Horse of a different colour
By
Sabrina

Ron Stryker always had money, and if you asked where it came from, he'd tap his nose and wink, or change the subject.

Dora never fully trusted Ron. He had friends on both sides of the law, and was too close to loutish Lewis Hammond for her liking.

But even though he made fun of the horses at Follyfoot, most of which were old and decrepit and deserving of a kind resting place after a hard life, he seemed to feel affection for them, which in Dora's books made him okay.

He thought she wasn't looking when he gave ancient Ladybird a gentle caress as he mucked out her stable - she always dirtied one corner in particular – and Dora smiled to herself.

Being in charge of Follyfoot, without the Colonel a few minutes' drive away, had been difficult at first for Dora. In her letters to him, as he convalesced in the South of France from his operation, she glossed over Ron's laziness and habits of turning up late and leaving early and riding his noisy motorcycle into the stable yard.

Now she had Steve on her side – and in her heart – Ron had picked up his game and was working harder. The four of them – herself, Steve, Ron and Slugger – had formed a tightly knit team and the farm was operating as well as it had ever done with the Colonel.

Dora crept away from Ladybird's stable and into the tack room where Steve was boiling the kettle. He'd returned from the feed merchant's where he'd picked up a load of chaff and hay to help sustain Follyfoot's inmates through the cruel winter.

"We're getting new neighbours for a bit," Steve said. "Bill at the feed place told me there's a horse trainer staying at Robinson's farm for the National Hunt Season. He's bringing up some horses for Catterick races."

Steve had the unreadable expression on his face, which meant he was thinking of the gulf between himself and Dora; that with her connections she'd be in the Members' enclosure at Catterick, dressed up and sipping champagne, while the best he could manage would be a beer in the public stand.

Dora saw the look and knew it too well. She put her arms around him and leant against his back, feeling his tense muscles relax. "A day at the races might be fun. Both of us. In the Members'. I can fix it; the Colonel will know someone."

"If we go, we go my way," Steve said, making tea. "Peasants who pay at the gate and stand with the rabble. I'll show my girl a good time."

Dora reached up and stroked Steve's thick dark hair. "You ARE stubborn, aren't you?"

He gave a quick grin over his shoulder. "So are you."

"Toss you for it."

Steve had five pence in his pocket. "Heads or tails?"

"Heads."

The coin flickered in the dull light, and rolled in the dust. "Heads," Steve said glumly. "You realise I'll have to wear a tie, don't you?"

"It'll be fun."

"Mixing with the nobs." Steve pulled a face. At Follyfoot they were equals, working together in old clothes to make the lives of the horses easier. In the village they drank at the pub as boyfriend and girlfriend with other young couples. But the races still had a class divide, and Steve was wary with fitting in with Dora's mix. He felt like an imposter.

"You're mixing with one now," Dora pointed out.

Steve took her in his arms. "I must admit, I like my nobs with straw in their hair and dirt on their noses." He gently brushed the dirt from Dora's face, and she giggled. "Miss Dora Maddox was seen at Catterick Races today in a fetching pair of jeans with holes in the knees, topped with a yellow sweater covered in horse slobber and a very small and fashionable hat consisting of one blade of straw," he said in a TV presenter's voice before kissing her gently on the lips.

"Races?" Ron swaggered into the tackroom. "Sorry to interrupt you lovebirds, but you know about the new arrivals at Robinson's?"

Steve released Dora with deliberate slowness. They both still felt rather self-conscious in front of Ron and Slugger when it came to showing the affection they felt for each other.

"I heard from the feed merchant. Where did you hear?"

Ron tapped his nose. "Sources. I also hear some of the horses Patrick Stringfellow's bringing are dead certs."

"Stringfellow? Where have I heard that?" Dora pondered.

"Big trainer down south," Ron answered. "Second in the National last year, won the Cheltenham Gold Cup too. Spoke to one of his lads in the pub last night. Ladies and Gentlemen, I advise you to place your bets when I tell you. You can't lose." Ron gave one of those grins that Dora definitely didn't trust.

"What's going on?" she said suspiciously.

"Nothin' but the fine tradition of horse racing," Ron said, pouring a mug of tea and walking out. "You can go back to kissing now. Give 'er one for me, Steve!"

Dora felt Steve tense beside her. "Don't rise," she said. "You know he wants to wind you up. But I wonder what he's heard about the horses?"

"A stable lad's tip over several pints of bitter… I wouldn't pay much attention to it," Steve said tightly. "Hey! He's used all the milk!"

* * *

They saw the shiny green lorry roar past Follyfoot with Patrick Stringfellow – Thoroughbred Trainer emblazoned in polite cream along the side.

"There's my little bankroll," Ron crooned, leaning on the gate and watching the lorry disappear around the bend.. "Autumn Harvest. And I intend my own winter harvest to be very plentiful indeed."

"Autumn Harvest?" queried Slugger. "What's he mean? Autumn's been and gone, and me, I can't wait for spring, these old bones are feeling the cold this year."

"Autumn Harvest, me ol' mate, is a prime steeplechaser Stringfellow has entered in the Grand National Trial Chase next week," Ron said.

"He'll be hard pressed to beat Mighty Tom," Slugger said, apparently to his broom. Mighty Tom was Yorkshire's own champion that winter, unbeaten for the last seven starts and an early favourite for the Grand National.

Ron grinned. "He'll win. Mark my words. Won the Gold Cup last year in a canter and just missed a place in the National." He put a foot up on the gate and fumbled for his pack of cigarettes.

"Why is Stringfellow staying up here?" Steve asked Ron, who seemed to know quite a lot about the Stringfellow setup. "Don't trainers usually bring their horses to the meeting on the day?"

"He's considering moving his yard up here," Ron said. "Wants to try out the area, you know, gallops and so on." He lit a cigarette and, for once, ground out the match with his cowboy boots.

"Maybe there'll be a job for you there," suggested Steve, "As you don't seem that interested in actually working here. Unless you count hours of cigarette and tea breaks as work."

Ron narrowed his eyes and blew a plume of smoke. "Since when were you the boss?"

"We have to work as a team, Ron. There are too many horses and not enough people." Steve filled water buckets from the tap. "If you're looking for something to do, catch Firefly from the field. She has to come in early today as I think she's getting a cold."

"They say couples start to get alike. You sound just like Dora sometimes." Ron threw his cigarette into one of Steve's buckets and sauntered towards the field.

"I'd watch that lad," Slugger muttered. "He's gettin' cocky about something. And I'd say it has to do with that horse trainer and his lads. Out at the pub every night with 'em, he is."

"Maybe it's time Dora and I went out for a drink, then." Steve fished the butt out of the bucket and poured the water on the Lightning Tree.

* * *

"The Green Fox? Steve, we never go to this pub. It's –" Dora wrinkled her nose. "It's not the nicest pub in the village." She stood outside the door, shivering despite her thick coat. The Green Fox was the haunt of Lewis Hammond and his friends.

"It's where Ron and his mates are drinking," Steve said grimly. "And I want to find out what's going on."

"You want a hot tip for the races!" Dora giggled.

Steve let it go. They walked into the noisy pub and Steve bought a pint for himself and a gin and tonic for Dora. He found a table that gave them a view of Ron's back as he huddled with strangers.

"What a shifty looking lot," Dora commented. "That little fellow looks like a jockey – he's so thin! - and the man with red hair looks like a weasel. I wish I could lip read."

The jockey gave a glance around the room – Steve and Dora looked away – then carefully pulled two envelopes out of his pocket and gave them to Ron, who made them disappear instantly inside his cracked leather jacket.

"This doesn't look right," Steve muttered. "Ron's sure Autumn Harvest is going to win – and he's been given envelopes in a very suspicious way."

"He's going to drug Mighty Tom!" Dora gasped. "That must be it!"

"We can call the police, or Mighty Tom's trainer –"

"Or follow Ron and make sure," Dora suggested. "We have to give him the benefit of the doubt, Steve. I don't want Ron arrested for no reason. And it's so hard to get help on the farm as it is."

Steve's dark eyes blazed in the dim lighting. "You always see the best in people, don't you?"

"Is that such a bad thing?" Dora flashed back. "I see the best in you." Steve's pessimism often rubbed her up the wrong way.

Steve drained his pint. "Come on, let's get outside, girl. Ron looks like he's about to go."

Carefully they eased behind cheerful, raucous drinkers and darts players, and edged out the door.

Ron's shiny motorcycle stood in the small car park behind the pub. Dora and Steve ran as quietly as they could to the far side of the car park and hid behind bushes.

They were just in time, huddling together in the cold as Ron and his mates emerged from the warm glow of the pub. Ron's cigarette glowed in the darkness as he shook hands with his mates. He stood beside his bike smoking while the jockey drove off in a Porsche and the weasel clambered into a new Land Rover that gleamed olive green under the weak car park lighting.

Dora fumbled in her bag for a pen and paper, and wrote down the number plates of the Land Rover and Porsche.

Ron finally finished his cigarette and rubbed his hands together in a way that meant he was either pleased or it was flippin' cold out here, and kicked his bike into life. Ron being Ron, he roared off leaving gravel spitting over the cars left.

"Quick!" Steve took Dora's hand and they galloped around the corner to the Colonel's sports car, which had been left with Dora while he was away. Steve loved the car, and drove it as it was meant to be driven, unlike the Colonel who would have been just as happy in an old banger that couldn't do over 30.

"Which way did he go?" Steve stopped the car at a t-junction.

"Right." Dora pointed to a taillight flashing between the trees, and they tore after it.

Steve groaned when he saw the bike turn off into one of the back streets of the village. "He's just going home." Steve stopped the car and turned the lights off, so in the non-existent street lighting they were invisible.

Sure enough, Ron pulled the bike off the road and cut the engine and lights. They saw his silhouette move into the house he shared with his father, and, five minutes later, the downstairs lights fell dark.

"That means we'll have to watch him between now and the race," Dora said. "We'll keep him busy at the Farm. Find extra things for him to do."

"We can't keep him there 24 hours a day," Steve pointed out.

"Why not? Say we're worried about security because we've heard there are Nightriders around again and we need an extra person sleeping over the stables," Dora suggested, a little bitterly as Steve had still refused to move into the farm cottage with her but insisted on sleeping over the stables in a loft. "Better still, you move into the cottage and we ask Ron to move into your room."

"And he moves back home after the race? That'll look obvious and he'll know we don't trust him." Steve started the car, turned it around and headed it for home.

Dora fell mutinously silent, watching out the window as the darkness whipped by.

Steve longed to tell her there was nothing more he wanted than to move into the cottage with her, but for now, he had to privately be sure he and Dora together would last. His life had been largely a loveless one before he met her, and he didn't want to break the wonderful spell that holding her in his arms and kissing her had put him under, and go back to that bleak existence. "Give me time with the cottage, OK? It's just not right at the moment, I have to get used to the idea."

"Will it ever be right?" Dora muttered to herself. When they arrived back at Follyfoot it was all she could do to not slam the car door.

"Don't go off angry, girl," Steve said softly, standing between her and the cottage. "It doesn't mean I don't love you. I do. Very much."

When he held her, the night didn't seem nearly as cold.

* * *

Bitter winds swept across the moors and down the fields of Follyfoot the next morning. The older horses shivered despite warm blankets, and Dora felt sorry for them and gave them oats to give them the energy they needed to keep warm.

"We're very low on oats," she said to Steve. "Can you go to Bill's and get some more? This lot won't last a day or more."

"I thought you were only giving them to Copper and Cobby."

"They all need some at the moment." Dora looked at the bleak grey sky with a grimace. "I was surprised to find them all alive this morning. Do you think it'll snow?"

"Probably." Steve brightened up. "If it snows and the ground is too hard, the races'll be off next week."

Steve drove off to pick up the oats, his breath visible even in the cabin of the lorry, his hands frozen on the wheel.

A green Land Rover, sparkling even under cloud, pulled out of the feed merchant's yard as Steve drove in. He thought he recognized the weaselly face of the man from the pub, with a woolly hat pulled over his eyes, at the wheel. The number plate looked familiar, too.

"Who was that, Bill?" he asked conversationally as Bill heaved sacks of oats in the same way people lifted bags of shopping at the supermarket.

"Young Robbie Henderson."

"Henderson as in Mighty Tom's trainer?" Steve frowned. "I didn't know he bought from you, he lives miles away."

"Aye, but our feeds t'best for miles, isn't it?" Bill gave a gaptoothed grin. "And young son Robbie allus gives good tips." He added a wink to the grin.

"So who's going to win at Catterick in the Trial Chase?" Steve grunted and threw the last sack in the back of the lorry.

"Mighty Tom, who else? Puttin' my money on him, I am."

"What about Autumn Harvest?"

Bill screwed up his face. "Soft southern 'orse. But 'e's doing well at t'moment. He'll be t'big danger to our Tom. Send t'bill, shall I?"

"Yeah, thanks, Bill." Steve drove off, still thoughtful, putting young Robbie Henderson, Ron, the jockey and Ron's faith in Autumn Harvest together and not coming up with anything useful.

Ron was loitering in the yard when Steve returned. "Give us a hand with these sacks, mate," Steve said.

Ron grunted and panted and made much of lugging the oats into the feed shed. "Hot work, innit?"

"Only if you smoke too much and aren't fit," Steve retorted. He paused. "I got a hot tip myself today from Bill. Mighty Tom in the National Trial Chase. Says it'll beat Autumn Harvest. Bill said he got the tip straight from Angus Henderson's son."

Ron looked shifty, moving a piece of straw around his mouth in place of a cigarette. "He'd have to say that, wouldn't he? Seeing his old man trains it. Nah, back Autumn Harvest. He'll win." Ron dusted his jeans down. "Gotta shoot now. It's my afternoon off, innit, and I'm pickin' up a gorgeous dolly bird and takin' her on the town."

Steve groaned mentally. Ron was well overdue a day off. "Did Dora say you could have it off?"

"More like did me dolly bird say I could have it off! With her!" Ron roared with laughter at his own joke. "Dora told me last week I could have time off today."

"We're a bit busy, though, Ron. We need you."

"To do what, exactly?" Ron looked around the yard, which was relatively tidy.

"Clean the boxes. We're keeping the oldest horses in today in case you hadn't noticed."

"That's your problem, then, mate. I've had Diane warming up nicely for weeks now and I know this little hotel what turns a blind eye to people wanting a place to rest on a cold winter's day. Ta-ra!" Ron loped towards his bike.

Steve swore. Where was Dora?

A quick glance in Copper's stable told him she'd gone for a ride. He groaned, and raced to the cottage. "Slugger!"

"No need to yell, lad. I'm right here, making a nice stew for dinner."

"Slugger, this is urgent. When you see Dora tell her I'm following Ron." He grabbed the keys to the sports car before Slugger could say a word.

"Must be the weather," Slugger remarked to himself, watching Ron's bike disappear over the hill and hearing the sports car roar into life. "First she goes galloping off shouting something about racehorses and then them two. Hope none of them horses need help 'cos I'm not going to let this stew burn." He peered in the pot where the meat had already turned charcoal black. "Browning nicely!"

* * *

Up on the hill Copper was fretful. The cold wind had got under his skin, and he longed to gallop and buck and toss his head, but good manners kept him quiet. He settled for shaking his head occasionally and trying to break into a canter. Dora steadied him to a trot that seemed to get quicker by the minute.

"Steady, boy. We have to find them."

She peered around for the racehorses that had thundered through Follyfoot's top field, their jockeys setting them effortlessly at old wooden fences that must have looked like trotting poles to those experienced steeplechasers.

Initially she was going to scold the jockeys for riding over Follyfoot's ground without permission, especially as there may have been elderly horses in the field who could have been spooked.

But curiosity got the better of Dora; she wondered if she'd see the Porsche-driving jockey perched on top of one of the animals.

Copper threw his head up and whinnied loudly, an anxious yell that meant he wasn't keen on being alone in this fey wind.

From far away a horse answered, faintly, the sound tossed about almost visually.

Dora shivered in her warm sheepskin jacket. It was blisteringly cold up on the hill and her nose felt frostbitten. She urged Copper into a canter and he took up the bit willingly, covering the field in long strides.

There was a gate at the corner, and Dora made him stop so she could open it. Like the steeplechasers, Copper could have easily cleared the wooden fence, but she didn't want to give him ideas. Next time he was turned out in the field he might decide not to stay there.

Now they were on Robinson's land, in a field that was usually studded with sheep. Robinson's farm was large, spreading across three hills and down to the moors, and the racehorses could be anywhere, their legs pounding like pistons and breath snorting steam.

Copper cantered happily, snorting with each stride, his head low and on the bit. The farmhouse was over the next hill, and that was what Dora was now aiming for. As they cantered up the rise to the crest of the hill, Dora heard the unmistakable sound of galloping hooves.

Not knowing where the horses were coming from, she frantically turned Copper to the left and along the side of the hill.

If she'd have kept going up the hill, she would have cantered head on into the two gallopers, who crested the rise with necks outstretched.

Copper caught sight of the two horses behind him, and wheeled around in a sudden shy, startled. Dora clung onto the reins, but the force of gravity, and Copper's half-rear of fright, made her tumble from the saddle.

For an awful moment it seemed like her foot was going to get stuck in the stirrup; Copper dragged her for a few yards. Then her foot came free and Copper was off after the racehorses, stirrups flying against his sides, head down in an effort to keep up.

Dora lay winded for a moment, her head spinning. She slowly sat up, swearing in a way that would have even impressed Ron and utterly horrified her parents.

At least she had a soft landing – Dora realised the ground was soft and muddy, and her jeans felt wet. The back of her coat had turned from a honey colour to dark brown.

Dora stood and watched the jockeys slow the racehorses to an impatient halt. One of them turned back to look at her, and spoke to the other, then they turned their horses and trotted back.

Copper, on the other hand, knew his warm stable was a mere fence or two away, and he thundered past the other horses towards the fence and popped over it gracefully. The last Dora saw of him was his flowing flaxen tail disappearing over the hill towards the stables.

The fit racehorses were barely sweating when they reached her, nostrils flared, mouths working the bit.

"Who are you?" said one rider on an impressive chestnut, similar to Copper but with massive strength in his hindquarters and feel the size of manhole covers. "This is private land."

"So's that," said Dora crossly, pointing to Follyfoot's field. "And that's where I live and I'd like to know why you were riding over my land without asking first. We've got old horses there and they could have been injured."

The jockey tipped his hat back on his head and she recognized the man from the pub. "Sorry," he said briefly. "We didn't know. I thought Robinson owned all around here. Are you okay, by the way?"

Dora thawed a fraction. "I'm fine. Cold and muddy, but fine. Nice horse. What's his name?" Although she knew the answer now; that pretty chestnut head had featured on the front of the sports pages last weekend, the thin blaze and snip highly recognizable.

"Autumn Harvest." The jockey grinned and patted his neck. "The next Grand National winner."

"He looks superb. So he's running at Catterick?"

"In the Trial Chase," the jockey said happily, eyeing Dora up and down and deciding that even covered in mud she was attractive.

"Hey Sean," said the other rider, "Why don't you offer the lady a lift home?"

"Patrick'd kill me, he's waiting back at the yard," said Sean, whom Dora now identified as Sean Bugg, a well-known National Hunt jockey she'd heard of but didn't know by sight. But he swung from the saddle. "Come on, luv. Have a go on the best 'chaser in England. We're just winding him down for the day now."

He legged her up and Autumn Harvest fidgeted underneath her, sensing a different rider with a different – and kinder – touch.

"Lead him back for me, eh Jim, and cool him down?" said Sean, pulling a cigarette from his expensive jacket and lighting up.

The horse was like a coiled spring. Dora had never ridden anything quite like him; even Copper, for his thoroughbred breeding, wasn't in the same league. It was like riding a turbo charged rocking horse as the steeplechaser moved into a loping canter. You felt there was so much power there to be used, and a mere nudge would send him into a cheetah-like sprint.

"I dunno that you better jump the fence," shouted Jim doubtfully, cantering his mount beside her.

From on top of Autumn Harvest the Follyfoot fence looked tiny. Dora pretended not to hear Jim, and gave the horse his head. He settled into a long, even stride, ears pricked, and Dora had the feeling he didn't need her on his back at all.

She felt his muscles bunch momentarily, and he took the fence in a long leap and must have cleared it by nearly three feet, in a beautiful fluid motion that felt feather light.

"What a horse!" Dora felt him pull against her as she tried to slow him down, and he shook his head and fought. She managed to steer him into a circle and finally break his stride.

Slugger had caught Copper and was leading him up the hill, concerned in case something had happened to Dora. He was astonished to see her riding the huge thoroughbred, and even more astonished to see her pop the horse over the fence and finally pull it to a halt.

Dora walked Autumn Harvest to the gate. His manners were nowhere near Copper's and he fidgeted and refused to let her open it from the saddle, shying and prancing. Finally Dora dismounted and led him out the gate and handed the reins to Jim, who'd gone rather pale.

"He's lovely," she beamed, giving the horse one last pat. "Thank Sean for me – I could have happily kept going!"

"More than my life's worth if that happened," Jim said, grabbing the reins in case Dora did in fact just that. He pushed his horse into a jog and Autumn Harvest trotted alongside, back towards Sean who was standing on the hill puffing anxiously on his cigarette.

"What was that she was riding?" Slugger asked Copper.

Dora grinned. "Autumn Harvest, next winner of the Grand National if you can believe the jockey. He's incredible. What a jumper!"

Copper nudged her as if to remind her that he, too, could jump like a stag.

"And she's covered in mud an'all," Slugger commented.

"Copper shied when those two galloped over the hill near us and I came off. No bones broken though, and so muddy I don't even think I'll be bruised." Dora led Copper back down the hill. "Is Steve about?"

"Went out after Ron, he said. Just me here and the stew probably burnt to a cinder by now," Slugger grumbled.

"Maybe Steve'll bring back fish and chips," Dora said hopefully.

* * *

Tailing Ron was hard work in the sports car, Steve realised. The car was bright red and stood out on the moorland roads like a sore thumb. Steve knew how Ron rode, though, with a disregard for rear view mirrors, so he thought he was pretty safe and wouldn't be spotted.

Moorland became villages and finally a town. Steve breathed a sigh of relief, as the car would be less noticeable. Ron was easy to spot in traffic; he had a bright purple leather vest over his jacket and his long red hair hung down over his collar.

Ron pulled the bike over to the side of the high street, and Steve turned the corner before him and thankfully found a parking spot almost instantly. Running from the car he peered around the buildings and saw Ron sauntering down the street.

"If he's really out to spend the afternoon with a girl I'm going to look a fool," Steve told himself.

But Ron ambled into a shop that definitely wasn't a hotel with afternoon rooms for rent. It was a bookmaker's. Steve watched carefully from the doorway as Ron pulled an envelope from his jacket. It looked identical to one of the ones he'd got in the pub. So that was Ron's secret mission – a bet! Why couldn't he have just said so?

Steve suddenly realised Ron would see him when he turned around, and backed into the first doorway he could find. The sweet scent hit him - he'd gone into the florist's. Steve moved further back into the dark recesses of the shop, and hid behind a huge display of lilies, groaning inwardly as Ron looked at the flowers in the window.

"Can I help you?" The woman behind the counter wore a scent that clashed with almost every flower in the shop, and her makeup was hard and heavy. She gave Steve an assessing look from middle-aged eyes, and smiled as if she fancied what she saw.

"Er… a bunch of flowers. For my girlfriend," Steve said firmly, one eye still on Ron.

"What sort? Roses, carnations?"

"These look nice." Steve grabbed the bunch of lilies simply because of their size and disguise value.

"Bit funereal, dear, but they smell nice, don't they?" She wrapped them with a flourish and named an outrageous price.

Steve fumbled for his money and managed to find enough while the woman tapped long red fingernails on the bench.

As he picked the lilies up he heard shoes on the floor at the front of the shop. Steve held his breath and the lilies in front of his face, and carefully backed down the shop. There was a floral display in the centre of the shop, and Ron stood on the other side of it, hidden by spikes of foxglove and long stemmed red roses, admiring the cheap, tiny bouquets that were against the far wall with his back to Steve.

"Got anything that says 'I fancy you rotten' but doesn't cost much? Got a bird I want to impress," Steve heard him say as he made his escape and almost ran back to the car.

Steve waited in the car, his heart returning to normal, and wondered whether or not to keep pursuing Ron, who obviously DID have a dolly bird lined up. Looking across the high street he noticed another bookmaker's shop almost opposite the first, and decided to watch the door for a while.

Sure enough Ron, holding a bunch of flowers so small it was almost insulting, wandered into the bookmaker's and out again, tucking what must have been a ticket into his jacket. Flowers in hand, he walked through the door of The Golden Eagle, a grimy little pub tucked between a hairdresser's and a butcher's.

Steve started the car and headed towards home. He wished he had enough money left to buy a few helpings of fish and chips.

* * *

Slugger's stew was edible, but only if you smothered it in Worcestershire sauce. Steve and Dora chewed it as best they could.

Dora was delighted with the flowers, even though Steve had admitted buying them to disguise himself from Ron more than out of true love and devotion.

"So I would have ended up with a tiny bunch like Ron's if you'd have had a chance," Dora teased.

Steve paused. The reality was he probably wouldn't have thought to buy Dora flowers at all – they had known each other so long and so well that it almost seemed an odd thing to do. "Oh, I probably would have managed something a bit better," he said finally.

"Got a bunch of dandelions near the stable need weeding," Slugger said, piling more stew onto his plate. "They're pretty enough, aren't they?"

"British wildflowers," Steve agreed. "Next time you'll get dandelions then." He ducked as Dora threatened to throw a piece of hard, overcooked meat at him. "But I wonder why Ron was being so cagey when all he was doing was placing bets for someone?"

"The jockey," Dora said slowly. "Sean Bugg. He passed Ron the envelope. Jockeys aren't allowed bet."

Steve groaned. "Of course – I didn't think of that! Hey, how did you find out it was Sean Bugg?"

Dora smiled sweetly. "He gave me a ride on Autumn Harvest this afternoon."

"Copper shied, she says. Probably fell off on purpose just to ride that racehorse," Slugger said.

Steve left his stew untouched as Dora told him about her afternoon and the superb steeplechaser. "He certainly WILL be hard to beat," she finished. "I've never ridden anything like him."

"So we've got Sean Bugg getting Ron to bet for him, and the two of them meeting up with Henderson's son," Steve mused. "And you think Autumn Harvest is fantastic…but he's up against Mighty Tom, who's the local favourite. I really think we should warn Henderson, Dora. This doesn't sound too good. I'm worried about Mighty Tom. The race is in two days' time."

"Surely Henderson's son wouldn't hurt his own horse," Dora protested.

"He might if there was money in it. And there's bound to be…Ron's involved somehow and he wouldn't do something for nothing."

"Do we have to mention Ron?" Dora's forehead crumpled in a frown.

Steve thought about it. "Probably not for now. I'm more concerned about Mighty Tom's safety – aren't you?"

Dora put her fork down. "I'll ring Henderson then. And just say we're suspicious."

"'Ere," said Slugger, "Aren't you gonna finish this lovely stew?"

Angus Henderson was at first reluctant to believe Dora, especially as she wouldn't give all the details. But as Colonel Maddox's niece she held standing with him, as he respected the Colonel. "I'll tighten up security around our Tom, then," he boomed down the phone. "And you think my son's involved? That's hard to believe – Robbie loves our Tom. He's Tom's lad. I can't switch stable lads just before the race, can I? Especially when it's my own son."

"You might have to," Dora pleaded. "Or at least watch him a lot more closely."

"Aye," Mr Henderson's voice was sad. "My own son. You have a bet on Tom now, Dora. He'll win. He's fit and bursting to go. And he loves the Catterick course. Unlike that soft southern horse who's never run on it," Mr Henderson snorted. "Cheerio."

Dora felt she'd done all she could, and it was up to Mr Henderson to believe her.

* * *

There were two days to go until the Catterick meeting. Dora had arranged for one of the Colonel's friends to get herself and Steve into the Members' Enclosure. Steve had rather hoped she'd forgotten, but Dora was looking forward to it. Steve reluctantly hired a suit for the day and Dora borrowed one of the Colonel's overcoats for him, saying his favourite sheepskin coat would probably clash with the suit, which made Steve grimace.

Snow hadn't fallen but the skies still looked grim, and occasional falls of sleet made the Follyfoot horses stand with their tails against the weather, huddled in the fields.

It was time to bring them in for the night, and Dora and Steve wandered up with ropes in hand for the horses who'd rather stay out.

"Let's go up to the top," Dora suggested. "We might see Autumn Harvest again."

"You might get another ride." Did she hear the slightest twinge of envy in Steve's voice?

"Fat chance." She slipped her hand into Steve's and they turned their faces to the wind and walked up the hill.

Sure enough, the big chestnut horse and his dark bay stablemate were galloping across Robinson's land. As they watched Autumn Harvest's rider urged him faster along the top of the hill and towards a large, wide hedge-type jump which had been put up by Stringfellow in the last couple of days.

To Dora's surprise the horse jumped awkwardly, putting in an extra stride before the hedge. It almost seemed as if Sean had judged the jump wrongly and asked the horse to do the wrong thing.

"That's Autumn Harvest?" said Steve, surprised. "That looked really clumsy. He'll have to do better at Catterick. I'm backing Mighty Tom."

Sean Bugg swung the horse in a wide curve and headed towards Follyfoot's fence. He glanced and saw Steve and Dora, and turned the horse away, galloping on across Robinson's land towards the moors, the chestnut grunting with each stride.

Dora saw that the horse was sweating, far more than earlier in the week. "He doesn't look as good as he did," she commented.

"If he's coming down with a virus he shouldn't run at Catterick." Steve watched the horse bob away from them.

"There might be no need to dope Mighty Tom," Dora exclaimed. "We could have worried ourselves and Henderson for nothing."

Willy the mule nudged her in the back, looking for carrots. She caught his headcollar and began to lead him back down the hill. Knowing food was waiting for them, most of the horses and ponies followed. Only Firefly flung her head up and led Steve on a short dance before he caught her.

Dora noticed on the hill nearest to Robinson's stables a tall man jogging up the hill, watching the horses with binoculars. It must be Stringfellow, she thought, and kept walking.

* * *

Race day dawned sunny and cold. Dora felt a twinge of excitement as she stood at her bedroom window looking over the moors. She hadn't been to the races in ages. Part of her loved the excitement, the enthusiasm of the horses, the roar of the crowd. Part of her loathed it, the jockeys too happy with their whips, their hands savage on the reins.

The Colonel had taken her racing in the past and told her that only horses who enjoyed racing actually raced. "There's no point in racing a horse that hates it. They don't win and it costs the owners money. Most horses love it, and long to be in front. It's the herd instinct and their own nature; more assertive, bossy horses do very well on the racecourse. And there are rules about how jockeys can use their whips," he'd told her, forestalling the obvious retort. "If you hurt a horse, he won't like racing any more. It's in their own interest to make sure the horse enjoys his race and doesn't find it a painful experience."

For once Dora was happy to wear an outfit her mother would approve of. The honey coloured suede dress sat high above her knees, but long chestnut boots warmed her legs, and her huge overcoat came to the top of her boots. She took time with her makeup, lining her eyes with black eyeliner and thick mascara so their hazel colour shone clearly in contrast.

Steve whistled when he saw her walk rather shyly down the stairs of the cottage. "You look fantastic!"

Dora hadn't seen Steve in a suit before; it hung perfectly on his tall, slim frame and she felt a burst of pride in her handsome partner, his long black hair combed neatly and dark eyes sparkling as he looked at her. "You don't look so bad yourself," she smiled, putting her face up for a kiss.

Steve had washed the little red sports car the day before, and they whizzed along the country roads to the Catterick course. Excitement was in the air; bookies were setting up their bags and boards, buses were disgorging punters slung with binoculars and form guides, flags and bunting fluttered wildly, and horses for the first few races skittered beside their lads as they were led to the racecourse horse stalls.

Dora nudged Steve. "There's Ron!"

Ron leaned against the horse stall fence, cigarette dangling from his lip, watching the horses jog past and making notes on his form guide. He was tapping one foot, looking, unusually for Ron, tense.

"I'm still worried," Dora said.

"Me too. Should we try and find Henderson?"

Henderson had three horses running that day, but the official refused to let Steve and Dora into the horse stalls to find him. "Owners and trainers only," he said laconically. "And you two don't have the right badges for that."

They decided to search for him in the Members' Enclosure instead, but after asking around realised he'd either not arrived yet or was with the horses.

"If he's with the horses, that's good," Steve said positively. "Mighty Tom won't come to any harm. First race is about to start. Let's watch it."

They huddled together on the grandstand as the first race got underway, and watched the field of twelve soar over hurdles. Hurdlers know the brush fences are relatively soft, and some of the horses practically jumped through the fence, their legs dislodging twigs and the fence almost dislodging their jockeys.

To Dora's relief there were no falls, and the winner was a sleek black gelding who led the field all the way, streaking ahead with his ears pricked and jockey seemingly sitting still and letting the horse do all the work at the end. The grandstand erupted in cheers and torn up betting tickets.

Steve bought Dora a glass of champagne as they studied the form guide together. "I've no idea," Dora groaned. "I think I'll just go by their names."

"You may as well just look at the jockeys and pick the one wearing the nicest colours," Steve teased. "Thought you'd been racing before?"

"Not for ages, and even then I was more concerned about the jockeys whipping the horses. I think I like Extra Strong in the next."

"Sean Bugg's riding him. Since he's your friend, are you going to tell him not to use the whip?"

"Oh, shut up!"

Dora was delighted when Extra Strong put in a surge of power near the winning post and won by a neck, with Sean Bugg booting him along hands and heels for all he was worth. She'd had a fiver on him at the generous odds of 5/1. Steve's pick, after a thorough study of the form, came sixth.

"Looks like I'm buying us dinner tonight on the way home," she giggled.

"Not unless you lose it all this afternoon," Steve said cheerfully. He hadn't had the courage – or the spare cash – to back his pick. He was saving his wager for Mighty Tom.

Bookmakers started to show the odds for the major race of the day, and Dora was surprised to see Mighty Tom wasn't one of the top 2. Autumn Harvest was at very short odds – odds on, as they say in the racing world. As they watched Mighty Tom blew out to 8/1.

"Maybe we were right and there IS something wrong with Mighty Tom," Dora said doubtfully. "Perhaps he's been got at and the bookies are in on it."

There were ten minutes to go until the race. Steve put his money on Mighty Tom and Dora doubtfully stuck her Extra Strong winnings on him too. She was almost tempted to back Autumn Harvest, but wasn't impressed on seeing the horse on the moors two days before.

"Quick, we'll see them go out to the post," Steve said, and they rushed to the grandstand.

Mighty Tom looked fit and well, a superb dark bay horse without a white hair on him. His quarters shone in the weak winter sunlight and he calmly surveyed the course as his jockey was legged up.

Autumn Harvest was gazing about, snorting. He'd broken into a sweat and his chestnut coat was dark in patches. Dora recognized the man leading him around as Jim, the other rider out on the moors. Jim was stroking the horse's hot neck but it made no difference; Autumn Harvest was hyped up beyond calming.

The man standing beside Dora, trilby hat at a rakish angle, snorted almost as loudly as the horse. "Look at Autumn Harvest. Dashed thing's running its race in the paddock," he grumbled to his neighbour on the other side.

Sean Bugg walked up to the horse, cheerful in bright red and yellow checks, and was legged up as Autumn Harvest wheeled and turned.

"He must get very excited at the course," Dora murmured to Steve. "He was rock steady back on the moors when I got on him. I suppose it IS exciting, and he's such a good horse he must enjoy it."

Now the horses were cantering down to the start, Autumn Harvest shaking his head and tugging against Sean's hands. Mighty Tom plodded happily behind him, ears pricked.

Punters rushed to place bets.

"I wonder what the odds are on them now," Dora mused. "Shall we check?"

Steve wasn't surprised to find that the odds on Autumn Harvest had lengthened, and that Mighty Tom was now second favourite. The big dark horse looked alert without being overly strung up, and he was glad he'd placed his bet when he did.

"Lucky we got 8/1 on Mighty Tom. He's only 4/1 now. There must be a lot of late money coming in on him," Steve told Dora.

The bookie heard him. "There was a lot of EARLY money on Autumn Harvest through our betting shops when we opened on the race last week," he said. "It really brought the odds in on him, down from 3/1 to evens. He's been the strongest favourite we've seen for a while up here. Mighty Tom blew out from 2/1 in comparison. Especially as there was a whisper last week he had a virus. People are backing Tom now, though. He looks good today."

Steve noted the name of the bookie and recognized one of the shops Ron had gone into. "Ron put money on with this guy," he murmured to Dora.

"Early in the week. He was backed hard for favourite, and the odds on Mighty Tom lengthened. So if you wanted to win some serious money on Mighty Tom, you might lay money on Autumn Harvest at, say 3/1 or shorter odds," Dora said slowly. "Mind you, there'd have to be tons of bets placed to shorten the odds that much over the last week. And if you spread rumours about Autumn Harvest being on top of his form and Mighty Tom having a virus. But if you had the money, if a whole group of you clubbed together and had the money…"

"You'd then put enough on Mighty Tom at longer odds when he'd blown out to, say, 8/1. You'd win back the money you put on Autumn Harvest to shorten the odds, and make a healthy profit. You'd have to be quick – timed to the minute to get long odds before the bookies woke up to it," Steve finished. " Say you made a profit equaling 5/1. And that bookie told us that before the plunge on Autumn Harvest and the virus rumour, Mighty Tom was only 2/1 – that's a huge difference. This could be a massive conspiracy. Far more than just Sean Bugg betting on himself."

"Steve!" Dora grabbed his arm. "It's not Mighty Tom who's in danger – it's Autumn Harvest!"

The bell that signaled the horses were ready to start rang loudly, and bookies everywhere shouted "No more bets!" The tic-tac men that waved flags signaling the betting market all over the course lowered their windmilling arms.

"We've GOT to stop the race!" Dora hissed to Steve.

"Dora." Steve put his hands firmly on her shoulders. "We don't know for sure, girl. It could be coincidence. Look at the horses today. Mighty Tom looks better than Autumn Harvest. Anyone can see that."

"But Henderson talking with Ron and Sean Bugg in the pub?" Dora wailed. "How do you explain that? Coincidence?"

Steve took a deep breath. "I don't know. Don't know. Maybe you're right. Come on!"

But then another bell rang, and it was too late. The race had started.

The tannoy blared with the racecall and it appeared all horses had got off to a good start and made it over the first fence.

Dora sighed. "We should watch it I suppose then go and find someone. The Clerk of the Course perhaps."

They edged into the crowded grandstand and wriggled through the hordes until they could see the race.

Ten horses were on the first circuit of the race; it was a three mile event, and they would gallop the course almost three times.

Mighty Tom had established himself in the lead, jumping boldly, galloping on the bit as if he were just out on a training run. Autumn Harvest lay in third place, boxed in on the rails with a horse in front and a horse beside him. Sean Bugg had to hold him back and stop him from treading on the heels of the horse in front.

The crowd was surprisingly quiet as the horses strode along the back of the course, a rippling dark line that rose and fell over each jump. As they turned onto the straight they were barely visible behind the huge dark fence, and one by one leaped over it, pricked ears and long faces appearing as if from nowhere.

A loud murmur rose as the horses thundered past on their second circuit of the course, with no change in the placings except that Mighty Tom had marginally increased his lead.

There was a gasp as the last horse in the field put in a short stride before the big jump near the bend, and cannoned into the top of it, sending his jockey rocketing over his head. The jockey rolled in a ball, the horse landed awkwardly but kept going after the field, faster now he had no weight on his back.

Carefully the jockey sat up and shook his head, then got to his feet as the ambulance stopped beside him. He waved to the crowd, who cheered, and then all attention was back on the race.

Dora felt her heart thud as the horses rounded the home stretch for the second last time. Autumn Harvest had lost a bit of ground, but was still jumping gamely in sixth place, his coat dark with sweat and his head above the bit.

This time the cheers were louder as Mighty Tom bounded ahead of the field, a Yorkshire horse showing the southern champ, the best steeplechaser in England, how it was done.

One more circuit of the course to go…

It happened around the back, far from the prying eyes of the crowd and the stewards. One minute Sean Bugg's bright checks were bobbing along and the horse was gaining ground on Mighty Tom.

Steve and Dora couldn't see clearly what happened – neither of them owned binoculars – but the course announcer yelled, "There's been a fall! Autumn Harvest! Autumn Harvest is down at the fence!"

The red and yellow checks had disappeared.

And unlike the other loose horse, Autumn Harvest didn't follow the field, his head in the air and stirrups bouncing.

Dora watched numbly as Mighty Tom surged home to a huge roar from the crowd, his ears still pricked and jockey dropping his hands on the reins as they neared the post.

Steve said to the man next to him, "Can I borrow your binoculars for a moment? I want to see what happened with the fallen horse."

The man handed them over. "A bad business. Took the jump all wrong; I watched him."

Did the horse take the jump wrongly or did Bugg unsettle him? Steve wondered. He focussed on the horse, who was limping away beside an attendant. Bugg was being loaded onto a stretcher, but Steve saw him lift an arm to his head.

"The horse is hurt," he told Dora. "Lame."

She looked for herself, and saw the blood running down Autumn Harvest's foreleg as the horse wheeled around. As she watched the vet's van pulled up followed by a horse trailer and a man ran over with a bag in his hand, kneeling by the horse's leg. "It's a cut – it looks bad, Steve. It might be an artery, there's blood spurting everywhere."

She handed the binoculars back to their owner, who was looking impatient. "Thank you."

Mighty Tom's jockey, unaware it seemed of any tragedy, trotted the horse back to the winner's enclosure to tumultuous cheering. Waving his whip happily to the crowd, he swung the saddle off and moved to the weighing room.

But Autumn Harvest's fall must have looked suspicious to some of the other jockeys, as rather than the usual call of "correct weight", the tannoy advised a Stewards' enquiry would be held.

"Should we tell anyone what we think, or will the enquiry find it out?" Dora wondered.

Steve was hesitant to get involved with anything regarding the law. His background as a juvenile delinquent was still too close for comfort. "Why don't we see what happens with the enquiry? And find out how Autumn Harvest is?"

They made their way back to the horse stalls, and ran into Ron, who was white-faced.

"Autumn Harvest didn't win," he stuttered.

"Was he supposed to?" Steve asked archly.

"I bet on him. Sean Bugg asked me to put money on for him, so I thought it must be a sure thing. I put me savings on it!" Ron groaned.

"ALL your savings?" Dora was incredulous.

"Most of 'em. Including the commission Sean was paying me for placing his bets. I mean, if a jockey bets on his own horse, that means he's sure, right?" Ron ripped up his betting ticket.

"So what were Autumn Harvest's jockey and Mighty Tom's lad talking about in the pub with you?" Steve said, and Ron looked shifty.

"We were trying to see if Robbie Henderson could be bought off – you know, get him to slip Tom a bucket of water before the race or something a bit harder. He couldn't be. Loves the stupid horse. Wouldn't hurt him for the world – or money," Ron said bitterly. "Sean seemed glad about that, actually. Bit weird, you'd think he'd be happy to have Mighty Tom out of the way."

"So there was no conspiracy after all," Dora said, relieved. "Sorry you lost your money, Ron. You should have backed Mighty Tom like we did."

From behind Ron a short man pushed out of the horse stalls gate into the public enclosure and Dora recognized Jim from out on the moors. She tugged at his sleeve and he gave her a puzzled look.

"It's Dora. From Follyfoot Farm. I had a ride on Autumn Harvest, remember?"

He looked her up and down, then reconciled the smartly dressed girl with the mud-covered one. "Oh, yeah. Hi. Sorry, I'm in a hurry. Old Autumn –"

"How is he?" Dora said urgently, still holding Jim's sleeve. "Is he badly hurt?"

"It's an artery, and the vet is stitching it up. He'll be okay but no more racing this season. Looks like he'll be staying up here on a spell at Robinson's."

"Oh, that's good!" exclaimed Dora, relieved to hear the horse was going to be okay. "But why did he fall? He jumps like a stag."

Jim didn't meet her eyes. "Met it all wrong. Guess he just doesn't know the course. Have they declared weight yet?" She noticed he had a betting ticket in his hand.

"No, not yet. But what does it matter? Autumn Harvest didn't win –"

But Jim was gone.

And Dora wondered.

Hours later, before the last race, correct weight was declared on the Trial Chase, with the confirmation that placings would stand as the horses finished. A roar of delight went through the crowd and punters rushed to the bookies and tote clutching Mighty Tom tickets, Steve and Dora included.

Dora noticed a grinning Jim clutching a handful of notes, walking away from his bookie. She nudged Steve. "Jim backed Mighty Tom! But he works for the opposition!"

"So we were right! There IS something going on!" Steve almost lost his place in the queue as he watched Jim saunter past, counting his money.

Jim was so busy licking his fingers and sorting the notes he didn't see the two policemen until they were standing either side of him, handcuffs at the ready.

* * *

The scandal made the front pages of daily papers. A betting syndicate had been operating all season on National Hunt races, where a horse could fall or lose a race without as much suspicion as on the flat. It ran as much as Steve and Dora expected it did, with second favourites backed heavily into favourites before the day, and rumours of illness or lameness spread about the original favourites. Hundreds of people like Ron were persuaded to place smallish bets that wouldn't arouse suspicion but made a difference to the odds. When the odds had lengthened on the original favourite, a huge country-wide betting plunge was made on it that meant the betting group made a large profit, even allowing for the earlier bets on the wrong horse. The horse who had been heavily backed initially was ridden so he would never affect the final race placings, or conveniently fell around the back of the course in a contrived fall.

The betting syndicate was comprised of criminals and crooked businessmen, out to win tax-free pounds at the expense of the public, and, to Dora's horror, the horses if necessary. Several jockeys including Sean Bugg were involved, as were stable lads like Jim, all of whom had now been warned off racecourses and were awaiting criminal trial.

Autumn Harvest's fall had been a genuine accident; the horse was tired after being overworked two days before, and had taken off awkwardly. According to the newspapers, Sean Bugg's instructions had been to merely finish well back in the field.

Sean, always kind to his mates, had given Ron's name to the police. Ron pleaded innocence to the conspiracy, but admitted putting bets on for Sean and said he hadn't known it was against the rules of racing for jockeys to bet. He merely thought that if Sean showed his face in the betting shop he'd get lower odds. Ron's deliberately blank face and thick wit got him off the hook, but as he told Steve and Dora, he wouldn't be taking any hot tips from anyone for a while. Ron's pockets, for once, weren't stuffed with banknotes.

It seemed the conversation in the pub between Ron, Sean and Robbie Henderson was to make sure that no-one connected with Mighty Tom was being paid by anyone else to pull the race, as it was essential to the plan that Mighty Tom's connections knew nothing about the conspiracy and that the horse was ridden to win.

Patrick Stringfellow thundered into Follyfoot in a shiny silver Jaguar three days after the race to introduce himself to Dora. He was still fuming about Autumn Harvest.

"That madman could have killed my horse! I had no idea what was going on, and nor did Angus Henderson, Mighty Tom's trainer, and we told the police that in no short order. Worst of all, we're out of the National, and Autumn would have won it, easily."

Dora could well believe he'd give the police a piece of his mind. Stringfellow was well over six feet tall, with tightly curling grey hair, and a hefty build. "I wondered what Sean was up to just before the race," Stringfellow went on. "I'd missed some of the training session earlier in the week and when I saw Sean riding him two days before the race I could have throttled him. Paid no attention to my instructions, took the horse flat out at racing pace and set him up wrongly at a jump. Wore him out and shook him up before the race, in other words." Stringfellow took a deep breath. "Anyway, that's enough ranting from me. Robinson tells me you look after old crocks."

"Retired horses," said Dora diplomatically, and Stringfellow grinned.

"Retired horses. Right. Now, I've got a problem with Autumn Harvest. I was going to turn him out on Robinson's land for a few months but he can't really look after the horse. He's a sheep man, and I'm not going to start a yard up here after all, I've decided. I prefer the south. So would you keep Autumn here over the spring while he recovers and then I'll have him shipped home? I'll pay for his feed and vet bills, and give you good board for him. He really needs someone to look after him – and give him a bit of exercise when he's well enough. And I gather you're comfortable riding him?" Stringfellow suddenly grinned, showing teeth so long and yellow they could have belonged to Autumn Harvest himself.

Dora blushed. "He's a lovely ride," she admitted. "We'd be delighted to take him."

"Great. I'll send him down here after the stitches come out." Stringfellow shook her hand briskly and strode back to his Jaguar.

"So where do we put one hungry steeplechaser?" Steve said archly, as Dora relayed the conversation to him later in the feed shed. "Which needy horse do we turn out of its stable for an animal that could probably go to a posh farm down south?"

"We'll find a way, we always do," she said optimistically. "I was thinking, it might be nice in the spring, me on Copper, you on Autumn Harvest, hacking over the moors, making sure he's confident jumping again."

Steve saw the horse in his mind's eye, strong and powerful, a sports car of a horse, and long sunny afternoons with the moors stretching before them. Spring was only weeks away, after all, and the horse would need a long convalescence, he'd make sure of it.

"If you use some of your winnings from Mighty Tom, you can build a loosebox for him," Steve grinned.

"Me!? MY winnings? What's wrong with yours?"

Steve pounced on her, and Dora fell back into the soft straw, shrieking with laughter, dirt on her jeans, horse slobber on her sweater and straw in her hair, as Steve's mouth came down hard on hers.

The End.

© 2004 Sabrina Davis

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