‘Well, he is a difficult man. I have a son – Hal is almost four – so we’re better off here.’ Her eyes sparkled with love for her son.
Ah, that might explain the bruise then, Rafe thought with a pang. She had not concealed it from him.
It was a welcome distraction when Maggie brought the food in, unwittingly easing the highly charged silent explosions going on all around her.
Rafe got home to Touchstone Lodge at about ten o’clock and as usual, he went straight out to the yard in order to check on the horses. He had two Irish Setters, Grouse and Partridge, who slept in the tack room with the door open when he was not at home. Hearing his car on the gravel, they flew to greet him and were quietly waiting for him at the gate by the time he had let himself into the yard, their tails waving like russet feather fans in friendly welcome.
‘Hello, boys,’ Rafe said, giving each dog an affectionate pat. ‘How is everything this evening? Anything to report?’
The dogs grinned at him happily, their tongues lolling, then both purposefully trotted off to check the perimeter for their beloved master.
The twenty stables were set out in a horseshoe shape. Rafe walked past each one, looking over the half doors to check all was well. Most of the horses were standing up with their bottom lips hanging down, relaxed in sleep. One was looking out, his big grey face so at odds with the elegant thoroughbred heads either side of him: Rafe’s mutt of a mixed-breed who he used as his hack. Warhorse was a huge creature with hooves the size of side plates. Rafe had found him tied to a stake on the side of the road outside Cambridge, abandoned by travellers. The horse had been excruciatingly thin, clearly full of worms, his ribs sticking out like a toast rack. He had been covered in rain scald and his hooves had desperately needed to be trimmed.When Rafe had taken the little horsebox to collect him, it had been three hours before he could coax the big, terrified, starving horse into it. He had obviously been badly mistreated and, as a result, was extremely head-shy. Rafe had put a hand on his sweating neck in order to reassure him and the poor animal had flinched and pulled away, his emaciated body shaking all over with fear. After six months of careful feeding and a constant, nurturing routine, he had slowly started to trust Rafe and was now, a year later, utterly devoted to him. The stable lads were wary around him, as the horse still mistrusted them and could be handy with his teeth and hind legs. In contrast, he was slavishly attached to Rafe, whom he would follow about like a puppy, with no need for a lead rope. Rafe had been delighted to find that Warhorse was a terrific ride with a long, comfortable stride and that he also possessed a huge, scopey jump, which the trusting creature loved to use, taking on anything – however high or wide – that Rafe put him at.
Rafe ambled over and the horse let out a low, rumbling whicker of delight. Stretching up to pull one of his long, dark grey ears, Rafe leant against the door.
It was getting late but he had a lot to think about. The Gardener, one of his father’s smartest colts, who had been bought for a considerable amount of money, had trotted up a fraction lame that morning. Rafe had long-term, high hopes for him and was now mulling over the best course of action going forward. He was tempted to turn him out in the field and rest him for a while but the chestnut colt had been difficult to back and repeating the whole process again, after a holiday, was not an enticing option. He also had a proposition to think over from a man called Ian Johnson, the owner of a highly successful construction company. Ian had marched into the yard just the day before and offered to send him eight horses to be trained immediately, stipulating that if things went well, he would then askRafe to buy five youngsters for him at the Tattersalls October Yearling Sale. Rafe was uncertain: Ian came with a reputation for being a bully and for moving his horses out of a trainer’s care if his orders were not followed to the letter. Rafe knew that he, himself, could be tricky and would not take instruction from any owner on how to train – but he was torn, as the extra horses would be financially extremely useful and one of them was a Group 1-winning colt that was being talked about as an Ascot Gold Cup prospect. Rafe would love to have a horse of this calibre in his yard and it would be a real coup to pull off such a win in only his second year of training. He let himself into the Gardener’s box and took off his bandages in order to check and re-wrap them. The bad leg had no heat in it this evening, which was a good sign. He straightened the chestnut colt’s rugs and patted him affectionately.
‘Good lad, Percy.’ Percy was the Gardener’s stable name and the one by which everyone referred to him at home. ‘Sleep well.’
He walked along the row of boxes, checking rugs and feeling legs as he went, and while he carried out this ingrained routine, his thoughts strayed to Sage. He had never met such a captivating woman. She had seemed completely unaware of her charm. She was guileless and naive, yet obviously intelligent and well-educated at the same time. Beautiful, but in an old-world kind of way that was so unusual these days, and while obviously fit and strong, she seemed curiously delicate. He had lost track of the time, totally absorbed in her presence. It was only when Hal appeared, the boy’s hair tousled, his light blue, brushed cotton pyjamas done up on the wrong buttons and his teddy bear trailing behind him, and Sage had disappeared upstairs, that he realized how much he had been enjoying her company.
Training was all-encompassing and Rafe was so immersed in racing that he had not had time to think much about dating. Occasionally he would spend the night with a woman but hadnot wanted – nor had the energy for – anything more after an entanglement with a girl in America. Dennis Seymour’s granddaughter, however, had slipped into his head this evening and got under his skin. He had seen her riding out for her grandfather every morning that week, and she could really ride. Pretty girls were ten a penny in Newmarket but Sage was something else entirely: she was mesmerizing. He shook his head, as though to clear it. She was also married, a mother and exactly the sort of complication he did not need in his already complex life.
As he whistled for the dogs and walked back to his welcoming red-brick cottage, he firmly pushed all thoughts of Sage away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt,
As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt.
Edmund Spenser,The Faerie Queene, Book I
It was a bitter, windy day and the sun was hidden behind layers of dark, low-hanging clouds that threatened rain. Sage was being legged up onto Skylark in time for second lot and was in an uncharacteristically bad mood.
Although her bruises had been mending on their own in the three weeks since she had left Panama, dissolving her marriage was proving a lot less simple. The straightforward divorce papers that her grandfather’s lawyers had drawn up for her had been emailed back by Santiago, containing numerous added clauses stipulating his access to Hal being so that he could spend time with the Deverills in Panama. It would turn into a battle, Sage thought grimly, if Santiago did not give in – for she was going to fight with everything she had. The thought of sending Hal off to Finca Azucar alone filled her with icy fear. Santiago clearly wanted to punish her more than pursue a relationship with his son. He had never really shown much interest in bonding with Hal, but she could envisage his wounded pride and knew it would make him dangerous.
If it was to turn into a lengthy legal campaign, she would need some serious finances and she had no idea how she couldraise the necessary funds in time. One thing, however, was certain: she would not accept the money from her grandparents. As if to confirm her instincts, she heard her phone bleep in her pocket. It was just one of a nasty series of texts Santiago had already sent that week. Sage had stupidly left a message on her old Panamanian number with her new English one in case anyone from Panama had needed to contact her. Now she cursed herself. Why had she bothered? There was no one she wanted to hear from there. The clunky, cheap, pay-as-you-go that she’d bought bleeped again, impatiently.
If you don’t come back to me, you’ll die alone.
Then followed quickly by another.
Nobody else will want you. You’re damaged and all used up.
Sage shoved the phone back into her pocket, trying to focus on the lively filly beneath her. Skylark had missed the first race in which she had been due to run earlier that month. She hated the rain and Dennis had consequently withdrawn her on the morning of racing as it had been bucketing down. She virtually went backwards when asked to gallop in the wet and there was simply no point in expecting her to do so. There were now only five days until her long-awaited maiden run; she was full to the brim with oats and in tip-top condition. Sage and Skylark had continued to develop an understanding between one another, and she was the only one to have ridden the filly who had not – yet – been unseated.
The striking chestnut was on her toes today, more than ever, humping her back and jinking from side to side and Sage, normally a patient and sympathetic rider, kicked her hard in the ribs and told her to ‘get on’ in an unusually grumpy tone. Sage’s temper was short this morning and when the filly leapt into the air at a flapping plastic bag, she yanked on her soft mouthwith uncustomarily hard hands. Skylark laid her ears back, flat. The rain began to fall in a persistent, cold drizzle. Another text message sounded from Sage’s pocket and she pulled it out roughly; seeing Santiago’s name again she turned the phone off without reading the message.
When they got down to the crossroads that led onto the Heath, Skylark, unsettled by Sage’s unfamiliarly stiff and angry body, suddenly raked her head down to the tarmac, dropped her shoulder and whipped around in revenge, turning on a sixpence. Sage came off hard and landed painfully on the damp pavement.
‘Skylark! What the hell are you playing at!’
But the filly, freed from her bad-tempered rider, merrily clattered off down the road towards the clock tower roundabout, her reins flapping about around her knees and her exercise rug adding a splash of colour to the dreary morning as she started to streak along.
Clenching her teeth in panic, Sage struggled to her feet. The danger that Skylark was now in was all-consuming. Coarse grit, which had been spread on the roads and pavements in order to prevent the horses from slipping, had gone through her ripped gloves and torn the knees of her jeans, but she wiped the blood off her hands hardly feeling the pain now, dread rising in her chest as the filly cantered down the road.
‘That was quite a tumble. You all right, Sage?’ Dillon had been riding alongside her.
