permeating hers. Clinging tight to the bridle, and with her legs clamped firmly around his round belly, she gave him his head.

  As the wharf came into sight she reined him in and pushed back her hat, wiping the stinging sweat from her eyes. He tossed his head, impatient for the water, for the river.

  ‘Slow down, old fellow. It’s not far.’

  The sun hung bright in the sky, a shining yellow orb turning the landscape to gold, creating distorted flickering silhouettes and sparkles that danced on the surface. She squinted into the light.

  Another horse frolicked at the water’s edge. Poachers? Trespassers? She slid from Goodfellow’s back and shaded her eyes. The bridle slipped from her hand and Goodfellow, free at last, kicked up his heels and bolted.

  The two horses cavorted and capered at the water’s edge, mirror images of each other. India scanned the river, the wharf, the tiny half-moon bay, searching fo
r Jim’s familiar long, angular shape. God, how she’d missed him. The force of her longing swept through her heated body. It had been six interminable months. She’d forced his memory away, buried beneath hard work and the day-to-day grind. Now it swelled like a tidal wave ready to consume all in its path.

  ‘Jim.’ Step by step she made her way to the water’s edge, his name a prayer on her lips, an unanswered prayer.

  When she looked up Goodfellow stood alone in the shallows. He snuffled and snorted, droplets of water cascading from his mane in the dappled light. No sign of another horse. She shook her head and rammed her hat back down low over her eyes. Dreaming. Imagining. Wishing. What nonsense!

  Striding across the tussock grass she jumped down onto the patch of sand below the bank and whistled through her teeth. The old horse lifted his head and ambled over to her; she slipped the bridle over his ears and led him back onto the path. It was time to go home.

  And that was when she noticed the figure beneath the spreading branches of the red gum, lolling against the trunk, a large bay horse standing untethered by his side. A tantalising shiver covered her skin with goosebumps and her breath caught in recognition.

  Epilogue

  November 1866

  Flemington, Victoria

  The horse jumped as the flag dropped. In less than four minutes the race would be over and he wasn’t even close to the track.

  The caller’s voice crackled and died, lost as the crowd roared their excitement. Unable to bear the tension a moment longer Jim whipped off his hat, pushed the chairs aside and vaulted across the benches. He forced his way through the throng, heedless of the cries of offence heralding his mad rush. Past the women in their perfumed finery, past a gaggle of overdressed Melbournians and gossiping socialites, past the punters and the gold diggers waving their race slips, convinced their bet would come in. Didn’t they know the odds against winning?

  This race was a big ask. The biggest. Only a unique mix of speed, agility and strength would see the winner surge over the line. Not to mention the skill of the jockey. He must time it right; let the horse have his head for the first mile and a half, then use the whip. Any animal worthy of the win had a mind of their own—push them too early and they’d pull up short.

  He weaved his way forward, apologising as he went. How could he be so stupid as to lose track of time? The race would be over before he reached the rail. Stretching onto the balls of his feet, he peered over the heads of the thousand-strong crowd lined up at the winning post. Was he heading in the right direction? No point being at the rail if he couldn’t see the winner cross dead on. How he wished he’d had the foresight to make it to the stands in time.

  With only seconds to spare before the two-mile handicap ended he elbowed his way through, his eyes fixed firmly on the finish line.

  Craning his neck he studied the empty track. They hadn’t rounded the last. Thank God! A cloud of dust billowed and the horses took the final bend, the roar from the crowd drowning out the caller’s words. Where was his horse? What the hell was the jockey thinking? His bet would be down the drain. Straining his eyes to the far inside rail, he focused on the worn track. The crowd bellowed for the favourite as the blur of runners emerged. Four horses running in tandem.

  There was no hope. If the horse didn’t have the lead he wouldn’t run on. He pushed further, clasping the rail, stretching for a better view. The pounding of hooves on the dry track hammered in his chest. The roar from the crowd drummed out all other sound.

  As he gripped the rail, his fingers dug into the paint. He eased his way into the narrow space and hooked his toes into the bottom of the rail, lifting above the eager heads, above the hats and shoulders. The smell of freshly mown turf blended with warm perfume, beer and expectation.

  The horses bore down fast, the leaders four abreast. As they pulled into the final straight the dust began to clear. A tantalising glimpse of grey and sapphire silks, thundercloud grey. The bay pulled forward, a head or so in front of the pack.

  He gripped the rails tighter and clenched his teeth, not daring to draw breath.

  ‘C’mon!’ He willed the stallion on. ‘C’mon!’ He focused on the rhythm of the pounding hooves, saw his horse pull forward to make it a length. The whip flashed down. The horse responded, charging on, stretching beyond a length. Close enough now to see the tilt of his head. He sucked in a gasp of air, relaxed and smiled as the horse’s ears pricked forward. He could do it—he had plenty to give.

  The stallion surged ahead of his exhausted competition, lengthening his stride, dust streaming behind him. Muscles rippled across his burnished chest, ears flicked back. Almost level with the finish line the thunder from the approaching hooves mirrored his pounding heartbeat. The jockey sat back, gave the horse his head, no need for the whip now. He could do it. His excitement released, bubbling up into a laugh. ‘C’mon!’

  A bystander turned, eager to share his enthusiasm as he stretched, leaning out over the rail, willing him on. Two lengths ahead, the sunlight rippling across the hindquarter muscles, mane and tail streaming behind him, black as a cockatoo’s wing.

  The jockey wielded his crop above his head in a victory salute and they stormed home, crossing the finish line three lengths ahead.

  Gazing heavenward into the bright blue Melbourne sky he replaced his hat with a flourish and turned to the hill. Across the crowded expanse of spectators their gazes locked. Even at that distance he could see the sparkle of excitement in her eyes, feel the touch of her smooth skin and smell her everlasting scent of spring.

  ‘How’s that, sir?’ Fred’s voice was louder than the roar from the stands, and the punters’ winning shrieks filled his ears. Jefferson’s hot breath covered his face.

  He grinned up at his jockey, the first person at Helligen to acknowledge Jefferson’s potential. ‘James.’

  ‘Sir James, I reckon, today. Not every day your horse wins the Melbourne Cup.’ Fred slipped from the saddle and handed him the reins.

  ‘You take him into the winners’ circle. I’ll collect the winnings.’

  With prize money of over two thousand guineas he’d see his stud secure for many years to come. Not to mention his bet on Jefferson. At ten to one he’d snagged a tidy twenty thousand. ‘Get back up there. Today you rode and besides, you’re needed for the weigh-in. I’m not giving this one away on a legality.’ He pulled a lead rope from his pocket and clipped it onto Jefferson’s bridle. ‘You’ve done me proud.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ve got papers for that animal?’

  For a second the past flashed and Jim’s heart stuttered.

  ‘Fred Ward and those bushrangers make a habit of racing stolen thoroughbreds.’

  He stared into Alexander and Laila Kilhampton’s smiling faces.

  ‘Ask my wife about the papers, she’s the manager.’

  ‘Not for much longer.’ India ran her hand protectively over her voluminous skirts. ‘We might have to employ someone to do that job from here on in. I’ll have other things on my mind.’

  Historical Note

  There is a rural myth that the racehorse Archer, winner of the first Melbourne Cup in 1861, walked over 500 miles to attend the inaugural race meeting. It’s not true!

  Records show Archer was foaled and trained by Etienne de Mestre in Braidwood in southern New South Wales and he didn’t walk to the Melbourne Cup.

  A sporting newspaper of the day, Bell’s Life in Sydney and Sporting Chronicle, reported on 21 September, 1861:

  Wednesday last saw the departure of Mr De Mestre’s three nags for Melbourne, and by this time we trust they have arrived in good order. A large number of friends went down to the wharf to see the horses on board …

  And two weeks later, Bell’s Life in Victoria and Sporting Chronicle announced:

  The City of Sydney, which reached Sandridge (Port Melbourne) on Saturday last brought the Sydney entries for the Melbourne Cup, viz, Archer, Inheritor and Exeter. Archer is considered the best old good ‘un in New South W
ales …

  In the nineteenth century success on the racetrack was the most efficient way to prove the strength and stamina of a horse and secure stud services, and many horses arrived at race meetings having travelled long distances.

  A famous Hunter horse by the name of Young Dover was frequently ridden from Maitland to racetracks across NSW. He won many races after travelling over 100 miles in one day.

  Today the Hunter Valley in NSW is regarded as one of the most important horse breeding areas in Australia, but it wasn’t until the 1870s that the first Hunter horse won the Melbourne Cup. Perhaps the reason the Hunter lays claim to breeding the first winner of the Melbourne Cup is that the stories of Young Dover and Archer have melded in the minds of Hunter Valley residents over the years. In some of the more ‘historic’ watering holes in the Hunter Valley, Archer is still claimed as a Hunter animal.

  The Melbourne Cup—the race that stops the nation—is now run on the first Tuesday of November. In the early days it was the first Thursday, and until 1865 there was no Melbourne Cup; instead, the winner received a purse of around a thousand guineas and a gold watch.

  For fiction’s sake I have adopted the Hunter version of the myth. The Kilhamptons did not exist other than in my imagination, nor did their property, Helligen. It is loosely based on the historic homestead, Tocal, near Paterson in the Hunter, north of Sydney.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing is said to be a solitary occupation—this was not the case with The Horse Thief. So many people had a hand in this story and I am so grateful for their support.

  First and foremost Sue Brockhoff who took my garbled pitch at the 2014 Sydney RWA Conference and believed in my story, then Romance Writers of Australia, because without that wonderful organisation there would be no conferences, no pitches and, most importantly, no critique partners.