Broken Heroes

By

Sabrina

Chapter One.

The thunder of hooves was unmistakable; thrilling. Every time Reg heard it, it raised his heart rate to the point where his hands shook as he held his binoculars to his eyes, drinking in the familiar but still arousing sight of fifteen thoroughbreds thundering down the straight, the brightly coloured men like monkeys on their back.

God, was there anything like it? Reg shouted with the rest of them: Come on you bugger!

Beside him, in a camel hair coat that looked like it got groomed as regularly as the string of racehorses he owned, Sydney (never Syd) Smailes watched impassively as his once perfect Thunder Road – last year’s champion three-year-old - compounded quickly to finish sixth. 

There was a muted wail beside him from Reg, who’d put a hundred quid – a huge bet for him - onto Thunder Road. Muted because when one was enjoying the luxuries of a private box one didn’t howl like a regular punter about one’s losses; one stiffened one’s upper lip and made noises about better luck next time and oh well, it wasn’t much to lose was it old chap. It was the first time Reg had enjoyed Sydney’s hospitality in the Smailes Industries box at Leeds racecourse, and it was a welcome change from braving the cold early spring with the great unwashed in the public enclosure, where tote and bookies’ tickets floated like confetti and beer spilled from a thousand hands.

Sydney grunted. “He’s never recovered from that tendon. Time to call it a day for him. Waste of time keeping him in training.”  Sydney had spoken to the trainer in the saddling enclosure and wisely decided to keep his money in his pocket this time round. The gelding was having his third run from a long spell, and the trainer said it was make or break. If Thunder Road didn’t get a placing this time around, in easy company, continuing him on the track was a waste of money. Sydney’s trainer was a surprisingly honest man.

“You’ll retire him, then?”  Reg watched the scarlet monkey pilot Thunder Road back down the straight, the horse jogging almost sideways. The dark brown horse tossed his head and his jockey jagged him swiftly and sadistically in the mouth.

“Probably.” Sydney left his champagne glass and binoculars and headed downstairs to debrief the jockey and trainer.

Despite losing his hundred quid, Reg was feeling expansive. It could have been the champagne, a drink hitherto unexplored by Reginald Prescott but one which he would never ridicule as a ladies’ drink again. It was a fine drop, a drink for winners and people who deserved to be in private boxes at the races. A drink with which you could celebrate business ventures, which had, Reg knew, been the main purpose of today’s pleasant outing at the races.

Sydney had agreed to use Reg’s demolition company on one of his new, vast property development schemes. Reg knew it was only the tip of the iceberg, and that his relationship with Smailes Industries was going to be a long and profitable one. Reg was going to be rich, rich enough to buy his own racehorse, rich enough to have his own private box.  No more scrambling about knocking down the odd house for local builders; Reg gulped his champagne.

The first thing he’d do, now the signatures were on the paper (this had happened after the 1.15 handicap), would be to give his daughter a present. And he’d just had a brainwave.

Down in the mounting yard the jockey screwed up his wrinkled face. He looked fifty, but was only thirty. “Nah, he’s had it. You can tell. He’s favouring that leg. I’ve ridden horses like this before. He’ll never come right.”  He flicked undone the chinstrap of his safety helmet, surveyed the steaming rumps around him and regretted knocking back the ride on the horse than won in favour of last year’s champion. Smailes was generous though; he always paid a bonus for winning so it was best to ride any of his horses whenever possible.

Thunder Road’s stable “lad”, a girl with dishwater blonde hair hanging lankly round her face, soothed the horse and wiped the foam from his mouth with a rag. “You cut his mouth,” she said accusingly to the jockey.  “There’s blood.”

He looked more like a monkey than ever as he leered at her. “He’s got a mouth like iron, love. Only way to steer him.”

“Won’t be your worry for much longer anyway,” the trainer told her. “Mr Smailes is going to retire him.”

The girl’s face paled. Mr Smailes thought nothing of pressing ten quid into her hand when he visited the stables, but business was business, and he treated horses like the rest of his empire. When his mares retired, they went to stud to do their duty and breed the next generation of champions. When his stallions retired, they enjoyed an idyllic life of maleness, servicing mares and being treated like kings. When his geldings retired, however, they went to the sales. They might be bought by someone looking for a thoroughbred to train for eventing or showjumping, but usually they were bought by the knackers if nobody else was around to want them.

She held Thunder Road’s neck tightly, breathing in the lovely sweet horsy smell of his sweat. With his tendon problems, he was doomed as an eventer or jumper. Poor boy, poor boy, she thought. If she could buy him, she would. But she couldn’t even afford to move out of the stable hostel let alone house and feed a hungry ex-racehorse.

Smailes turned away without a backward glance. A waft of champagne and cigars hung in the air behind him, and the girl took Thunder Road back to the stalls for the last time.

Smailes barely made it back into the box before Reg was at his side. “Sydney, that horse. Thunder Road. What are you going to do with him?”

Smailes filled his glass and lit a cigar before replying. It was his way of buying time, of assessing whether Reg had any intention of buying the horse and running him. If so, he had to be dissuaded. It would be ironic – no, embarrassing – if the horse came good again and started winning once he’d sold him on.  Reg was holding his trilby in his hands like a factory worker plucking up the courage to ask for a raise, his thinning brown hair plastered to his scalp with an overdose of Brylcreem. In a business partner, it was an irritating sight.

“I’ll send him to the sales,” Smailes replied finally. “If you’re thinking of buying him and racing him, don’t waste your money.”

“No, no, not racing him. I’ve got a daughter. She’s a good rider and until now I haven’t been able to buy her a horse. If Thunder Road isn’t any good for racing, he’ll still be good enough for her.”

Smailes had had a daughter. The day she turned eighteen she left home and nobody heard from her until she turned up as a drug victim a year later. Eight years later it was still raw with him, and for a moment he would have gladly swapped his riches for a chance to be Reg and have a daughter again. “I won’t sell him to you, Reg. I’ll give him to you. For your daughter.”

“Sydney…Sydney….I don’t know what to say. Thanks, mate…er…Sydney.”

“Have a cigar.”  Sydney passed him one of Havana’s finest and clapped him between the shoulders so heartily that he coughed. “We can sort delivering the horse out tomorrow. For the moment, what’s going to win the four thirty?”

*     *     *

Tracey Prescott screamed when her father told her he’d got her an ex-racehorse. She jumped in the air, swirling like a dervish, arms flailing, hair swinging.  “Dad! Dad!”

Reg looked at her fondly. She was only thirteen, but the teacher at the local riding school where Tracey had a lesson once a week said she was very good for her age and would be superb with more regular lessons. He wasn’t to know the hard-faced Miss Trethewy said that to everyone in an effort to get more money in. Or that Tracey hadn’t yet graduated from the stable’s most trustworthy old pony to something a little more active and spirited.

“When can we get him?”

“I’ll talk to Sydney tomorrow. His trainer has horses going all over the place all the time. I’m sure they’ll be able to drop Thunder Road off at the riding school for you.”

“Reg, really. A horse!” Agnes Prescott had permanent furrows between her brows and now they deepened alarmingly.  “How are we going to afford THAT?”  She looked around the room; what she’d give for a new three-piece suite. Or new wallpaper. Or a new kitchen with a dishwasher in it. Now, at the first sign of decent money, Reg has to go and get Tracey a horse, a big scary animal with a big, expensive appetite. She scowled even deeper.

“We’ll be fine, love.” Reg carefully poured himself a glass of ale, hoping his hand was steady enough after all the champagne he’d swilled earlier in the day. Agnes disapproved of him drinking too much.  “With the Smailes deal, I’ll get you a present too. Reckon we could fit a dishwasher in the kitchen?”

Agnes’ face lifted into a smile. “Do you know, Reg, I think I’ll have a glass of ale too. To celebrate.”

“A horse, a horse!” Tracey was still whirling around the room, dreaming of red rosettes and glory. She’d ride at Badminton by the time she was sixteen, she just KNEW it! 

Dizzily she climbed the stairs to her room, holding onto the handrail because her head was spinning. Her room was plastered with posters of horses and riders: Marion Coakes and Princess Anne urged their mounts over massive jumps either side of Tracey’s bed. Pride of place under the big poster of champion eventer Richard Fairly was given to the green rosette Tracey had won on Daffodil in the fancy dress race at the last gymkhana.

Now she had a horse, a proper horse, she’d be the next Marion Coakes. She’d meet her hero Richard Fairly and ride against him! Thunder Road…that was almost as good as Stroller as a name to be written in the record books. With love and care Thunder Road’s tendon would be as good as new, and together they’d show the world….  Tracey fell onto her bed, and her mother found her sleeping there later, fully clothed, her riding crop clutched in one hand.

Thunder Road arrived at Miss Trethewy’s on Saturday morning.  The huge horse transport vehicle made heavy weather of the little lane where the stables were situated, and fifteen goggle-eyed girls gasped as the lithe bay horse was led down the ramp by the dishwasher blonde girl.

Tracey shrieked and ran over to them.  Thunder Road snorted and pulled back; the girl soothed him.

“Don’t RUN!” thundered Miss Trethewy. “How many times have I – oh, never mind!” Middle-aged since her twenties, Miss Trethewy stumped out of the yard and over to the horse, who by now had let Tracey pat his glossy neck and trace her fingers down the thin white stripe that started between his eyes and ended in a snip between his nostrils.

Miss Trethewy surveyed her latest lodger. A nice animal by all accounts. Far too much for the kid to handle, but he might be okay if she kept them both in the school for a bit and only took them out on a lead rein. Daddy had just scored a big business contract, so there might be more money in it if she took good care of young Tracey. And having a smart-looking thoroughbred in the yard never hurt.

The girl was talking to Tracey. “He hates it when you brush his flank. It tickles him, so he might kick sometimes. Just be careful. And he loves carrots. Mad about them. He’s very sensitive with flies, so make sure you clean around his eyes and nose every day in summer.”  She swallowed. “He’s a sweet boy, old Thunder. I’ll miss him.”  She busied herself unrolling the bandages from Thunder Road’s legs, and whisking off the monogrammed rug.

Miss Trethewy expertly exchanged the expensive leather headcollar for a cheaper halter, and the girl gave her old charge one last pat before disappearing back into the huge horse transporter.

Thunder Road gave a huge whinny and spun around as his stablemates trundled out of sight. Tracey hung onto the halter rope for grim death and did her best to calm her new pet, but it was Miss Trethewy’s firm hand that settled the horse and led him into the yard.

Nobody suggested that the horse be put out at grass for a month to relax and let the oats find their way out of his system. He was racing fit, full of extra vitamins and mineral supplements. And Tracey was eager to get on his back and show off her new horse to the other girls, many of whom mocked her for being slightly overweight and for still riding the school’s slowest pony.

“Miss Trethewy, have you got a saddle that will fit him? And a bridle? Until Dad buys me one.”

Riding school saddles are notoriously awful. They are often treated badly, thrown on their trees by careless girls, not washed often enough and ominously creaky. Miss Trethewy only had one or two saddles that would fit such a big horse, and she obligingly helped Tracey prepare her mount. Tracey wasn’t tall enough to put the saddle on by herself.

“We’ll take him into the school,” she told Tracey.

Tracey pulled a bit of a face because no-one could see her triumphant first ride on her thoroughbred in the indoor school. However, Miss Trethewy’s word was law.

In the school Thunder Road wheeled and wheeled as Tracey tried to mount him, hopping uselessly after him with one foot in the stirrup.

“Stop that!” Miss Trethewy gave the bridle a hard jerk. She’d put him in a simple snaffle, with the intention of booting Tracey off after ten minutes and trying him out for herself to see what he really needed.

Thunder Road stood still long enough for Miss Trethewy to leg Tracey into the saddle.

Beneath her the horse writhed with a sinuous grace the old pony had never managed in its life. Even just walking, with Miss Trethewy holding the bridle, felt like a dream.

“Shorten your reins, Tracey. That’s it. Feel his mouth. Heels down, toes up. Grip with your knees girl, not your calves. Sit up straight….straight! Pretend I’ve got a stick behind your back, holding your elbows back. Better, much better. Heels DOWN, Tracey!”

After five minutes the horse was plodding quietly enough for Miss Trethewy to casually let go of the bridle. Tracey beamed in triumph. Her own horse! She was riding her own racehorse!

Carefully she squeezed her calves against the gelding’s sides. Unused to the sensation, as the stable lads and jockeys all rode short, he snorted and swished his tail.  Tracey squeezed harder and increased her hold on his mouth. She leaned forward instinctively, urging him into a trot.

Thunder Road threw his head up hard and cracked her on the nose before bounding into a reckless, feckless canter, rough and disunited. Indoor schools were a new thing for him. Used to the open space of the gallops or the racecourse, he panicked when he couldn’t find a way out.

Tracey, unused to the sudden spurt from first gear to third, was taken by surprise. Her eyes watered and her nose really hurt. She clung to his mouth, dragging on the reins, and began to get scared as the horse went faster and faster around the school, looking for an exit.  Thunder Road tossed his head in the air in answer to Tracey’s sawing hands, and almost clocked her nose again. 

She was vaguely aware of Miss Trethewy shouting at her – “Sit BACK in the saddle. Sit DOWN!” -  but her whole energy was centred on staying on the horse’s back. She stood in the stirrups, gripping with every part of her legs, and tugged at the horse’s mouth, trying to pull him into a small circle.

Confused, the horse spun like a polo pony, and Tracey was thrown in a graceful arc, landing on her bottom on the soft tan.  Thunder Road took one look at her and bolted to the far end of the school.

It took Miss Trethewy and Tracey fifteen minutes to catch him, during which time the teacher told Tracey just what she thought of her riding in angry hisses. It was only half of what she really wanted to say, but the thought of losing a full livery if Tracey complained to her Dad kept her temper under a reasonable check.

Finally they cornered a blowing, sweating gelding. Tracey didn’t want to get back on him, and for once Miss Trethewy agreed with her. “Best you don’t just yet. I’ll sort him out for you.”

Five minutes later Miss Trethewy was blowing hard herself with the exertion of keeping Thunder Road under control. He was certainly no beginner’s horse. There was no way Tracey could ride him, even off a lead rein, at the moment.  She knew Tracey would be keen to get back on him soon, so she decided on a quick-and-dirty method of making him controllable rather than the more sound idea of reschooling him from scratch after six weeks grazing in the field.

“We’ll use a Kimberwick bit with a martingale. It’ll stop him throwing his head up and you’ll have more chance of stopping him.”

Tracey balanced her dream of riding against Marion Stokes with the reality of a horse she had almost no chance of controlling and who, to be honest, scared her. But he was HER horse. She HAD to try.  “Okay, Miss Trethewy.”

Tracey’s face felt like it was on fire. Gingerly she touched her nose but it didn’t grate under her fingers. Not a great start, and Mum would be furious, but all good riders had bad experiences, especially with new horses, she consoled herself.

She led Thunder Road back to his stable, ignoring the giggles from the Pony Club set as they noticed her swollen nose and tan sticking to her jodhpured bottom. Her Dad had bought her a set of brushes this morning on the way to the riding school, so she brushed her own horse for the first time, forgot about her nose, and dreamed of glory.

*     *    *

For the next month, Tracey was only allowed groom her horse and feed him, or lead him around the stables and out to the field, where he routinely took off with a racehorse’s tyre-spinning acceleration. She loved to watch him gallop, toss his head, feel the wind in his mane. He was like something out of a dream, so silken and shiny and elegant. The ponies – fat, hairy and with an unkempt air  - kept out of his way as he circumnavigated the edge of the biggest field several times before settling down to crop grass as if his life depended on it.

Miss Trethewy rode him almost every day, nagging his mouth with the Kimberwick to bring his head down and getting him used to knees at his girth instead of his withers. He was a superb animal; far too much for the girl to ride. Even for Miss Trethewy, who’d been riding all her forty-something years, he was a handful. He might come good with a quieter diet, she decided, so all oats had been cut and he was on a less tasty diet of chaff and hay.

Tracey watched Miss Trethewy school the horse at weekends and in the late afternoons, when she ran to the stables from the local grammar school, threw her bag into the tack room and, hitching up her awful school uniform, perched on a cross beam that was mounted across one corner of the indoor school.

Thunder Road behaved so beautifully for Miss Trethewy; Tracey sighed, and forgot she was a bit frightened of the horse. She wasn’t experienced enough to see that it took all Miss Trethewy’s considerable expertise and energy to control the horse, from her straight spine and weight deep in the saddle to legs that coaxed and hands that carefully checked the power springing from the horse’s hindquarters. For Tracey, it was the bit and martingale combination that was obviously the magic behind Thunder Road’s behaviour. She couldn’t wait to try him out again herself, but Miss T told her neither she nor the horse was ready for that yet.

Arabella Stokes was the same age as Tracey but going on 25. She’d been riding since she learned to walk, and her own show pony had been until now the glamour horse of Miss Trethewy’s establishment. Arabella was one of those girls who looks like they were born in the saddle; slim, long-legged, oval face with a nose long and straight for looking down on others with, and smooth fair hair that never escaped from its hairnet under her hard hat. And her jodhpurs always stayed remarkably clean above her glossy boots. Tracey couldn’t stand her – often she wanted to BE Arabella, and ride with insouciant grace and win tons of rosettes, but that was different – and of course Arabella couldn’t stand Tracey.

Which didn’t explain why on Friday afternoon Arabella swung her slim legs over the crossbar and watched with Tracey as Miss Trethewy made Thunder Road canter a figure of eight, his mouth working against the bit but head carried beautifully.

“He’s coming along,” Arabella said by way of greeting.

“Um, yes,” Tracey agreed.

“Disconnected of course, he didn’t change legs behind but I suppose it’ll take ages to reschool a racehorse.”

Tracey didn’t have a clue what Arabella was talking about. She hadn’t progressed to flying changes yet.

“What he really needs is a nice long hack with other horses to calm him down,” Arabella went on, chewing on a piece of hay and dusting imaginary dust off her boots. “Some of us were thinking about a hack tomorrow morning. I’m not going to any shows this weekend so Glory could do with a bit of fun, and Nancy and Pat are going to come with me. Interested?”

Nancy and Pat were Arabella’s close friends. It had been Nancy who’d laughed at Tracey’s dirty bum the day Thunder Road arrived. Tracey disliked them as much as Arabella.

“Or are you frightened?”

“Miss T won’t let me take him out yet,” Tracey said truthfully. “She says he’s not ready.”

Arabella snorted. “Not ready! Look at him. He’s going as quiet as a lamb, I could ride him right now. And so could you. Not chicken, are you?”

Tracey smarted. And then got angry. She’d had enough of Arabella and her hangers-on ridiculing her. She had a better horse than Arabella did now – Arabella was just jealous! “Of course I’m not chicken! I just don’t want to upset his training.”

“How can a quiet hack upset his training? We’re going at ten. Are you coming? Or will we tell everyone you’re a coward?” Arabella’s calculating blue eyes bored into Tracey’s brown ones.

“I’m not a coward!” Tracey hissed. “See you at ten tomorrow.”

“Great.” Arabella dismounted and sauntered out of the covered school, whacking her crop against her lean thighs and banging the door behind her.

Tracey’s heart thudded. From 9 to 11 on Saturdays Miss Trethewy always took a beginner’s ride on the bridle tracks, with the worst riders on a leading rein. She wouldn’t be around to stop Tracey going or tell Arabella off. It was all planned horribly well.

Feeling sick, Tracey watched Thunder Road canter slowly around in a big circle. He looked so much gentler than the nervous racehorse who’d first arrived at the riding school. Maybe it would be okay after all.

The next morning Tracey arrived at the riding school at 9.30, dressed in her riding gear. Her Mum was at the hairdresser’s, her Dad had gone to the races, and neither of them knew she’d be riding.

She groomed her horse, trying not to show she was nervous, but Thunder Road simply blew onto her hands and nudged her pockets, looking for carrots. It calmed her down.

Using a mounting block, she managed to saddle Thunder Road with the lovely new saddle her Dad had bought her. Carefully she checked the girth, and did it up another notch after she’d bridled him and threaded the reins through the martingale.

By ten Arabella, Nancy and Pat were mounted and carolling, “Why are we waiting?”

Sighing, Tracey scrambled onto Thunder Road using the mounting block and gathered her reins.  His neck was so long and slender after Daffodil’s, his mane fine and silky. It felt odd being so high up, towering above the ponies the other three were riding.

“Let’s go onto the moors,” Arabella decreed.

“I thought we’d be going on bridle paths,” Tracey protested. No WAY did she want to ride Thunder Road in open country!

“Moors,” said Nancy and Pat together in smug unison. 

“Come on, chicken,” jeered Arabella and nudged her chestnut Glory into a swift little walk that made the long red tail swing and the rump look like conkers bouncing in the sun.

Nancy and Pat moved their mounts off elegantly and Thunder Road simply decided he’d go with them without asking Tracey’s permission, so she followed the others out of the yard, adjusting her reins and trying desperately to remember every single thing she’d been taught so far.

It was okay while they were walking. The Kimberwick gave her more feeling and control, she thought, and if he tried to throw his head up, the martingale stopped him.

To get onto the moors they rode along bridle paths for a couple of miles. Thankfully Arabella kept the pace to a walk – she kept turning around to gossip to Nancy and Pat, bagging every other person at the riding school except Tracey, and Tracey knew that if she hadn’t been there she wouldn’t have been spared.

Thunder Road’s ears were pricked and his eyes on stalks. This was all new to him. His stride had changed from a long, relaxed walk to a tight, coiled one. He snorted at hedges, shook his head at birds, and kept his head up off the bit despite Tracey’s legs and arms. By the time the bridle path had wound its way through the woods and hedges and fenced farms, and opened up to the rough heather and tufty grass of the moors, he was almost jogging.

“A little canter, girls?” called Arabella sweetly, pushing her pony into a superb showring canter along one of the gently curving moorland paths. 

Nancy and Pat effortlessly urged their ponies into collected canters behind her.

Tracey said, “No! Wait!” and tried to keep Thunder Road to his now anxious jog. 

But he’d seen the moors, which to him looked like the gallops he trained on. Here was where he was supposed to stretch out, to be coaxed faster, perhaps against another horse when he would pull in front to show his mastery and leadership.

With a giant lurch Thunder Road leapt forward, pulling the reins through Tracey’s nervous, sweaty fingers.

Tracey screamed, and the sound startled her horse into a fast canter that was a gallop by the time he surged past chestnut Glory and down the path, grunting with each stride.

Tracey pulled on the reins but the gelding’s neck was set.  Terrified, she transferred the reins to one hand and held onto the pommel of the saddle like the rank amateur she knew she was.  She’d never been so fast in her life – it would have been exhilarating if it wasn’t so frightening. She tried to steer the gelding up a hill onto rough ground, thinking it might slow him down and break his stride, but Thunder Road, his mouth toughened by men in bright silks, took no notice of her tug on the reins.

Every time she pulled on the reins the curb chain dug into his chin and hurt him; this had never happened to him before at the gallop so he simply increased his pace to get away from whatever was causing him pain.

Tracey hung on for grim death. Even though Miss T had told her not to, she gripped as hard as she could from her thighs to her ankles, desperate not to fall off. Her eyes streamed from the wind and she couldn’t clearly see where they were going.

The path led over the top of a gentle hill and down into a little valley. As the gelding pounded downhill Tracey lost her right stirrup, and fumbled desperately to get it back. By the time they were up the other side of the valley and pelting along the top of the ridge, she’d almost lost the left one as well.

Arabella had now urged Glory into a gallop after the racehorse. For all her spite, Arabella didn’t want Tracey to get injured. There’d be hell to pay if she did! There was no chance at the moment that the game little pony could catch the bigger horse, but if Thunder Road slowed down she might be able to somehow help bring him to a stop.

The gelding heard the pounding hooves behind him, which convinced him this was a training gallop. He HAD to be in front. He had to win; it was in his nature. Ears flattened, neck down, his stride was massive despite the growing pain in his off fore, when the damaged tendon was objecting to this sudden, tough flight.

He might have slowed of his own accord when the pain in his leg got too bad, but the pheasants made the decision for him.

Three of them flew up from the heather not far ahead, upset at the thundering creature coming ever closer to their nests.

Thunder Road baulked, throwing his head and skidding into a rough pace between a canter and a trot, his hindquarters under him.

Tracey screamed again, losing her balance, and was thrown forward onto his neck.

The pheasants screamed back, and a fourth one flapped noisily from the undergrowth. 

Thunder Road swerved and spun; he’d never encountered pheasants before, and his thoroughbred nature told him they were nothing good.

The sudden twist on his foreleg as he spun about, and the burst of pain that accompanied it, made the horse lose his balance as he tried to take the weight off his off fore. He fell awkwardly on his side, grunting with the pain.

Tracey, clinging with her arms around his sweaty neck, fell with him, her left leg crunching against the ground with the saddle grinding into it.

Arabella said later she wasn’t sure whether the scream of pain was from Tracey or her horse, but everyone was so angry with her nobody was really listening.

*    *    *

She’d have the plaster on for at least three months, the specialist told Tracey’s parents. It was as nasty a break as he’d ever seen. The pins would come out later, in another operation, when the leg was fully healed. He was very confident she’d walk and eventually run and play sports like any other young girl.

He was very reassuring in his sober dark grey suit; he ushered them gently out of his office, telling them to ring him if they had any questions.

“That horse is going,” Agnes stated as she and her husband walked along the shiny grey/blue tiles of the hospital corridor.

Reg nodded in agreement. He felt sick. Poor little Tracey…and he’d only tried to give her her heart’s desire. “Why are hospitals so bloody grim?” he said, hating the smudged pale green institutional walls.

“Did you HEAR me, Reg? That horse is going. Put it down. Destroy it. It’s dangerous.”

Reg thought of the Thunder Road he’d seen at York the year before, the magnificent young animal streaking ahead of the opposition. And the horse only weeks before when Sydney Smailes had retired it, still magnificent if flawed, blowing steam out of its nostrils in the mounting yard. Even if it hurt Tracey, it didn’t deserve to die.

Tracey had told him, when the drugs had killed her pain, that it had been an accident, not Thunder Road’s fault. “He bolted with me, Dad, but he didn’t try to hurt me. The pheasants scared him. I can see it all in my head.”

But he simply said to Agnes, “Whatever you say, dear. Don’t mention it to Tracey, though.” 

Thunder Road was currently back at Miss Trethewy’s accumulating vet bills for his damaged tendon. The vet had said it wasn’t as bad as it looks, that the firing the horse had had the first time round had strengthened the tendon considerably, and with careful nursing the horse would be able to hack around and give someone a pleasant ride in the future.

Bearing that in mind, Reg had thought about giving the horse to Miss Trethewy, who seemed to get on well with him according to Tracey.  But then what if Tracey saw him in the lanes with someone else on his back, and mentioned it to her mother?

He suddenly remembered, as they got closer to Tracey’s ward, that there was a rest home for horses about ten miles away. He’d laughed when he’d first heard about it – a horse nursing home!  Miss Trethewy would know about it. He’d ask her, and make arrangements for Thunder Road to spend his days there. And he wouldn’t tell a soul.

Agnes swept into the ward in hot pink and orange, which did nothing to complement her red, angry face, Reg a thoughtful distance behind her.

Tracey was propped in bed reading a book about dogs. “Hello Mum, hello Dad.”

“How’s the leg, love?” Reg said gently, sitting carefully on the edge of her bed.

“I can’t feel any pain. It’s really heavy though. The plaster.”  She pulled the sheets back and showed her parents where the nurses had signed it with smiley faces, peace signs and love hearts.

“You’ll be going home soon,” Agnes said. “You’ll be on crutches for months. And after that, no more horses. Do you understand? I won’t let you ride again.”

Tracey’s face, which had been tense, relaxed. “Oh, thank heavens!” she said. “Miss Trethewy says you always have to get back on after a fall.”

“I’m the boss,” said Agnes, “And I say no.”

“What about we get you a nice puppy to keep you company?” said Reg, picking up the dog book and flicking through it. “Would you like that?”

Tracey thought of puppies, squirmy, cuddly puppies. Puppies didn’t scare you to death and give you broken legs. She nodded.

When she got home, the posters of Richard Fairly, Marion Coakes and Princess Anne had been taken off her walls, and the rosette she won with Daffodil was nowhere to be seen, but the small white ball of fluff that licked her hands and turned around three times before nestling against her broken leg more than made up for it.

Chapter Two.

The yard was bursting at its seams. For some reason this spring had seen more horses than usual turn up at the Follyfoot gates.

The latest one to arrive made Steve sigh so exasperatedly Slugger raised his eyebrows.

“A horse with a damaged tendon. That needs daily care. That’s ALL we need,” he grumbled to the older man.

Dora overheard. “Steve, the owner’s paying. Reg Prescott, his name is. He’s a nice man and he’ll pay us well.”  She patted the horse’s shining neck. “He’s beautiful.”

Steve noted the loving look in her eyes as she surveyed the horse. Dangerous territory; Dora loved too deeply. “Paying us won’t buy the time to spend on the horse. We’re overworked as it is.”

“Well, you and I are. Ron isn’t. He doesn’t turn up till we’ve finished mucking out.”

“Speak of the devil.” Steve turned at the sound of Ron’s bike. As usual, he simply rode up to the gate and bashed it open with his bike, roaring into the yard and skidding to a stop with a clatter of stones. Thunder Road snorted and pulled against the headcollar, but Dora soothed him with a gentle hand.

“Wotcher! Is breakfast ready?” Ron called cheerily.  He dismounted, shrugging his fringed leather jacket up onto his bony shoulders.

“Is breakfast ready, he says! Breakfast was an hour ago, I’ve just done the washing up,” Slugger told Ron and stumped inside the farmhouse.

“Ah, come on, Slugger me old mate, you know I can’t do without me eggs,” Ron called after him.

“Ron,” Dora said gently. “It’s nine o’clock. We’ve been at work two hours. We’ve had a new horse arrive already this morning.” She took a deep breath and shouted at him. “You were supposed to be here HOURS ago! Don’t be late tomorrow!” She spun on her heel and stomped off at twice the speed of Slugger, heading for Thunder Road’s stable with the thoroughbred walking dot and carry behind her.

“Bloody ‘ell, what’s eatin’ ‘er?” Ron wondered. “Been givin’ her a hard time between the sheets, Steve?”

“She’s right,” Steve said, choosing to ignore Ron’s wink and lewd leer. “We’re flat out at the moment. For God’s sake, Ron, pull your weight! Not the girls at the pub each night! There’s still mucking out to do – those stables along the far side. Go on, hurry up!”

He pushed Ron towards the stables and, sighing, went back to the feed shed to measure out the last of the morning feeds.

Dora was feeling Thunder Road’s leg when Steve hung over the top of the loosebox door.

“It’s not too bad, you know,” she said. “And just think, he’s a thoroughbred. When we get him right, he’ll be a nice ride for us.”

“How long is THAT going to take? And as if we’ll have time to ride the thing. Honestly, girl, he needs about an hour’s care each day on that leg. And look at all the other old crocks who need daily care too.”

“Are you saying we should have knocked him back?” She frowned, stood up, and walked over to Steve. “This is what we’re about, Steve. They would have put him down. Reg’s wife wanted him shot. He’s only a young horse. If we get him right we might be able to persuade Reg to sell him on to someone who’ll be able to give him a nice, gentle life.” She tenderly pushed Steve’s dark hair out of his eyes and landed a butterfly kiss on his lips. “We’ll manage somehow. We always do.” That stubborn look he knew so well was in her eyes. “I’ll get up an hour earlier each morning and do his leg if I have to.”

Steve was powerless when she kissed him, and she knew it. It was their frequent fights that often gave him the upper hand.

Steve gave a wry smile, and placed a finger on Dora’s lips. “While you’re faffing around with his majesty here, I’ll go and look after yesterday’s three newcomers, then. Bathe the eyes of the one with conjunctivitis, check how the one with scour’s going, and make sure the ancient one hasn’t died since breakfast.”

“Steve, I won’t be long. Really.” Dora looked guiltily at the racehorse’s bandaged leg. She’d love to take the horse down to the stream and stand him in the cold water for a bit. Maybe later in the morning, when she and Steve had sorted out the other new horses, and put the regulars in their favourite field.

Steve shook his head and headed for the medicine cabinet. Conjunctivitis was contagious…unlike damaged tendons.

Ron, for once, worked quickly, mucking out three stables in record time without a cigarette break. His transistor radio blaring from the nearest manger, Ron shovelled manure to the sounds of The Sweet and Led Zeppelin, singing along in his loud, tuneless voice.

The Colonel rattled up in his battered Land Rover to find Follyfoot bustling: that idle beggar Stryker was actually working, Steve and Dora were leading horses into the field, and several new long equine faces peered interestedly over their doors at him. He felt a surge of pride for his only niece, who was clearly making a successful go of it.

Tamping tobacco into his pipe, the Colonel walked around the yard, patting the horses and ponies and administering carrots and apple slices. One of the newcomers looked particularly good; the bay with the lean stripe down its face.

He took a closer look, admiring the sleek thoroughbred coat and shining, soft brown eyes. The horse nudged him and crunched a carrot with ecstatic, half-closed eyes.

There was a crunch on the yard behind him and a soft smell of soap and faint perfume. “Dora!” He kissed her cheek. “Who’s this one? What’s his story?”

“This is Thunder Road. Or Thunder, I suppose we’ll just call him now. He came in this morning.  He’s an ex-racehorse, and was given to a young girl as a present. He was too much for her, and she’s now got a broken leg as a result. Her mother wanted him put down, but her father sent him here. He’s got a damaged tendon, but the vet says he’ll be good for hacking about when we get him right.” She stroked the horse’s nose. “He’s very sweet in the stable, you can see that already.”

“Fine animal.”  The Colonel opened the door and walked around Thunder, caressing his shoulders and rump. “Far too good to put down, I agree. Still, you’ll be pushed for time to work on that tendon, won’t you?”

Dora tried not to pull a face. First Steve, now Uncle Geoffrey.  “We’ll manage.”

“You’re full up. Not a spare box in the place, I can see that myself. Look, Dora, I’ve got an idea.”

Dora had her Mutinous Face on, as The Colonel privately called it. He continued in spite of it. “Have you heard of Richard Fairly?”

“The eventer? Of course I have! I haven’t seen much of him in Horse and Hound lately though.”

“No, well, you won’t have. He had a fall last year and while he’s recovered, he’s lost his nerve. Almost a nervous breakdown, to be truthful.”  The Colonel, having fidgeted with his pipe for long enough, lit it, and puffed aromatic smoke in blue clouds. “His father is a friend of mine. In the same regiment, you know. He’s despairing at the moment. Richard has some good backers, but at the moment he can’t get on a horse. The backers are talking of pulling out and he could lose his whole yard.”

“What a shame,” Dora said. Richard Fairly had been the heart throb of teenaged girls for the last ten years. Dora had been among them when she was fourteen – not that she’d admit that to anyone!  Now in his early thirties, his handsome, clean cut face and fair curly hair still brought horsy girls to eventing days in droves.  “But what’s that got to do with us?”

“I thought if Richard helped out here for a bit, with horses that clearly couldn’t be ridden, it might help him get his confidence back. He wouldn’t be under any pressure to ride, but he could know he was doing some good for the animals. At the moment he’s not even going into his yard. He hasn’t seen his horses in months. He’s sold half of them. He’s afraid that if he goes into his yard he’ll be expected to ride. It’s a tragedy. Such a talent.” The Colonel moved his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other.  “And you need help here. Someone who knows one end of a horse from the other.”

“We can’t pay him,” Dora said flatly.

The Colonel made a dismissive gesture. “He’d board with me. He’s still solvent enough – just – to get by without being paid.”

“Have you spoken to him about it?” Dora said suspiciously.

“Not yet. I thought I’d talk to you first, see if you were happy about the idea.”

Happy? Dora thought it was fantastic. A spare pair of hands was just what they needed right now.  But… “I’ll check that Steve’s happy about it, too.”

They found Steve with one of the new arrivals, the brown pony whose scouring backside had gone untreated for long enough to cause angry red ulcers under the pony’s tail.

“An event rider? He’ll be pretty bored with this lot.” Steve pushed his hair off his face. “He’s a bit of a glamour boy, isn’t he? Yard full of grooms. How will he cope being a groom himself?”

The Colonel said, “He didn’t always have grooms. He pulled himself up from the Pony Club with sheer raw talent. And face it, Steve, Stryker’s about as much help as a one-armed bricklayer. He only knows two paces: slow and stop.”

“Ron’s being very good at the moment,” Dora said defensively, ignoring Steve’s grin that told her he was thinking about the way she’d shouted at Ron that very morning.

Even with his deaf ear the Colonel could hear Ron singing along to Born To Be Wild several stables away.  “Getcha motor runnin’…..”

“What about it, you two? Can I talk to Richard?”

Ron beat a drum tattoo on the shovel and a clatter of hooves told everyone the loose box’s other inhabitant wasn’t impressed with Ron’s drum fill.

“Yes,” said Dora and Steve.

*    *    *

The Paragon of the Pony Club, as Ron had instantly dubbed Richard Fairly when told of his imminent arrival, turned up in a British Racing Green Jaguar.  Steve was instantly on his guard, bolting Alex’s door and folding his arms across his chest. Ron downed his pitchfork and drooled over the car. Dora, feeding the donkeys, simply raised her eyebrows, unimpressed by rich boys’ toys; her parents had foisted too many Jaguar drivers on her in recent years. However, her heart quickened just a little at the thought of meeting her old heartthrob.

The man that climbed out of the sleek car wasn’t instantly recognisable as the horsy world’s confident, risk-taking teen idol.  Even the way he looked around nervously at the yard and the horses made Dora wonder just how close to a breakdown he was. When he walked cautiously to them, she noticed his lean muscle had started to turn to fat, particularly around his midriff; his blond curls were dirty, long and unkempt, and he sported a three day growth on his cheeks. She thought – but didn’t say to Steve or Ron – that he looked more like one of Ron’s pub mates than an Olympic hopeful.

“Hello,” Dora called cheerily. “You must be Richard.”  She gave the donkeys a last pat and pulled straw out of her hair before opening the gate to the yard.  “I’m Dora Maddox.”

“Richard Fairly.” He shook her hand but his eyes were travelling around the yard. “Good God, what sort of horses ARE these?”

“Didn’t Uncle Geoffrey tell you? They’re the great unwanted. Old horses, sick horses, horses people can’t afford to keep, horses we’ve rescued from the knacker’s.” Dora chattily led him over to Alex’s box and introduced him to Steve and Ron.

“Wotcher, Dick,” Ron grinned, waiting for Richard to wince.

“I think it’s Richard, not Dick,” Dora said in a stage whisper, making Ron’s grin even wider.

“No,” said Richard, still looking around. “Around here, ‘Dick’ will be fine.  I’m not sure who Richard Fairly is anymore, to be honest. And, thank heavens, Dick the stable boy won’t be besieged by teenaged girls wanting autographs.”

“That’s a problem I wouldn’t complain about,” Steve joked. “Well, mate, you arrived at the right time. We’re just in the middle of mucking out. Grab a pitchfork.”

“Take mine,” Ron said obligingly.  “I fancy a cuppa right now.”

Dick hesitated, eyeing Alex’s spotty head with a wary eye.

“You don’t have to,” Dora said gently. “But we thought you might like to. We need all the help we can get, as we’re full to overflowing.  Come and say hello to Wonderboy, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Don’t forget the pitchfork,” said Ron.

“I’ll find a spare one,” Steve suggested.  “Why don’t you finish this side of the yard?”

“Me throat’s so parched, mate.”

“’Cos you keep singing at the top of your lungs. You’ll scare Dick off.”

“Might be a good thing. Look.”  Ron didn’t miss the way Dora took Dick’s elbow and guided him up the yard to the far stables. “A bit chummy wiv some bloke she hasn’t met before, isn’t she?”

Steve and Dora had had their share of jealousies in the past. They were over all that, Steve told himself. “She’s being nice, Ron. He’s not well. Look at the poor guy. You’d think he was scared of even the ponies.”

“Slugger’s scared of the ponies, Steve, and you don’t see her taking HIS arm, do you? Watch it, mate. He’s not the Paragon of the Pony Club for nothing.” Ron stuck a piece of straw in his mouth and narrowed his eyes, trying to look knowing.

Ron was a born troublemaker, Steve was well aware of that. He knew Dora well enough to understand that she was treating Dick like she’d treat a nervous horse, with kindness until its confidence was back to normal.  He shook his head and moved his barrow and pitchfork to the next stable.

Dora gave Dick the full tour, explaining the history being each horse or pony. She did it on purpose, dragging out the more painful parts of a horse’s history so that Dick would be aware that there were animals who had gone through more than he had. “This is Prince. The night riders rode him with a bit made of baling wire, and cut his mouth to shreds. We couldn’t get near his face for months, and he’s still funny with strangers…”  “This is Charlie, the oldest horse in the world. He used to be a pit pony, and he’s totally blind now…”

When they got to Thunder, Dick said, “And what’s the story with this one? He looks in fine fettle.”

“He’s an ex-racehorse we got a fortnight ago. A young girl had him and she couldn’t handle him. They had an accident on the moors and he pulled his tendon. Her mother wanted to put him down, but her father sent him here as a reprieve.” Dora glanced at Dick’s face. At last, it was animated and interested. “He’ll be okay for hacking about sooner or later. He can’t be ridden at the moment, though, and he needs daily work on his leg. Are you interested in helping us with him?”

Unconsciously Dick had caressed the horse’s muzzle and run a hand down the silky neck. Now he almost did a double-take at the thoroughbred head so close to his own, the warm hay breath on his face.  “I – I don’t know, Dora. He’s a big, strong devil. I might be better off working with ponies. Or the donkeys.”

“You’re more likely to get bitten or kicked by the ponies or donkeys. Especially the donkeys. Thunder’s an absolute angel. He needs someone to bathe his leg, and put liniment on it and massage it in, or lead him down to the river and stand with him. He’s like a big, friendly dog. Really. None of the rest of us really has the time to devote to him.” She turned her huge amber eyes on him, trusting that the eyeliner and her partly open lips would do the trick.

It did.  After an age, Dick sighed. “Okay, Dora. I’ll help you. But only with the quiet ones. I don’t know how much my father, the old gossip, has told your uncle, but I’m not the best at the moment. I’ve lost my nerve, not just with riding but with horses in general. And the bugger of it is, horses are all I know. I have no other skills or talent.” He scuffed the floor with one boot.

“I’m sure you’ve got tons of other talent,” Dora said warmly. “But if you want to gently ease your way back into a life of horses, we’ll help you. All of us. Come and have a cup of tea. And then I’ll show you where the stream is, so you and Thunder can make friends.”

“Tea sounds great. I’m not sure about Thunder, though.” He smiled wanly, but followed her to the farmhouse, and managed not to pull too much of a face at Slugger’s industrial strength mugs of tea.

Over the next few days the Jaguar pulled up with an expensive purr at precisely 7am outside the Follyfoot gates. The expensive sheepskin coat Dick had worn on the first day had been replaced with an ancient brown Barbour that had seen better days, his jeans had accumulated the daily dose of horse muck, and in the cold early mornings of spring Dick wore a knitted hat on his head.

“Taking lessons in dressing from Slugger,” Ron quipped to Steve. “Look at that hat.”

“Better than taking lessons in dressing from you,” Steve retorted with a grin. Ron was wearing one of his more colourful ensembles – a pillarbox red shirt and purple bandanna with his filthy jeans and cracked old cowboy boots.

“Yeah, well, mate, I’m here on time today, ain’t I? What more do you want?”

“You mucking out instead of having a fag and cuppa?” Steve suggested pointedly.

Rubbing his hands and blowing steam from his mouth, Dick buttoned his jacket and strode over. “I’d forgotten spring was so cold up here in Yorkshire.”

Ron mimicked behind his back, making his mouth very round as if imitating Dick’s posh voice, a male equivalent of Dora’s. Steve hid a grin behind a “Hello, mate”.

“What do you want me to do this morning?” Dick shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Better check with Dora,” Steve said. “Sultan had mild colic last night and still needs walking around.” He pointed to where Dora was leading the dappled grey pony by the fence of the nearest field, nursing a secret satisfaction that at last Dick would be made to work with a horse. Until now he’d busied himself measuring out feeds and mucking out stalls, or shifting hay bales in the barn. Taking Thunder down to the stream wasn’t an option yet.

“Ah. Sultan. Yes.” Dick sounded nervous, but began to walk over to Dora.

“He don’t need us,” Ron said quietly. “He needs a shrink. Who’d be scared of Sultan? Even Slugger likes him.”

“Then Sultan might be the best medicine. Finished your tea yet, Ron? Here’s a pitchfork…”

Dora said gratefully to Dick, “Oh, I’m glad you’re here. Look, can you walk him round for a while?  He’s almost better now, but I’d still like to keep him moving for about another fifteen minutes, then he can go back to his stable and rest.”  She thrust the lead rein into Dick’s hands, noticing that he didn’t even try to touch the pony or let Sultan sniff him.  “He could do with some comforting, Dick. You know, pat him occasionally.” She frowned. “Surely you can’t be afraid of him, he’s only small.”

“I’m not sure WHAT I’m afraid of at the moment,” Dick said glumly. “Failure, for starters.”

“You can’t fail in walking a pony around in a circle,” Dora said firmly. She noticed Dick had bags under his eyes; the three-day growth had now assumed beard status, and he looked more like a hippy than an international eventer.  What would it be like to be Dick? she wondered. To be afraid of even touching a horse. It was something she couldn’t imagine; to Dora, being with horses was as natural as breathing.

Warmly she put a hand on his arm. “It’ll be okay. Really. Look, I’ve got tons to do, but I’ll walk with you for a bit. Are you enjoying staying with the Colonel? It’s a lovely house, isn’t it?” Dora wasn’t a natural chatterbox but as they walked Dick relaxed, forgetting about the pony and patting Sultan’s neck absently as he talked.

Dick spoke about his childhood as an Army brat, which lead to an upbringing not unlike Dora’s own. Boarding school during term time, and if his dad was posted overseas it was easier and often safer for the young Richard to stay with relatives in England during the holidays. His mum had died when he was young and his dad had never remarried. A chance holiday at his horse-training uncle’s had seen an interest in horses grow and develop, and by the time Dick was fifteen he was spending all his holidays with his uncle and winning pony club events. The following year he’d graduated to point to points and to training one of his uncle’s ex-racehorses for eventing. “And that,” he said, stopping and staring somewhere over the horizon, where the trees were beginning to grow their green canopies, “Was the beginning of it all. The most amazing time of my life until Bootsy and I fell last year. I’ve had dozens of falls…but not like that one.”  He shuddered. “Until then, I’d never thought of horses as being dangerous. Unpredictable, but never dangerous. Overall, wonderful friends.”   He brought his eyes back to the present, to Dora’s worried frown and compassionate eyes, and to his own hands, one of which was caressing Sultan’s nose and one which was scratching the pony’s neck. Sultan was leaning against him in ecstasy.

“See,” said Dora gently. “Horses are still wonderful friends, aren’t they? Sultan obviously likes you.” On cue the pony licked Dick’s hand.

“So are you, Dora. For listening. For helping. For giving me a chance to be a total ass until I get my nerve back.”

With his sad blue eyes, crinkled at the corners from squinting into the sun, he was rather nice, Dora decided. “We’re all your friends here,” she said. “I’ll help you, whatever and whenever you want.”

“You can be the sister I never had,” Dick said fondly. To Dora’s surprise, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek, his bristly beard scratching against her skin. He smelt faintly of expensive aftershave and horsy jacket.

Down in the yard, Ron was taking five from mucking out, and was leaning over the top of Wonderboy’s door, debating whether or not to light a cigarette. “Hey, Steve! He just kissed Dora!”

“What!?” Steve jumped out of Alex’s stable as if the horse had trodden on his foot. To his astonishment, he saw Dora put a hand on Dick’s shoulder and kiss him on the cheek. From a distance it looked a lot too friendly.

(“I’d be happy to be your sister,” Dora said. “I never had a brother, either. So while you’re here, you’re part of the family.” And she kissed him as innocently as he kissed her, feeling that she’d done some good that morning and got him at least close to one horse again.)

Arms swinging, Dora walked happily back down to the yard, leaving Dick to care for Sultan.  She looked back and smiled to see him patting the pony’s neck in a comforting way. It was working!

It didn’t occur to her that Steve and Ron were oddly quiet towards her, and in Ron’s case very oddly industrial. His back turned towards her, he was mucking out a stable in record time and without pausing for a cigarette pushed his barrow wordlessly towards the next one.

She sighed; it was the time of the month she always dreaded, when she had to spend time on the accounts. The feed merchant and blacksmith both needed paying, and there was an outstanding vet bill from the month before. Time to hassle owners who’d agreed to pay for their horses’ keep to actually pay up. Casting a longing look at Copper’s chestnut face and then the moors beyond, Dora regretfully went into the farmhouse and settled herself behind the desk.

“I don’t like it, mate,” Ron muttered to Steve. “She’s your bird, what’s she doing kissing some other geezer?”

“If YOU don’t like it, think how I feel,” Steve returned. “I bet she had a crush on him years ago and hasn’t got over it. Good family, famous rider.” He shovelled the contents of his barrow onto the muckheap with unnecessary force.

“You’ll have to talk to him, mate.”

“Oh, I will,” Steve promised grimly, hurling one last shovelful onto the steaming heap.

He waited until Dick brought a much happier Sultan back down to his stable. Dick, too, looked more cheery. “I must say, Steve, I’m starting to enjoy being with horses again. A month ago I never thought I’d want to get this close to any horse or pony.”

“Just don’t get too close to Dora,” Steve said flatly, watching as Dick brushed Sultan’s dappled coat.

“What do you mean, old man?”

“Dora is my girlfriend. My partner. I don’t appreciate other men kissing her.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! It was only a friendly peck on the cheek, a thank you for helping me.” Dick shook his head. “A welcome to the family, is how she put it.  Nothing to get alarmed about, old man. I wouldn’t dream of treading on your toes.”

“Glad to hear it…old man.” Steve copied Dick’s drawl almost insultingly before heading to the feed shed.

Having finished with Sultan, Dick wandered into the farmhouse in search of Dora. “Ah, there you are. I’ve just had the most extraordinary conversation with Steve. He’s taken offence at that kiss I gave you.”

Dora giggled. “How silly! Don’t worry, Dick, I’ll talk to him.”

“Good. I did try to convince him there’s nothing between us, but I don’t know that he believes me. He’s a fierce young chap where you’re concerned, isn’t he?”

Dora rarely thought of the word ‘fierce’ when she thought of Steve. He was passionate about his beliefs… but fierce? Only if he was fighting with his back to the wall. And a harmless peck hardly warranted that.  She smiled and shook her head. “Don’t worry about Steve,” she said. “Now, do you think you’ll be able to work with some of the other ponies? There’s a chubby little skewbald in the stable next to Sultan. She’s called Pixie, and she’s running to fat. She’s here for a bit until her owners move to a farm. She needs to be ridden or lunged for an hour.” Dora raised her eyebrows at him.

Dick swallowed. “Don’t know that I can ride her, old girl, but I’ll lunge her if you like. Does she lunge well?”

Dora didn’t know; she’d never tried lungeing Pixie. Riding her was far more fun. “She’s quiet enough, I’m sure she’ll be fine. And you will you.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Dick gave a mock salute and clicked his heels, hiding his nervousness. As he walked back out to the tack shed, Dora saw his worried frown from her window. It was hard to believe that one of England’s foremost event riders – Olympic material no less! – was working at Follyfoot, and scared of horses. Was this the same man she’d had a huge crush on years ago? He was so nice…so likeable…she HAD to help him. She noticed he was getting his physique back with all the manual work he was doing; the broad shoulders of the event rider, the lean hips… likeable, and, she had to admit, starting to look physically attractive again, even with the full beard. If it hadn’t been for Steve, she’d have found herself drawn to him as a person, not just a photo in a horse magazine as she did when she was younger.

She was watching Dick take the lungeing tackle into Pixie’s stable when Steve opened the office door.

He followed her gaze and bit back a retort. Instead, he said mildly, “What’s going on between you and the Paragon?”

“Oh, Steve – NOTHING! He’s already been in here and told me you were upset about him kissing me.” Dora spun the chair around on its squeaky wheels. “If I can’t have a peck on the cheek from a friend, then there’s something very wrong between us.”

“It’s not the peck he gave you I’m so worried about, it’s the one you gave him back.”

“It was NOTHING. If I kiss Ron on the cheek, or Slugger, it’s not a problem, is it?” She frowned. “So why is it a problem if I kiss Dick on the cheek? He’d made such good headway with Sultan.”

“Leading him around a field.” Steve snorted. “If you kiss him for that, what the hell are you going to give him when he finally rides a horse again?”

“Steve! Why are you so jealous of him?”

“Tell me, Dora, did you ever have a crush on him when you were growing up?”

“Yes, I did, and so did most of the girls in my class. But I was only a kid, I –“

“And he’s a famous, good-looking event rider who you now get to see every day.”

“Steve, don’t be silly. I grew out of my crush years ago. For heaven’s sake, it’s you I love.” She stood up and tried to hug him, but Steve pulled away.

“Now I’m silly, am I? If you love me, tell him to go home. Back to his own stable. He was supposed to help out here and as far as I can see he does about as much as Ron on a good day. We just have to babysit him and make sure the nasty horses don’t frighten him.” Steve ran his hands through his hair and glared at her.

“The Colonel promised we’d help him. He HAS to get his confidence back, and he IS getting better. Give him a few weeks, Steve. Please,” Dora pleaded. “We can’t go back on our word.”

“Gentleman’s agreement,” Steve snorted. “Well, I’m a stable boy, not a gentleman. If it was up to me, I’ll be waving goodbye to him.”

“Oh, stop the ‘stable boy’ routine, Steve! What if it were you, in his shoes? What if you’d lost your nerve? Wouldn’t you want to be around people and quiet old horses who’d help you get back on your feet? Or in his case, back in the saddle? Steve, honestly, there’s nothing to be jealous of. Nothing.”

Steve thought of the stable full of fine thoroughbreds, anglo-Arabs and warmbloods that awaited Dick’s return, and the green Jaguar, and the scores of girls who still ogled Dick at shows. He really didn’t think there was nothing to be jealous about. But Dora was looking at him so levelly, and after all she was a girl with a heart full of kindness for a sad case, that he finally sighed and said, “Okay, girl. I believe you. But once he’s back in the saddle, he’s back on the road.”

Dora smiled. “Thanks, Steve. If we all pull around and support him, he’ll be back to normal quicker. Really.”

“Just tell him…if he calls me ‘old man’ one more time, I’ll thump him one.” Steve kissed Dora’s cheek, then her mouth. From the corner of his eye he saw Dick leading Pixie out of her stable. From the yard he could see straight into the office window. Steve put his arms around Dora and kissed her hard and long, feeling her fingers on his back and in his hair. Take that, Richard Fairly! he thought fiercely.

Chapter Three

Steve still didn’t trust Dick an inch with Dora, but as the days turned into weeks, and Dick’s input into making the yard run increased, he had to admit he was thankful of the help.  Dick mucked out horses at twice the speed of Ron, and was now confident enough to groom and work with the larger horses. Even if he did vanish every second weekend to heaven knows where – presumably his posh yard and posh house.

In particular, Dick had taken to Thunder, whose tendon was healing nicely. Every morning, except for when it was pelting the hard spring rain that flattened the heather on the moors and turned the stream into a bubbling river, Dick led the thoroughbred down to the stream and let the horse stand in the cooling water.

The horse was walking and trotting soundly now. The vet, on one of his regular visits to file the Weaver’s long yellow teeth, said he was impressed at the progress Thunder was making.  “He’ll be able to hack around the place very gently I think,” he said, feeling the horse’s foreleg while Thunder nibbled at his hair. “Mainly walking, the odd slow trot, and don’t take him on the roads for a while, keep him on soft ground.”

“Don’t I know you?” he went on, staring at Dick.

“I’ve been working here for several weeks,” Dick said. “You probably saw me mucking out last time you came.”

“Your face is familiar. If it wasn’t for the beard, you’d be a dead ringer for Richard Fairly,” the vet decided, packing his tooth file away and clicking shut his bag.

Dick smiled wryly, and clapped Thunder on the neck.  Dora, standing next to the vet, grinned but said nothing.

Having Dick around the place had freed up enough time for her to train Copper and get him ready for the local show. She’d decided to enter the intermediate show jumping class, a decision Steve was sceptical about. He was sure it was Dick’s influence that called Dora to the world of showjumping, but as she pointed out, she’d ridden Copper in the show last year, and taken one of her uncle’s hunters there the year before. It was her once a year treat, and she was certainly not thinking of a future as a showjumper.

Dora saddled Copper up; she’d ride over to the Colonel’s and practice on his jumps.

“Steve, do you want to come? Alex needs the exercise.”

Steve weighed the decision. Stay here sweeping the yard or stacking hay bales, or enjoy a morning in the spring sunshine, with the sky so blue it looked surreal. There was no competition. “Give me five minutes.”

Ron watched Steve and Dora ride away. “Make a lovely couple, don’t they?” he grinned at Dick. “Wotcher, mate, think I might go for a ride meself. On me bike, that is. Them two’ll be gone till lunchtime, and the bike needs a good run.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the warm stone of the barn, savouring the tobacco. “You’ll be okay holdin’ the fort, won’t you? Don’t let any smart buggers dump their horses here while we’re all out, Steve gets most upset when that happens.”

He sauntered to his bike, rubbing his hands in delight.  Dick watched as Ron kicked the bike into life and revved it a couple of times before tearing out through the gate as if Satan was at his back wheel.

Yes, it WAS a lovely day for a ride. Dick looked thoughtfully at Thunder. A stupid idea, he told himself. An ex-racehorse who hadn’t been retrained. A fine way to set his nerves back to where they were three months ago.

But still, he went to the tack room, and out of the motley collection of tack chose a snaffle bridle and the best of the saddles.  Heart thumping, he deposited it on the half door of Thunder’s stable, and made himself take several deep breaths.

The horse nuzzled his hands, his ears pricked and eyes calm. He took the bridle willingly, because he’d known nothing but kindness from the people of Follyfoot. Encouraged, Dick saddled him, and led him into the yard. 

Thunder hadn’t seen an oat for weeks; he’d been eating lots of hay, and his tummy had dropped like an old hunter’s. He stood still while Dick mounted him and gathered the reins, and when asked to move off he walked as quietly as a well-trained hack.  Dick breathed a sigh of relief.

It felt strange to be riding again. The horse felt tall and thin and unfamiliar, where once being in the saddle had been the most natural thing in the world. The movement underneath him felt odd and unstable. Dick took a deep breath and composed himself. He mustn’t be insecure. For his sake and for Thunder’s, who clearly needed reassurance too judging by his nervous ears and twitching tail.

The gate was open – Ron didn’t believe in closing it – so he walked Thunder into the fields beyond the yard with a sense of trepidation. So much open space….! But the horse obeyed him, mouthed the bit, and followed the familiar path around the lake to the woods and the stream. Dick spoke to him, feeling the horse relax, and himself with it as the long thoroughbred stride became more familiar.

His whole concentration was on the horse, watching his ears, feeling his mouth through the reins and the soundness of his injured leg through his swinging walk. Dick didn’t notice the motorcycle stopped on the road far above. In fact Ron, cursing his fuel pump and kneeling beside his bike, didn’t notice Dick at first. He saw the movement from the corner of his eye, then almost did a double-take when he realised who it was.

“Well, well, well,” Ron said to himself. “Can’t ride, eh? Too flippin’ scared. Dunno about that meself. Now, do I tell Steve and Dora, or do I have some fun?”  Ron’s face split in a grin. Fuel pump or not, the day was becoming v-e-r-y interesting!  He watched the horse and rider as they moved into the woods, then tried his bike one more time and sighed with satisfaction as it spluttered into life.

Dick didn’t know exactly how long Dora and Steve would be. He looked at his watch and calculated that thirty minutes would be enough for the first ride. He didn’t want them to see him; he was aware of Steve’s feelings and knew Steve would ask him to leave. Which was something he wasn’t ready to do just yet. Riding at the walk for half an hour was one thing. He promised himself he’d be galloping before he went home to bring his yard back to its old glory.

“Come on, Thunder, old lad.” Gently he squeezed the horse into a jog, sensing that the damaged tendon was holding out just fine. There was no lameness, it was a steady pace that his body adjusted to now almost as a reflex action. It felt so right, so good, he almost shouted aloud with the joy of it. The wind tugged at his hair, blew spring into his face. It was the best day he’d had in months.

Regretfully he turned Thunder for Follyfoot, and the horse meekly jogged and, when he asked for it, walked back to the yard.  He barely had time to put the tack away and brush the faint sweat marks from the horse’s back when Dora and Steve trotted back from the Colonel’s.

Dora unsaddled Copper with a beaming smile. “He’s going so well! You should have seen him, Dick! He’ll be just right for the show!”

“When’s it on?” Dick said, throwing a light rug over Thunder’s silky coat.

“In a fortnight. You and Steve can be my grooms. Steve’s even thinking of entering Alex, even though he hates competitions. Alex is jumping beautifully.”  She clapped Copper’s neck lovingly, and unsaddled him with a fluid movement.  Dick heard her singing to herself as she rubbed the horse down; “Killing Me Softly” in her light, pretty voice.

Over the other side of the yard, Steve was unsaddling Alex and grooming the sweat stains from his flanks. Dick took his chance and slipped into Copper’s stable.

“Dora, can you keep a secret?”

“Of course I can. What is it?”

“Please don’t tell anyone, especially Steve, but I rode Thunder today. Just at the walk, and a bit of a jog.” Dick couldn’t keep the excitement off his face.

“Oh, DICK!”  Dora’s eyes shone with pleasure, and she put the body brush down on Copper’s manger. “I’m SO glad!”  She ducked under Copper’s neck and flung her arms around him.

Dick hugged her back, holding her tight. For a moment Dora was fourteen again, with a crush on the famous Richard Fairly. What she would have given in those days to meet him, have him smile at her… let alone hold her tight. And now it was a reality – when it didn’t really matter, when she’d grown out of schoolgirl crushes. The part of her that was still fourteen tapped her on the shoulder, though, and she couldn’t help tilting her face up and meeting his eyes. 

Dissipated blue meet warm amber. “I’m so glad,” she said again, and stood on her tiptoes. She was going to kiss his cheek but hesitated; all that beard covering his cheeks… so she kissed him on the lips, firstly a chaste kiss from a friend, then, in homage to her fourteen year old self, she parted her lips slightly, and for a moment felt his lips respond before he pulled away from her, and she from him.

Breathing raggedly, Dora shook herself mentally. What was she thinking? What if Steve had seen? Why did she do that? Stupid girl. She opened her mouth to speak but Dick spoke first.

“No, Dora. We mustn’t. It’s not that you’re not attractive, you’re very beautiful. And it’s not just because of Steve, although I respect him immensely. To be honest, if there was real attraction between us, we would have done something about it by now regardless of any other circumstance – wouldn’t we?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “More secrets, Dora, because you’ve been kind and patient. I – I don’t feel any attraction towards women. God only knows I’ve tried to, with groupies and beautiful girls throwing themselves at me. I could pull a girl with a wink of an eye any time over the last eighteen years, but I can’t bring myself to make love to them. There’s no sexual desire for me. Not with women, anyway.”  He smiled crookedly.

Dora stood in the shadows beside Copper, her mind in a turmoil. “I had no idea, Dick,” she said softly. “You seem so….so…”

“Manly? Blokey? I don’t wear pink jumpsuits or speak with a lisp?” He was still smiling crookedly.

“Well, yes, I suppose.” She fiddled with Copper’s mane. “I feel such a fool.”

“Don’t. Don’t ever feel a fool. We’re friends, Dora. Remember when I walked Sultan around when he had colic? And I said you could be the sister I didn’t have? That still stands… if you want it. If you aren’t shocked.”

Dora smiled. “We ARE friends. And I won’t tell a soul. I’m not shocked, but I feel sorry for all your groupies. Isn’t that false advertising?” She grinned to show it was a joke.

“I can’t see my career ever getting back on the rails if people find out I’m queer,” Dick said flatly. “Eventing is still a very traditional sport, lots of old fogeys as judges and so on. I’d probably find a lot of doors closing in my face. Mind you, there are people I know who’d stick by me, but can you imagine what the newspapers would say? If I want to make a comeback, this has to stay private. Maybe attitudes towards homosexuality will change in the future and it’ll be more acceptable. Until then, I’ll be macho man and make sure I have pretty girls hanging hopefully around me.” Dick heaved a sigh and absently scratched Copper’s neck.

“Dick,” Dora said softly, “Do you think that keeping all this inside you is half the reason you’ve had problems getting back onto a horse? You’re battling more than a fear of riding, you’re battling yourself.”

“It has to stay secret, Dora. It HAS to. You mustn’t tell anyone, not Steve, not Ron, not Slugger and especially not the Colonel. My family doesn’t know. My parents would be mortified. Do you understand?” He glared at her.

Dora thought of her own parents, strait-laced and set in their ways and their social class. They were horrified enough that she’d chosen Steve and a horsy life at Follyfoot over a successful marriage and a posh house. She could imagine only too well the reaction of Dick’s military father to the news his son was homosexual. “I understand,” she said quietly. “And if you ever want to talk to anyone…well, you’ve got a sister, haven’t you?”  She smiled, and touched his hand in a friendly gesture.

“Thanks, Dora, old girl. Bless you. For everything.” He leaned over Copper’s neck and kissed her on the cheek. 

The roar and sputter of Ron’s bike made them both jump.  As always, Ron revved into the yard and cut the engine with a backfire.

“I’ll get back to work,” Dick said abruptly.  “Pixie needs another hour’s lungeing. She’s getting fitter.”

“Don’t you long to just ride her?” Dora said softly from the shadows.

“Surprisingly, now I do. She’s a gentle horse. But not today. I’ll help you out at the show before I start riding again in front of people. I’m sure Steve will want me out the door the instant I put my foot in a stirrup.”

“He’s not the boss here,” Dora said sharply. “Follyfoot is mine.” But even as she said that, she knew that without Steve Follyfoot was nothing and she was incomplete.  “Go and lunge Pixie,” she said more gently, picking up the body brush and beginning on Copper’s other side. She wished she could tell Steve why he would never have to worry about any physical relationship between herself and Dick, but a promise was a promise and a secret a secret.

*   *    *

“I tell you mate, Dick was riding. And on that flippin’ great Thunder, too. Thought Thunder was supposed to be dangerous?” Ron stuck a bit of straw in his mouth, wishing it was a cigarette.

“Very interesting,” Steve agreed. He stood beside Ron, arms crossed on top of the stone wall, as they watched Dick lungeing Pixie. “If he can ride, he can move on. I still don’t trust him with Dora.”

“I’ve got a better idea, mate. Listen. And don’t tell Dora.” Ron’s grin was pure malice. He threw the straw away, lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring before telling Steve his plan.

And Steve listened, his grin widening.

Chapter Four

Show day dawned clear blue without a cloud in the pristine sky, to the relief of competitors and show organisers. The dawn chorus of birds nesting in the eaves of the cottage woke Dora, who had slept a light, excited sleep. She pulled back the curtains and sighed with pleasure, then looked lovingly back at Steve, who lay with tousled hair and equally tousled sheets.

“Come on, sleepyhead!  We’ve got to feed the horses early and plait up Copper and Alex,” she urged, leaping to the bed and pouncing on him.

“It’s early,” Steve yawned. “I can think of something better to do, we’ve got heaps of time.” And he pulled her down, suddenly awake and aroused at the sight of her slim, sexy body.

Dora giggled, and the sun rose higher and the birds flew off to find breakfast.  It was only the sound of Dick’s purring Jaguar and the gate creaking open that finally made them abandon the bed as they lay sated in each other’s arms.

“Seven o’clock!” Dora ran for the bathroom, smelling bacon and eggs wafting up the stairs.

When she and Steve finally made it to the kitchen, Slugger chuntered at them. “Have to be up early, she says. Have to have a good breakfast because today’s the show, she says. What time do you call this, then, girl? I’ve burnt the bacon waiting for you.”

“There’s a surprise,” Steve said, slipping into his chair and grabbing some toast. “At least the toast isn’t cold.”

“Watch it!”  Slugger cuffed Steve gently on the head. “Now you two take your time and eat a proper breakfast. Young Dick’s out there feeding the horses for you and Ron’ll be here soon.”

“He always turns up when breakfast’s ready,” Dora agreed, and sure enough Ron’s bike clattered into the yard as she dug her fork into an overcooked egg.

“Wotcher!” Ron slammed the farmhouse door. “All ready to be the next showjumping champion of Yorkshire, Dora?”

“I’ll be happy to do one clear round,” Dora mumbled through her toast.

“Wish I was going,” Ron said. “It’s gonna be a laugh seeing Steve in a proper riding jacket.”

Steve had borrowed one of the Colonel’s riding jackets, a natty number in red. It was a bit big for him and Slugger had tacked up the sleeves the night before. He’d also borrowed a black velvet hard hat and a pair of the Colonel’s long, black boots.

“I’ll feel like a right idiot,” Steve agreed. “Not my scene at all.”

“Oh, Steve, you’ll enjoy it, you know you will,” Dora persuaded. “And Alex is jumping so well at the moment, he’ll do you proud.” She gulped her tea, looking at her watch.

By nine all the horses had been fed, Ron was mucking out and Dick was plaiting Alex’s mane and tail – a skill Steve had never bothered learning.

“He’ll look as daft as I will,” Steve grumbled.

“Rubbish, you’ll both look the part perfectly,” Dick said, sewing the last plait into place. Like Steve, he was wearing jodhpurs and long boots. With his neat white shirt and tie, tweed jacket and flat cap he looked for all the world like a professional groom.

“Thanks mate.” Steve inspected the plaits. “I could never have done them so neatly.”

Dick felt a burst of satisfaction. At last it seemed like he and Steve were getting on.

“My pleasure. Now, let’s get them loaded into the truck.”

With dark blue rugs and leg bandages Copper and Alex looked glamorous. Dora had trimmed the feathers on their fetlocks and fluffy hair growing from their ears, and blacked their hooves. Both horses walked into the truck with pricked ears and pulled contentedly on haynets as Slugger and Ron waved and Steve drove the truck out the gate and down past the lake.

The showground was abuzz with parents, children, ponies, horses, cows, pigs, sheep, bunting, farmers, riders and every convention you could expect from a country show. The beer tent was already full with laughter echoing above the tannoy system, and several prim ladies were carrying armfuls of long stemmed roses into the flower tent for judging. A sideshow, with spruikers vying for punters, was the haunt of dozens of teenagers eager to win stuffed toys they didn’t really want. Pies, cakes, jams and giant vegetables were being judged in the produce tents. If she hadn’t been riding, Dora would have loved to spend ages going around the show and exploring all it had to offer.

“I’ll check us in with the collecting ring,” Steve offered. “You have a look around. Meet you back here in half an hour. Our class starts in an hour so we’ll have to saddle up and ride the horses in a bit.”

Dick stayed with the horses while Dora enjoyed the simple pleasures of the local show. Half an hour went quickly as Dora ate an ice cream, gulped some home made lemonade and took a surreptitious look at the competition. She identified a number of local girls and guys, whose horses had just a few more stray hairs and whose plaits weren’t as neat as those of the snobby teenaged professionals bringing their young horses up through the ranks. Cobby hunters, rangy anglo-Arabs and lean thoroughbreds were all being saddled up. A mixed field, Dora decided as she ate the last of her ice cream.

“We’ve drawn midfield,” Steve told her when she returned to the truck. “You’re number 15 and I’m 16. Let’s go and walk the course.”

There were twelve jumps altogether, and none of them was more terrifying than anything they’d been practicing over at the Colonel’s. The treble was closely placed, and well suited to smaller horses like Copper and Alex. Leaving the horses locked in the truck, Dick walked the course with them and offered advice on how best to place themselves for each jump. Dora was grateful for his help, and even Steve listened and nodded and said thanks.

Dick helped them saddle up; Copper was on his toes now, excited. He kept wheeling around and whinnying, knowing something different was going to happen.

“Give him lots of slow work to calm him down,” Dick advised. “Lead him around a bit first and let him look at the other horses and the showring, show him there’s nothing to worry about.”

By the time Dora had walked Copper around and finally mounted him and controlled him to a busy jog, the class had started and the first two horses had both collected faults.

Steve rode up beside her, and Copper whickered at Alex, glad to see a familiar face.  “We should do the practice jump a bit to loosen them up,” he said.

Dora was fully concentrated on keeping Copper under control. “Maybe it’ll calm him down if he knows what he’s here for,” she agreed.

They watched a fat man on an equally overweight cob crash through the practice jump three times. Sighing, the stewards rebuilt it and then advised him to let someone else have a go.

Dora steadied Copper and set him at the jump. He grabbed at the bit, pricked his ears and cleared it with a swish of his tail. Being Copper, he tried to speed up afterwards, but she held him in a tight circle and calmed him down before doing the jump again. This time Copper responded to her hands and legs more, and jumped the simple fence more controlled.  She let him canter on a bit afterwards and he dropped his mouth and came to a halt quietly when she asked.

Alex’s normally calm eyes were bulging. He’d never been to a show before, and the hordes of people and other animals, together with Copper’s nervous excitement, made him prance a bit. Steve grinned as his reliable horse gave a little buck when he asked for a canter.

He set Alex at the practice jump.

Dora, still concentrating on Copper, didn’t see Steve fall to the ground. She didn’t know what had happened until a snorting Alex trotted up to Copper, riderless.

“Steve!” She pulled Copper to a stop, jumped off and led both horses to where Steve was sitting in front of the practice jump, cursing.

“My bloody ankle,” he hissed. “I’ve twisted it or sprained it or something.”

Dick ducked under the rope and ran to them, helping Steve to his feet. Steve hissed with pain. Dora dropped Copper’s reins and put her arms around him. “Steve! Steve, can you walk on it? Oh, sweetheart…!”

Steve grimaced. “It’ll be okay…but I can’t ride today.” He leaned on Dick’s shoulder and hopped to the sidelines.  “It’s a shame to waste Alex. He’s all ready for today. Dick, you ride him.”

Dick paled under his beard. “I’m not ready yet. I haven’t ridden in months.”

Both Steve and Dora knew it was a lie, but as they were convinced each other didn’t know, they said nothing to contradict him.

“Look mate, it’s a great chance to get back into it. This is a local show, who’s gonna see you?” Steve put his foot to the ground and winced.  He hoped he was making enough of a pain-filled face. His ankle was perfectly fine, and he felt bad about pulling Alex away from the jump at the last minute when the horse was balanced just right to meet it, but as Ron had said, it just might work, Dick might take the bait on a quiet horse like Alex. 

Dick glanced from Steve to Alex; the horse nuzzled him fondly.

“You can do it,” Dora whispered, unwittingly joining in Steve and Ron’s plan.  She tugged at Dick’s sleeve and drew him closer. “If you can ride Thunder, you can ride Alex. He’s a darling…so quiet. Please do it. For me. For yourself.”  Her eyes pleaded with him.

Dick thought of Thunder’s long stride, that day a fortnight ago when he found the courage to ride again. Alex was smaller, more compact, better trained.  He took a deep breath.

“You’ll have to tell the collecting ring,” he said, and swung into Alex’s saddle.

In a fluid motion he had the horse cantering towards the practice jump.  Steve and Dora watched as Alex’s ears flicked back, his stride wavered a moment, and then Dick’s legs were firm against his side, setting him up perfectly for the jump. He rose like a grey bird, clearing it by a mile.  Dora sighed with pleasure and relief. Collecting him, Dick turned him again and asked him to clear the jump a second time, which he did with a happy swish of his tail.

By the time Dora had informed the collecting ring of Alex’s new jockey, it was almost Copper’s turn to jump. Dick shrugged into the Colonel’s pink coat and velvet cap, tucking his unkempt long fair curls behind his ears and holding Copper’s bridle until Dora was called.

Dora put Dick and his inner turmoils out of her mind and concentrated on getting Copper around the course. The little Arab was a bouncing ball of energy as they neared the first, and he tugged eagerly at the bit, wanting his head. Dora let him have it as they flew over the first, then asked him to come to the bit again. To her delight, he did, and the rest of the course was almost a blur as Copper behaved perfectly, obeying her hands and heels and clearing jump after jump with pricked ears.  The treble was last, a confection of red and white that must have looked confusing to Copper as he approached it. Dora steadied him though, and managed to keep his stride steady between the fences. As he cleared the final fence a spatter of applause sounded around the ring.

“Our second clear round, Miss Dora Maddox on Copper Prince,” the tannoy said. “Next competitor is number sixteen, Mr Richard Fairly on Mr Steve Ross’ Alex.”

There was a hushed, disbelieving silence around the ring. Richard Fairly? THE Richard Fairly, who’d been so conspicuously absent from the eventing scene for so long?

Dick rode Alex into the ring, and a teenage girl shrieked: “It IS him! Richard! Richard!”

Her call was taken up as more groupies left the sideshows and their own horses to goggle at the broken hero making his comeback.  “Richard! Richard!”  became a chant that was taken up by almost everyone around the ring. 

Dora halted Copper by the side of the ring, sitting on him so she could see over peoples’ heads. Copper fidgeted, mouthing his bit and stamping his feet.

“Quiet please,” said the tannoy as Richard circled Alex waiting for the starting bell.

But the chant continued, and as the bell went and Richard set Alex at the first jump the chant changed to cheering. He didn’t hear the cheering, he was focussed on the fence in front of him, and the spotted horse who was responding so easily to muscles he hadn’t used in months.

Suddenly it became automatic; he switched on, became the rider he’d always been. He felt absolute exultation as Alex’s hindquarters bunched and sprang, and the fence disappeared below them. It was all he could do not to shout with delight, and he was grinning as he turned an eager Alex for the next fence.

Steve pushed his way through the crowd to the front row, and watched his horse with not a touch of envy. He’d actually been looking forward to jumping Alex, despite his protests to Dora that he wasn’t a competitive person. He noticed the way Richard (he couldn’t think of him as Dick any more) settled his horse and composed him for each jump, giving Alex confidence.

As fence after fence flew under Alex’s hooves – the oxer, the brush, the gate, the spread – Steve joined in the shouting and cheering.

Only the treble to go. Richard knew by Alex’s stride that the horse was made for the distance in between each. He steadied Alex for the first leg, and left it almost too late to ask for takeoff. Alex clattered a foreleg against the rail.

The crowd groaned at the noise; the rail rattled and shook, but stayed in its cups, and by the time the cheering had started again, Richard had popped Alex over the last two jumps and had a grin that split his face in two.

Steve ran over to Dora, forgetting about his ‘sprained’ ankle. “Did you see that?”

“Oh Steve, wasn’t he great?” She wasn’t sure whether she meant Richard or Alex or both; it had been a pleasure to watch and terrifying too, in case Richard’s nerve failed again.

She jumped off Copper and hugged Steve. “We did it, we got him riding again!” It was only after Steve’s lips had left hers she exclaimed,

“There’s nothing wrong with your ankle – is there!?”  Dora frowned.

Steve managed to grin and look shamefaced at the same time. “Well, he took the bait, didn’t he? He rode Alex – and rode him damn well.”

“You beast! He could have had a setback!” Dora started to storm off, Copper in tow. Steve ran after her.

“But he didn’t. Look, girl, he rode Thunder a couple of weeks ago. Ron saw him and told me. I knew he was ready to start riding again.”

“Ron  - Ron SAW him?” Dora stopped.

“Yeah. He was skiving off for the morning while we were at the Colonel’s.”

“All these secrets,” Dora muttered as Copper jingled his bit against her hands. “And you and Ron – you plotted this and didn’t tell me!”

“We knew you’d stop us. Look girl, lighten up. You saw him ride. He’s brilliant. He’ll be fine now – if he doesn’t get mobbed in the meantime.”  Steve pointed to where a crowd of girls had gathered around Alex, foisting autograph books at Richard.

“Oh, you!” Dora sighed, but let Steve take her hand and lead her towards his horse. He remembered to limp.

*    *    *

After that, the jump off was almost an anticlimax. Five horses went clear in the first round and would jump against the clock in the second. Dora’s second fast clear round, with Copper going like a rocket and galloping at full speed through the finish line,  put her in the lead, and won her applause and wolf whistles, but now it was Richard the crowd had come to see.

Richard’s legs were aching, but his competitive spirit was on fire, and Alex jumped like he’d never jumped in his life. There were only six fences in the jump off, and Richard and Alex scorched around them, cutting corners and taking fences at angles that made Steve cover his eyes.

The crowd erupted with cheers and screams as Richard rode out of the ring. Eagerly Dora, Steve and Richard waited for the time. Dora screamed when she discovered Richard’s round had been half a second slower than her own. 

“That’s the only time I’ll ever be able to say I’ve beaten Richard Fairly,” she gasped, feeding Copper a sugar cube.

“Fairly and squarely,” Steve grinned, and Dora groaned at the pun.

The last two competitors jumped for four faults each, and calls of commiseration from their mates in the crowd.

Dora realised she’d won the class, and rode to collect her rosette. Richard, when he collected his second place rosette, leaned across and kissed her on the cheek to the delight of the crowd.

“I hope Steve won’t take offence,” he murmured. “You rode beautifully. Congratulations.”

Dora blushed as the local newspaper photographer caught the moment. They both stayed in the safety of the collecting ring as a reporter, with the sports scoop of the year, interviewed Richard on his comeback and then Dora, who proudly talked about Follyfoot and how Richard had helped the unwanted horses. Finally they rode out together, with Dora also signing autographs for the first – and, she hoped, only – time in her life. All those girls mobbing her; it was scary!

Back at the truck Richard dismounted with trembling legs. “Good God, next time I’ll put in practice before I do that again. My legs are killing me!”  He clapped Alex on the neck. “Thanks, Steve, he’s a great little horse. You should do more with him. He loved that!”

Steve unsaddled Alex and began to brush the sweat stains from his coat. “I’m glad you rode him. I couldn’t have got that last round out of him. Seriously, mate, it was a pleasure to watch.” He held out his hand and Richard shook it.

“One thing, though, Steve. Your ankle. It seems MUCH better.”

“Oh, it’s still a bit sore,” Steve said. “I only twisted it. You know what it’s like. Bad pain for a while.”

“Yeah,” said Richard drily. “I know what it’s like. Anyway, it did me a favour. I can’t wait to get back to my yard and work with my own horses now.”

Steve hid his delight and said genuinely, “We’ll miss you. You’ve done a lot around the place.”

“And there’s still mucking out and feeding to do tonight. I bet Ron won’t have done it.”

They grinned at each other, friends at last, and began the task of bandaging Alex’s legs for the drive home.

*    *    *

The next day Richard took a long last look around the yard. “I’ll miss this place. These horses…they’ve all become friends.”  He walked up to Thunder’s stable.  “This one in particular.”

Dora said: “He’ll miss you, too. You’ve helped him a lot, Richard. He’s ridable again now.”

“I was thinking. D’you think the chap who owns him would sell him to me? I’ve got a – a friend who wants a horse to hack around on.”

“A friend?”

“A friend,” Richard said, with a twinkle in his eye and a smile that was just a bit salacious. “Thunder will have a good home. I’ll bring him on myself, get him sound and retrain him for my friend.”

Steve heard the last sentence as he walked over to them. “You’ll buy Thunder? That’s great!  Now he’s almost sound again we could do with his stable for another horse.”

Dora stroked Thunder’s neck. “I’ll miss him, he’s so sweet.”

“Dora,” Steve said warningly, unsure whether she was talking about Thunder or Richard. “Don’t get too attached. You knew he might move on eventually.”

She sighed. Steve was right. Everyone she got attached to - animal or human – moved on eventually. Except Steve, and for that she was eternally grateful.

She’d miss Richard, too. He’d become a good friend. But already his mind was on the future, ticking off the horses in his own yard, planning his get fit program. He’d shaved the beard off and looked more like the Richard Fairly girls swooned over and dreamed of marrying. If only they knew! Dora bit back a smile.

“Good luck,” she said to him. “With everything.” She suddenly said, “Steve, WHAT other horse do we need Thunder’s stable for?”

Steve said, “I’ve just had a phone call from an old lady. Her husband had a rag and bone cart, and he’s just had a stroke. There’s no-one to look after his pony. The old lady can’t. The pony’s old and sounds like he’s on his last legs himself.”

“Oh, the poor thing! We must go and get him.”

“You’d better ring Thunder’s owner, mate,” Steve said. “Phone number’s in the office. Life goes on, and we need the stable.”

“Oh yes,” said Richard. “Life goes on. Especially here, life goes on.”