Rating: PG. Set after The Colonel Comes Home

Behind her, the bus doors closed with a thunk, and the bus heaved itself forward with a belch of black smoke.

The girl wrapped her old coat more tightly around her, ducking her head in the rain and running for the nearest shelter. When she looked up she was in the village shop, and the woman behind the counter was eyeing her suspiciously, noting the filthy handwoven shoulder bag, ripped jeans and shoes that were flapping open at the toes.

"I'm looking for Follyfoot Farm."

"It's not here," said the shopkeeper pointedly, noticing the thick Scouse accent. "This is the shop you're dripping into. Go left down the high street for a mile or so and you'll come to a lane on your left. There'll be a big oak tree there with a seat under it. Down that lane a ways you'll come to Follyfoot." She kept an eye on the girl until she'd walked out into the rain, shoulders hunched. Someone looking for their old horse? Or another of the Stryker boy's girlfriends, perhaps, although this one was a bit downmarket for even him. And she'd never trusted Scousers, not since that bloke in '65 had tried to take her for everything she'd owned.

It was getting late in the day. Checking that the girl hadn't swiftly lifted anything from the counter on her way out, the shopkeeper turned the Open sign to Closed.

By the time the girl reached Follyfoot she was soaked through, her teeth chattering. Not a single car had passed her, so she couldn't even ask for a lift. Even thought it was only 5pm, darkness was falling, the fields losing their green and turning murky grey, and the welcoming lights of the Follyfoot farmhouse looked warm and homely as she pushed open the gate.

Someone was in the yard, dressed head to foot in raingear, scurrying from one stable to another. The girl watched for a moment, sheltering under the bare branches of the Lightning Tree, before calling out "Hello!" loudly over the thudding rain.

The figure stopped. Dora noticed the bedraggled girl clutching her coat and bag; a waif in the storm. She ran over, her boots sliding in the mud.

"Hello, can I help you?"

The girl pushed her curly dark hair from her face. "I'm looking for Steve."

Attractive if dirty girls didn't often come looking for Steve. Two years ago Dora would have jealously crossed her fingers behind her back and said she'd never heard of him. Now, secure in her relationship with him, she said, "He's bringing the horses in from the field. You're soaked. Come into the house and have a cup of tea."

Ten minutes later Slugger had found an old blanket and wrapped it around the girl's shoulders. She shivered, the mug of tea shaking in her hands, as she sat by the kitchen fire. Her teeth chattered so much she couldn't speak. Steam was rising from her in a gentle cloud.

Dora and Slugger exchanged confused glances over the top of her head.

"Does Steve know you're coming?" Dora asked gently, and the girl shook her head.

The back door opened and Steve's voice drifted into the kitchen. "Bloody hell, it's wet out there! Any chance of a cuppa, Slugger?" He took off his soaking raincoat and sou-wester, kicked off his boots, and padded into the house in his socks, rubbing his hands and wiping them on his jeans.

Dora noticed the look of confusion on his face when he saw the girl. "Who's this?"

"She's looking for you, lad," said Slugger.

The girl looked up. "Steve? Steve Ross?"

Steve nodded, trying to recall if he'd ever seen her before. There was something a little familiar about her face, but he was sure he'd never met her.

"I'm Sally Smith. Your sister."

Dora gasped and Slugger's eyebrows rose up to meet his cap. Steve frowned. "I don't have a sister. My father died when I was four and I'm an only child."

"Maybe I should say half-sister." Sally's face twisted in a wry smile. "We don't have the same father. I don't even know if me dad was really called Smith. But we have a mother in common."

"I don't believe you," Steve said, flatly, his heart racing. His mother? Having another child after placing him in an orphanage? Why had nobody told him? "My gran and aunt would have told me about you."

"They didn't know either," Sally said softly. "Our mam had buggered off to Liverpool by then, where I was born. Seems like she didn't like having kids over much. I grew up in an orphanage too."

If he looked closely at her, there was the hint of his mother's features in her face. He felt a sympathy towards her, if she was really telling the truth.

"How do we know you're who you say you are?" said Dora pointedly. She'd seen the hurt Steve's mother had caused him and didn't want another Ross relative breaking his heart.

"And who are you?" said Sally just as pointedly, twisting her head back up like a cat to look at Dora. Her eyes, like Steve's, were almost black.

"I'm Dora Maddox. This is my farm. I'm Steve's girlfriend," she said firmly.

"Well, Dora Maddox, I don't have a birth certificate to show you, in fact I've got next to nowt as I only left the orphanage when I turned sixteen two months ago, but I've got photos of me mam and me family. Tracked her down when I got out, and she had nowt to give me but these." She rummaged in her shoulder bag and drew out a sleeve of photographs carefully wrapped in plastic. Ignoring Dora, she handed them to Steve. "You tell me. Is that our mam?"

Steve looked carefully at the photos. His mother, young and pretty, before the ravages of an alcoholic lifestyle took their toll. His mother and father with him when he was a black-haired toddler, himself grinning happily at the camera and not knowing his life was soon to turn upside down with the death of his father. His mother a bit older, in a place he didn't recognise, her stomach seemingly swollen. Was she expecting Sally then? One of a baby, not himself, dressed girlishly in pink. One of a man he didn't know, standing next to his mother in a room he'd never seen before and holding the baby dressed in pink. Sally's father, presumably. He was dark-haired, too. Catherine Ross must have liked her men dark.

He turned the photos over. There was nothing written on the back except for the one with himself in it, which had, "Stevie, aged 3" in his mother's spiky hand inscribed in one corner.

"Where is she now?" he said slowly.

"Steve," Dora said warningly. In one stride she was across the room and placing a gentle hand on his arm. His face was rigid, carved in stone.

"I don't know where she is," Sally said. "I found her in a bedsit in Manchester, but she'd cleared out two weeks later. Owed rent. And money to a bookie."

That sounded genuine, Steve thought grimly. She was doing much the same thing when he'd tracked her down himself once before.

Sally was still shivering. "I'll show you the bathroom," Steve said roughly, feeling the past clamp uncomfortably around his chest. "I'm sure we can find you some dry clothes. Have a hot bath. Slugger's stew will stretch to four and you can stay the night."

Dora's eyes widened but she said nothing, just waited until Steve came back into the room alone.

"Oh, she can stay, can she? Well, we don't have a spare room in the cottage. She can stay in the loft, where you used to live." Dora turned her back on Steve and dried the tea mugs.

Steve knew perfectly well there was a spare room in the cottage; Hazel had stayed there for several months, and these days it was gathering dust and old possessions. But it still had a bed. He didn't want a fight with Dora, though. His emotions were already running high.

"And I suppose you want me to find some clothes for her, too?" Dora put one of the mugs down hard enough to make the others jump up and down.

Steve went over to her and wrapped his arms around her tense body. "Listen girl, you wouldn't turn her out into the rain. You wouldn't turn anyone out into this. Not a horse.and not a human either."

This raised a wan smile.

"I just don't want your family wrecking your life again," Dora said softly.

"They won't." Steve dropped a kiss on her hair. "The kid just needs a place for a bit until she gets her act together."

"A bit? From one night to a bit?" Dora's body stiffened.

"Let's just see how it goes, can we?" Steve said wearily.

"You really think she's your sister?" Dora turned around and looked into Steve's eyes. They had a slightly wounded expression, one she knew all too well.

"Dunno. It's quite possible. She has the photos, and she looks a bit like me. I'll have to go and see Aunt Milly and ask her if she knows anything. She mightn't have told me in the past as she thought I might get upset."

"Good idea." Dora hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder. He was upset anyway; she knew the signs. She took a deep breath. "I'll find some clothes for her." Against my better judgment, she thought to herself. The Dora jury was still out on the truth about the girl in the bathroom. She walked upstairs, mentally reviewing the jeans and sweaters that these days made up most of her wardrobe.

Slugger grumbled, "Your sister, she says. Be careful, lad. It all seems a bit convenient, and I don't really like the look of that lass."

"How can you tell? She's been travelling, she's wet, she's dirty. I'll check her story out, Slugs." Steve sat at the table and ran his fingers over his face and up into his hair. He sighed. "If you want to know, I don't need all this either. Not when life's been so good."

Slugger patted his shoulder in an awkward gesture of affection; Steve had become like a son to him over the last couple of years. They were all a family, thrown together from strangers. Would Sally be part of it too? Follyfoot did that to people. Slugger turned to the pot on the stove and lifted the lid.

"Stew?" Steve grinned. "She might leave sooner than we think if she tastes your cooking."

Slugger threw the potholder at him.

* * *

Steve lay looking at the ceiling. Beside him, Dora was pretending to be asleep, curled foetally, her breathing soft and a bit too steady. They'd had another spiky conversation about Sally as they undressed, and sex was mutually not on the cards for them tonight.

Paint curled at the edges; Steve mentally put it on the list as another job that had to be done. In fact the whole cottage could do with a lick of paint, but with Follyfoot bursting at the seams with horses, finding the time to do it was impossible.

Out in the yard he knew Sally's light was still on; if he twisted around a bit he could see the glow in the loft. What was she thinking? What was she hoping for? Was she happy she'd found him? She hadn't said. Nor had he. It was all still a bit surreal for him, rather unbelievable. He'd be happy if he found out for sure she was his sister, and he'd help her all he could to get her life on track, no matter what Dora thought.

But first he had to find out. Steve sighed, turned over, and kissed Dora's bare shoulder. "Goodnight, girl. Don't be cross. I love you. but I have to sort this out."

* * *

"So, Miss Maddox, we'll be back to pick up Archer in four weeks. Shall I pay you now?" Mr Reid had his chequebook out of his pocket in the twinkling of an eye. Dora liked people like that.

Archer surveyed the yard and let out a ringing whinny, which was answered in octaphonic by some of the other horses. He was a tall, rangy grey half-thoroughbred who'd be staying at livery for a month while the Reids went to Australia on holiday.

Dora had promised to school him every day and keep him fit for the Reids' daughter, Jennifer, who would be starting the eventing season with him on her return.

"Now would be fine," Dora agreed, taking the cheque. Horses like Archer helped pay Follyfoot's enormous bills.

Last night's rain had stopped in the small hours of the morning and the yard, although still muddy and slippery, had a freshly washed look about it. The grass sparkled and glistened with raindrops slow to dry, and the four small leafy twigs on the Lightning Tree looked perhaps just a little bigger.

Jennifer planted a kiss on Archer's freckled nose. "The only thing he hates is pheasants," she said. "If you're hacking him out, he'll probably go up if they come out. He must have had a bad experience with them before I bought him."

The Reids piled into their Rover and Dora led Archer to his new stable, which had a fresh haybag waiting for him in the corner. She was aware of Sally watching from the window of the loft and felt slightly uncomfortable.

Sally had been grateful for her bedroom, which was at least dry and relatively comfortable, and made warmer by the addition of a little heater. She said she wasn't a horsy person, though, and adroitly got out of helping with the stables that morning saying that horses scared her.

Ron had been fascinated to learn that Steve's sister had materialised. "How many other broke, homeless relatives have you got, Steve-o?"

Steve bit back a retort. Sometimes Ron was just simply thoughtless rather than malicious.

"Wonder if she'd like a turn around the countryside on me bike?"

"Haven't you got work to do?" Steve said, handing him a pitchfork. "You'll have to do my shift today, too, mate. I'm going to see my Aunt Milly."

"Are you bringing her back too?" Ron's grin was infectious and Steve couldn't help but grin back.

"Nah. but I want to pick her brains about Sally. She might know something she hasn't told me."

"Like, Oh Steve, by the way, your mum had a daughter after she dumped you in the orphanage?"

"Something like that."

Ron peered closely at Steve. "Hey mate, suddenly having a sister is getting to you, isn't it? I'd be pretty shocked if me mum had done the same thing to me." He clapped Steve's shoulder. "Go on, on yer bike, I'll 'ave the yard all spick and span by the time you get back."

"Now that," said Steve over his shoulder as he headed towards the Land Rover, "Really DOES make me wonder if the last day has all been a dream!"

* * *

Steve's aunt had sold her farm and moved into a little terraced house in town. Steve had been there once or twice before, and had got to know his mother's much older sister quite well. He had never known her during his childhood but they'd made up for lost time since then.

Aunt Milly's neighbour twitched her net curtains and finally walked out onto her doorstep.

"She's gone away."

"Gone away?" Steve echoed blankly. "Gone away where?"

"Down to the coast for two weeks with the Darby and Joan club. You're her nephew, aren't you?" The neighbour peered shortsightedly through absurdly thick glasses.

"Yeah, I'm Steve. And you're.Mrs." he racked his brains. "Entwhistle?"

She beamed. "What a memory! Aye, that's me. I'm keeping an eye on t'house for her till she gets back next week. She were so chuffed to go, her first holiday in years now your Gran's in t'nursing home."

"Mrs Entwhistle," Steve said slowly, "You and my Aunt Milly chat a lot, don't you? Did she even mention that I might have a sister?"

She cocked her head on one side and scratched her head, a difficult job as a nylon scarf and rows of rollers were covering it. "Not that I can recall, Steve. She talks about your Mum from time to time but always about the old days when they were little girls. That's the trouble with us oldies, we get carried away with the past." And Mrs Entwhistle swept herself back to the glory days of the dance hall and before Steve was aware of it he was listening to how she'd won Charlie Entwhistle's heart with her steps in the Gay Gordon. Twenty minutes later, she paused for breath and Steve jumped in.

"I'll write Aunt Milly a note and put it under the door. If you could let her know I called, that would be great."

"Do you want some paper? Or how about a nice cup of tea? Charlie always said I made the nicest cup of tea this side of Leeds."

"I've got some paper in the car, thanks, Mrs Entwhistle. And I won't stop for tea, I'll call in on my Gran now."

"Oh, she won't know you," clucked Mrs Entwhistle. "Batty, she is. Doesn't even know your Aunt some days. I've got some nice biscuits now."

But Steve made his escape, leaving a note for his Aunt asking her to phone and some money for the phone call. Aunt Milly didn't have a telephone of her own.

Sadly, Mrs Entwhistle was right. His Gran sat drooling in a bath chair, squinting in the weak sunlight in the courtyard of the nursing home. "Are you a doctor, young man?"

"I'm your grandson, Steve," he said gently, taking both her hands in his. "Remember? I saw you last Christmas. Aunt Milly made roast beef." He'd taken Dora to meet his aunt and grandmother in the little house in town, and Gran had thought Dora was a young Aunt Milly and Aunt Milly herself the cook.

"Grandson?" Gran opened her eyes properly and glared at him. "What grandson? Where's Millicent?"

"She's on holiday."

"Holiday? Doesn't she know there's a war on? Why aren't you in uniform? You're not a German, are you?"

Steve thought: It's hopeless.

He took out the packet of photos that Sally had left on the kitchen table. "Look, Gran. Who's that?"

For a moment the sun came out in Gran's brain. She fumbled her glasses onto her nose. "Why, that's our Catherine! And little Stevie. And.and. Stevie's dad. He's dead now, and I don't know where our Catherine is. But-" she looked up and her face crumpled in delight. "Stevie! You've come to visit your old Gran! Give me a hug!"

Relieved to find she was still lucid occasionally, Steve did, feeling her frail old arms clutch him tight.

"What about these, Gran? Who are these people?" He showed her the other photos. "Oh, dear, I don't recall his name. I think he was a friend of Catherine's after your dad died, I'm not really sure. We didn't really see her much after that. She put you into an orphanage, you know, and never really told us about it. Horrid business. If we'd have been able to track you down we would have asked the Social if we could look after you instead. She just sent a postcard! Typical Catherine!" The old lady snorted. "She used to send photos of her life occasionally. To taunt us, I think. Never a return address. Now, what's this one? A baby. Whose baby?"

Steve held his breath as Gran frowned and shook her head. "Did she have another baby after me?" he said softly. "Gran?"

"We wouldn't know if she did," Gran sighed. "We mainly found out what she was doing if the police were after her. A bad girl, my Catherine. But you're a good boy. And that lass of yours is nice. The pretty one. What's her name, Flora?"

"Dora."

"Dora." The old lady shut her eyes and smiled. "Nice girl. Not like Catherine." She was silent for a moment and her fingers released the photos. She gave a little snort and snore, and Steve put the photos back into their folder.

Steve sat by his grandmother, watching her sleep and wondering how different his life would have been if he'd have grown up with her and his aunt.

She gave a loud snore and woke herself up with a start. "Who are you? Are you a doctor? Why have you got long hair? Doctors don't have long hair."

Steve sighed. The moment had gone. "I'll come back again soon, Gran." He dropped a kiss on her forehead and the old lady glared.

"Doctors don't kiss patients. Nurse! Nurse!"

Regretfully, Steve walked back to the Land Rover. The last twenty four hours had been emotionally tiring. And it was sad to see the deterioration in his Gran's mind. He drove to the nearest caf‚ and sat staring at the photos while the waitress brought him coffee and scones.

The caffeine woke him up for the drive home over the moors. He was still no nearer to confirming Sally's story. He'd have to find out which orphanage she'd been in and follow up with them. If she was genuine, her story would stick.

* * *

"Elliott Street Orphanage," Sally said obligingly through a mouthful of Slugger's stew. Despite the fact that it tasted primarily of overcooked meat and, somehow, old boots, she ate it as if it were her last meal. Steve suspected she hadn't eaten much at all in the last week. Dressed in clean clothes and with the dirt of travelling washed off her, she looked pink cheeked and very young.

"I'll have to check your story out with them. You understand that, don't you? Anyone can turn up and say they're my sister. Given my mum's behaviour." Steve pushed his stew around the plate.

Sally shrugged. Steve tried to convince himself she didn't look hurt.

"What are you going to do when you leave here, Sally?" Dora asked with deadly politeness.

"Dunno. Get a job in a shop or something. I worked in the laundry at the orphanage - we older ones all had jobs - but I don't fancy that. It don't half wreck your hands, specially in winter." She held out her hands for inspection; they were chapped with the cold, with raggedly bitten nails.

"How's Archer settling in?" Steve asked Dora, before she could suggest a date for Sally to leave.

"Oh, fine. I'll try schooling him in the field tomorrow. Might even take him up to Uncle's as he has better schooling paddocks."

"What kind of horse is he?" asked Sally.

"Half thoroughbred. His owner's going to event him next season. That's a type of horse riding competition with jumps and dressage, which is like, um, ballet for horses," explained Dora at Sally's blank look.

"He's not a racehorse then?"

"No," agreed Dora.

"And all the other horses.they're just old nags? And this is like a retirement home? Or like the RSPCA?"

Dora thought she wouldn't describe Copper, Folly and Alex as old nags, but she let it go. "Yes, we take in horses people can't keep any more. Some people pay us to look after their old horses. Some horses we've rescued and look after for love, really."

"I'd only take the horses I got paid for, me. Can I watch the telly after dinner?"

"If you like."

"You'll have to watch 'On the Buses'," said Slugger. "It's my favourite show."

"It's also the only channel we can get," supplied Dora.

Sally and Slugger disappeared to the living room after dinner and Steve and Dora washed the dishes.

"I still don't know about her, Steve. I caught her walking around the cottage at lunchtime picking things up and looking at them, as if she was trying to work out what they were worth."

"Sweetheart, she's never lived in a house before. At least not since she was tiny. She's probably not used to seeing a lot of things around the place. You saw what she came with. One shoulder bag. No other possessions."

"You'd think the orphanage would have supplied her with a few clothes at least," said Dora stubbornly.

"She could have lost them if they were in my Mum's bedsit when she got evicted," Steve pointed out.

Dora smiled suddenly. "It's funny, isn't it? It's usually me seeing the bright side of everything and you the dark. This time it's the other way around."

"That's 'cos we're two halves of one whole," Steve told her, putting down the dishcloth and hugging her. "I can see your rainbows."

"And I can see your dark valleys."

"And I can see that plate getting broke with you two lovebirds carryin' on," said Slugger from the doorway. "Could one of you put the kettle on?"

* * *

Archer was, as Dora expected, a lovely ride. Much bigger than Copper, she was very aware of his sturdy grey neck rising in front of her. He strode out across the fields in a fluid canter, grunting slightly, mouthing the bit and sensitive to her fingers. It was like riding an equine Rolls Royce.

She squeezed him and his stride lengthened. The fallen log was nothing to him; he leaped it with an arrogant swish of his tail, ears pricked.

It was wonderful to get out and ride. The cottage had an atmosphere of tension about it at the moment, with Sally there, wandering around, doing nothing but look at everything, managing somehow to get out of every task that needed doing. Even now she'd persuaded Ron to take her for a spin on his bike, and Ron had happily finished his chores as quickly and half-heartedly as he could, and obliged.

It wasn't far now to the Colonel's, and Archer covered the ground smoothly. The Colonel had a show jumping ring set up in one of his fields, and was letting the local pony club use it on Sundays. It would be a joy to pop Archer over the smartly-painted jumps.

The Colonel opened the gate for her. "Dora, he's a corker! Jenny Reid's horse, isn't he?"

"Hi, Uncle Geoffrey. Yes, we've got him for a month while they're away."

"I've had the lads put the jumps up for you. They were pony-sized before. He'd just trot over them like cavaletti." The Colonel clapped Archer's iron neck admiringly.

He was looking better after his illness, and the poisoning bouts he'd suffered during his relationship with the haughty, money-hungry Claudine. He'd put on a bit of weight and was walking without a stick. He told Dora he was riding again, albeit only hacking gently around the fields and lanes.

"I'm not up to riding a fit horse like this at the moment, though. But by God, it's tempting!" He grinned at her. "Go on, put him over the jumps and let's see what he can do."

The course was a simple one. Seven jumps around the edge of the field, one of them a triple, and three in the middle. Dora knew the jumps well; she occasionally schooled Copper over them.

She shortened her stirrups and Archer fidgeted, knowing what was ahead. She put him into a slow canter and made him do a controlled figure of eight before setting him at the first, a simple upright.

The horse was phenomenally well-schooled, she realised. Copper usually tried to rush at the first, but Archer was attentive to her hands and legs, and listened to what her body was telling him to do. He popped over the first with almost insolent perfection, and pricked his ears for the second.

Dora almost envied Jenny Reid, with her competition season ahead on such a grand horse. She gathered him for the treble, knowing it was a stride between each jump, and Archer obeyed her, leaping off his powerful haunches, perfectly balanced. The treble - not small jumps now the Colonel's men had put them up to almost A-grade height - flew under his legs as if it wasn't there. The last leg of it was almost as wide as it was tall, but Archer cleared it easily, and was back on the bit, ready to turn and take the jumps up the middle of the field.

The brush, the oxer and the last upright came and went, and Archer obligingly slowed to a hand canter again as Dora brought him back to the Colonel, grinning broadly.

The Colonel clapped. "Well done, a very nice clear round! He's got a big future, that fellow."

In the still air Dora heard the familiar sound of Ron's motorbike, and looked to the far hill, where she could just make it out on the top road, silhouetted against the sky.

"You had an audience, too. I thought young Stryker was supposed to be working?"

Dora felt obliged to cover for her staff. "He'd finished his morning tasks so I gave him a couple of hours off. He had to.. Had to.." She dismounted and loosened Archer's girth. "Oh, Uncle. It's a long story. A girl turned up two nights ago claiming to be Steve's sister."

* * *

Steve watched Dora brush Archer and fix his day rug over him. "He really is superb, Steve. You should have seen him over Uncle's jumps. Lucky Jenny!"

She looked under Archer's neck at Steve's face. "What's wrong?"

"I rang the orphanage. They wouldn't give me any details over the phone, couldn't even confirm if Sally had ever been there. I have to get a letter written by a solicitor."

"Uncle Geoffrey could probably help. He knows lots of people." She gave Archer a last pat and checked his water bowl.

"I don't want to have to ask for favours."

"He'd be happy to help."

"You told him?"

"Yes. Ron and Sally rode past on the bike, and he asked what Ron was doing, so I told him. Steve, he'd be happy to help, you know he's got a lot of time for you."

Steve hated taking favours from people. Dora had finally taught him to trust and give and take, rather than be totally self-sufficient. He sighed. "Okay, let's see what he can do. The orphanage might be more willing to give information to someone like the Colonel rather than me."

Dora squeezed his arm. "Don't be so tough on yourself. It's probably just their policy. I'm sure the Colonel will have to get a solicitor's letter too."

Sally and Ron were back from their ride, drinking tea in the kitchen. Dora and Steve looked through the window and saw Sally's face animated and laughing, gazing at Ron. Oh dear, the Stryker charm had been turned full on, from the cowboy boots up to the coloured neckerchief. Ron fed Sally a biscuit, leaning forward and managing to rub his legs against hers.

"She's only sixteen," Steve said bleakly.

"Going on twenty-five," Dora retorted. "Come on, I'm parched." She opened the back door.

Slugger was saying, "Them cabbages I planted are ready to dig up. My back's not up for it, maybe you two could do it?"

Sally said through a mouthful of biscuit: "I don't know anything about gardening."

"Don't know anything, she says. Dead easy, it is. You just pull 'em out of the ground. Go on, finish your tea and do an old man a favour, eh?"

"Nah, don't," said. Ron. "If you pull 'em up it means we have to eat 'em. Slugger's stews are bad enough without flippin' cabbage in'em."

Slugger cuffed Ron lightly across one ear. "I was gonna give you a couple to take home to your Dad. Dunno as how I will, now."

"Give him half a dozen, Slugs," said Dora. "That way Ron can have cabbage wherever he eats." She looked pointedly at Ron and Sally, who had finished their tea. "It would be nice if you leant a hand, Sally. We've all got chores in this place."

Sally resignedly headed for the door.

"I'll show you how to do it," offered Ron.

"That'd be a first," Slugger shouted after him. "Seeing as how you've never done it before!" He shook his head. "That lad can be trouble. And so can she. Sorry, Steve. She's a smart lass. Can talk her way out of anything." By the way Slugger poked at the Aga, it was clear he didn't mean it as a compliment.

Dora moved Sally's old handwoven shoulder bag off the table and hung it on the back of a chair. As she did, she noticed something inside it that made her eyes widen. Carefully, she felt inside Sally's bag.

"Dora, what are you doing?" Steve exclaimed. "You can't just -" His voice trailed away.

Dora was holding up a thick roll of notes. "There must be hundreds of pounds here, Steve. Where did she get it?"

"How would I know? Had it in the bank from when she was a child? The orphanage might have had bank accounts for the kids."

"There you go, standing up for her again!"

Steve stood up, scraping his chair across the floor and making a horrible noise. "Someone has to, since you've appointed yourself judge AND jury! I'll make my tea in the tack room. There's lots to do in the yard." And he walked out angrily, slamming the back door behind him.

"Oh!" Dora slapped her hand on the table. "He makes me so mad sometimes!" She carefully put the money back into Sally's bag. "I don't like this, Slugs. There's something odd about Sally."

"I'm with you there, girl." Slugger poured Dora a mug of tea. "You drink this. I'll go and check them two are pulling up the right plants outside."

Dora was tempted to go right through Sally's bag, but thanked her lucky stars she didn't, as barely a minute later Sally marched into the kitchen and dumped an armful of earthy cabbages on the sink. "Ugh! I hate cabbage!"

"Slugger only grows it because it gives the snails something to eat," Dora said, forcing a smile on her face.

"They're welcome to it. It's a shame they didn't eat the lot." Sally washed her hands. "I might walk down to the village. I didn't get a good look around the other day. It was pouring."

"I thought you would have seen it when you went out with Ron."

Sally picked up her bag. "He rode through too quickly. See you!" And she was gone before Dora could think of anything to say.

* * *

It was an uncomfortable evening for Dora. Steve barely spoke to her and spent the evening chatting to Sally, trying to draw her out about her childhood. Dora was happy to plead tiredness and go to bed early. She waited hours for Steve to come up, reading a novel until her eyes closed of their own volition.

She woke early to find Steve asleep beside her, an arm curling over her protectively as always, and felt a huge relief. If he'd have been really cross with her he would have slept in the spare room, junk, dust and all.

She carefully extricated herself from the bed, and kissed Steve's bristly cheek. He smiled in his sleep.

The sun was up, casting long, soft shadows over the yard and the fields which sparkled with dew. Dora grabbed an armful of clothes and headed for the bathroom. It was a perfect morning for a ride. Archer or Copper? Both horses needed the exercise.

She decided Copper deserved an early morning hack, but called in on Archer's stable first to wish him good morning.

And found it empty. The door was shut but unbolted, and Archer was nowhere to be seen.

Panicking, Dora searched the yard, calling his name. She ran through the old indoor stable block, waking the Weaver from his doze and ignoring Folly's shrill call for breakfast.

She headed out into the field where Specs, Folly's mother, was grazing contentedly with Moonstone and some of the fitter old horses. Archer was nowhere in sight.

Dora felt physically sick.

There was one possibility - that he'd let himself out, jumped the fence and headed for home, which was only a couple of miles away across the fields as the crow flies or the horse gallops.

She bolted into the cottage and up the stairs. "Steve!" She shook his shoulder and he woke dazedly.

"Wha.?"

"It's Archer! He's gone! Vanished! Steve, help me! We've got to find him!" Dora threw a shirt and jeans at him. "Quick!"

Steve rolled out of bed, groaning. "Is he in the field?"

"No, I've checked. I've checked the whole place. The kitchen garden, you name it. He might have got out and gone home. I'm going to ride Copper over to the Reid's in case I find him on the way. You take the Land Rover in case he's going there by road."

Copper was delighted to be saddled up on such a perfect morning and blew happily down Dora's back as she tightened the girth. He was rather surprised to be turned away from the moors, their usual ride, and pointed in the opposite direction, and napped and sidled until Dora pushed him hard into a canter.

It only took her twenty minutes to get to the Reid's house, which was set on ten acres that featured a superb jumping course. On the way her eyes were searching every facet of the landscape for Archer's rangy grey form, and she called his name until her throat was hoarse.

The Reid's yard was empty. Archer's stable, with his name above it, was neatly cleaned out and its inhabitant nowhere to be found.

She dismounted and led Copper to the water trough, letting him drink while she waited for Steve.

He was just as despondent. "I've searched all the lanes around here. There's no sign of him."

"We'll have to call the police."

"I'll go back and phone them."

"I'll ride out onto the moors a bit in case he's there."

Dora and Copper trotted over the moors for nearly two hours. She met a man taking his dogs for a walk, who promised to look for Archer, and saw enough wildlife to delight a documentary maker, but no Archer.

Copper was hungry now, and when she turned him for Follyfoot his stride increased until she let him canter. She made him walk the last half mile, to his disgust, until the sweat on his coat had dried. She was just as impatient as he to get home and it was the longest half mile she'd ridden in ages.

Steve took Copper's bridle as she rode into the yard. He looked shamefaced and upset.

"What is it? Have you found Archer? Is he hurt?"

"Worse. Sally's gone. And I think she might have taken him."

"What do you mean, gone?" Dora slid off Copper and unconsciously loosened his girth, taking in all that Steve meant. "But she said she's scared of horses."

"She SAID. Slugger's housekeeping money is missing. And there's no sign of Sally or her bag full of money. And there's no sign of a horse she knows is valuable." Steve took a deep breath. "Dora, you might have been right about Sally. If she IS my sister -" He looked near to tears.

Dora put a finger onto his lips. "Sssh. Let's find Archer first and then sort Sally out. Have you rung the police?"

"Course I have." Steve swallowed, and put his arms around Dora, feeling her warmth thaw out the cold he felt inside.

Slugger trotted out of the cottage, waving a newspaper. Copper snorted and shied, pulling the reins from Dora's hand and backing into the fence around the Lightning Tree.

Dora calmed him down while Slugger caught his breath. "'Ere, I know where Archer might be! There's an 'orse sale on today in Glensby. Look!"

"Starts 9am," Steve read out.

"Hunters, ponies, working horses and more," Dora finished. "Let's go! It's at least an hour's drive."

"More if we take the van, which we should, in case Archer's there."

Dora handed Copper's reins to Slugger. "Slugs, could you put him away? And put a rug on him? And give him breakfast?"

Slugger's domain was the house, and out of all the horses in the yard Copper scared him a bit because he was so flighty. But Dora and Steve had run off, and he gingerly patted Copper's nose. "Come on, old son. Bacon and eggs do you?"

* * *

Horse saleyards were agony for Dora. Every time she went to a sale she saw dozens of horses and ponies destined for the knacker's, horses she'd love to rescue and take to Follyfoot, and give a pleasant home to for the rest of their natural life.

This time, however, she closed her heart against the pleading brown eyes, the sad expressions and the hopeless stares. She and Steve ran from horse to horse, up and down the rows, from ancient ponies to fit hunters.

And at last they found Archer.

An lame attempt had been made to disguise him. His steel grey legs had been painted black, which looked quite odd against his paler, dappled body. His flowing mane had been shortened to about three inches long, and his long tail now barely reached his hocks. A sticker proclaiming he was Lot 71 was pasted onto his rump.

There was no sign of Sally. Dora and Steve peered wildly around the yards.

"She'll be here somewhere. Or her accomplice will. I bet she's not in this alone," Steve said grimly. "Come on, girl, let's find the organisers and get the police onto this."

Two hours later fifty horses had been sold and Dora and Steve had spoken to the plain-clothes detective and told their story. They'd been advised to keep out of sight in the office so the police could apprehend Sally without her realising they were onto her.

Dora paced the office, listening to the auction results on the muffled tannoy as Archer's lot came nearer and nearer.

"Lot 71, grey hunter, seven years old, has been withdrawn," she heard. Above the noise of the crowd and the snorts and whinnies of the horses, sirens sounded, getting closer and closer.

"They've caught Sally," Steve said, his face impassive.

Dora stopped pacing and put her arms around him. "Darling, I'm so sorry. That Sally turned out like this."

Steve leaned his head against hers, closing his eyes, feeling a hundred years old.

* * *

"She wasn't your sister," Inspector Markham said. "Her name is Sally Wainwright, she's nineteen years old and already has a record for theft. We've been looking for her for months since she skipped bail on a theft charge in Manchester."

They were sitting in the kitchen at Follyfoot, with Archer installed again in his stable and Slugger's extra strong tea on the hob.

Markham stirred his tea, peered at it, and cautiously took a sip.

"But she looks like me," Steve protested, "And she had my mother's photos." Which he never given back to her, he realised.

"She broke into your aunt Millicent's house last week with the intention of taking china and silver and whatever else she could fence, and found letters from you and your mother and family photos. She saw there was a resemblance there, and thought she could pass herself off as your long-lost sister and steal herself a horse, which would have been worth a lot more than breaking into a few houses."

Steve felt sick. Poor Aunt Milly! Her first holiday for years, with Mrs Entwhistle keeping an eye on the house in her own short-sighted way.

"Wainwright had an accomplice who drove the horse away, and we've picked him up too."

"She said she was scared of horses," Dora put in.

Markham gave a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Miss Wainwright says a lot of things; you have to know what to believe. The theft charge she skipped bail on was also a horse. She's a competent rider; grew up in a gypsy camp." He drained his tea. "A good cuppa," he said appreciatively. "You'd get a job in the police canteen any day, Mr Jones."

Slugger grinned at Dora and Steve. "Hear that? Nice to know someone appreciates me cookin'."

* * *

Aunt Milly set a dainty plate of biscuits and cakes in front of Steve and Dora. "Poor Mrs Entwhistle, she does feel badly that she didn't see the back window broken. At least nothing valuable got taken."

"Except the photos," said Steve, handing them to her.

"You keep them, Steve. I have others of Catherine, and after all, she's your mother." Aunt Milly poured three cups of tea and handed a delicate cup and saucer to Dora first.

"Aunt Milly, can you explain these ones?" Steve laid out the photos of his mother with the man and the baby. "Who's he? And the baby? And was Mum pregnant in this one?"

"She visited us once," Aunt Milly said slowly. "You would have been about seven, and she wouldn't tell us where you were. She said she'd taken up with a widower whose wife died in childbirth." She looked sadly at the photos. "I'd guess that didn't last long. Or she went through all his money and moved on! She left these photos here of him and the baby. And as for pregnant? No, lad, not her. Maybe it was just the alcohol making her fat. She didn't want more children after she had you. She bragged about being able to sleep with any man she wanted and not fall, so I think she'd had herself sterilised somehow. Awful conversation, made your Gran feel quite ill. We never saw her after that one visit. Just got the odd letter or postcard. Or visit from the police."

Steve's face was expressionless, and Dora wondered what he was thinking behind that shuttered look. She laid a hand over his. He squeezed it and finally smiled at her.

"Families, eh?" he said.

"You've got a good family," Dora reminded him, "Your Gran, Aunt Milly.and me. Not to mention the Colonel, and Slugger, and Ron."

"Ron! If it wasn't for my Mum I'd say he was the black sheep!" Steve laughed. But Dora was right. He had a good family.

Steve picked up the photo of himself, his Mum and his Dad and put it in his shirt pocket. It was a reminder that his childhood, his past, hadn't been all bad. And the future.the future looked rosy. He sipped his tea, aware of the warmth of Dora's hand in his own.

The end

@ 2005 Sabrina Davis