Over the tannoy came the call for the course veterinarian. From the stands rumbled the slow murmur of shocked spectators, and the sound of tearing betting slips and crumpling paper. The punters turned away, washing their hands of the human and animal cost of their wagers, while old timers tsk-tsked and shook their heads at the waste of it all.
Sophie buried her face into the comforting bulk of Aaron’s chest. She couldn’t remember him grabbing her, but she was grateful for it all the same.
‘I’m sorry, Soph,’ he said.
She let out a shuddery sigh as she pulled away from him. ‘Me too.’
The fall seemed like it had happened in a dream. She needed to see if it was true. Aaron tried to shield her, but she brushed past him, grabbed at the fence rail and leaned over it, her knuckles as white as the flaking paint. He touched her shoulder and then backed off.
Ballroomblitz lay motionless on the track. As Sophie watched, his jockey staggered to his feet, reaching out his hands as though seeking purchase in the heavy air, then reeling and collapsing onto his knees. Bold Safari was up, but stood quivering on three legs, his head lowered and his sides heaving. Sophie felt her stomach turn over at the sight. She put a hand to her mouth, but the spasm passed, although revulsion kept a tight hold of her insides. At the agonised horse’s feet, the jockey remained motionless, his left leg bent at a sickeningly unnatural angle. Blood smeared his face as though he’d been draped in a scarlet shroud. Sophie looked for Danny. His blue and gold mud-splattered silks caught and flapped in the wind, but Danny didn’t move.
Sophie’s breath caught when she saw Rowdy. She stared at him, praying, hoping he’d feel the force of her will and lift his head. Never fall in love with a racehorse. That was the golden rule, and now she was paying the price. She stared at the sodden ground and let tears chill and numb her already frigid cheeks.
‘I hate this stupid sport,’ she said quietly.
‘Sophie.’ Urgency coloured Aaron’s voice. She looked up. Despite everything, he was smiling at her. He pointed at the track.
Rowdy was sitting up, his forelegs stretched out sphinx-like in front of him. With a final heave, he stood upright and shook himself like a labrador after a swim. He turned his head from side to side, surveying the scene, then cantered off down the straight, squealing and pigrooting, swerving around the clerk of the course’s grey gelding to avoid capture.
‘Oh my God.’ Sophie grabbed Aaron’s arm, jumping up and down on the spot in excitement and grinning idiotically. ‘He’s okay! He’s okay!’
‘Yeah,’ said Aaron, smiling at her. ‘I told you he knew how to get himself out of trouble.’ He turned back to the track and frowned. Sophie followed his gaze. Paramedics were leaning over Danny. It looked serious.
‘Come on,’ said Aaron. ‘You go and sort out Rowdy. I’ll see if there’s anything I can do for Danny.’
Sophie nodded and jogged off to the mounting ring. The red-faced clerk had caught Rowdy and was leading the still whinnying animal back along the track. His placid grey calmly trotted alongside as though he’d seen it all before and didn’t know what the fuss was about.
‘Noisy bugger, isnt he?’ the clerk said as he handed Rowdy over to Sophie.
‘Yeah. He never shuts up, but at least you know he’s alive.’
‘Which is more than can be said for those two,’ said the clerk, staring down the straight. A portable sightscreen was being erected in front of the horses. He looked back at Rowdy. ‘I’d get him checked over if I were you. He took a pretty big tumble.’
‘Don’t worry, I will.’ Rowdy let out one last high-pitched whinny as the clerk rode away before turning to Sophie, pressing his head against her chest and using her as a scratching post.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Sophie when his bridle caught on her breasts, but she didn’t have the heart to stop him. She was too pleased to see him alive and in one piece. When he’d finished, she gave him a quick inspection, running her hands down his legs and checking to see if he flinched. Rowdy didn’t move.
‘Come on, then, miracle man. Let’s get you undressed and sorted.’
Rowdy was rubbed down and rugged up by the time Aaron arrived, and alternating between blowing hot air on Sophie’s face and trying to nip the horse in the stall next to him.
‘How is he?’ Without waiting for a reply, Aaron ducked under the stall chain and started running his hands over Rowdy’s legs.
‘He seems fine. I can’t find anything wrong, but I suspect he’ll be a bit stiff tomorrow. How’s Danny?’
‘Not good, but at least he’s conscious. They’re taking him to hospital now. Suspected punctured lung. Bold Safari’s just been destroyed. Snapped cannon bone.’
Sophie shivered. That could have been Rowdy’s fate. She reached out to stroke his nose. ‘So what now?’
Aaron bent back under the chain and stood next to her, surveying Rowdy. ‘You can go home, I guess.’
‘But what about your horses? You won’t be able to look after them on your own.’
‘Sophie, I’ve been doing this a long time. I’m pretty sure I can manage. Anyway, don’t you have an event tomorrow?’
‘It’s just a pony club one-day event, and I’m only taking Buck. I can stay and help.’
He looked at her with raised eyebrows. ‘Aren’t you a bit old for pony club?’
Sophie experienced a prickle of embarrassment. At twenty-two, she felt too old for pony club, especially on the rare occasions she arrived at a rally and ended up knee-deep in fat woolly ponies. But her membership gave her extra events to compete in, plus occasional access to some of the country’s best instructors and riders, and she wasn’t about to give it up.
‘I can stay a member until I’m twenty-five,’ she said.
‘Really? I didn’t know. I never got the chance to go to pony club. I always wanted to though.’
Sophie looked at him curiously. She’d never suspected he’d be interested. ‘So why didn’t you?’
His features turned wary, as though she had stepped over an invisible line. She felt the sting of hurt that always affected her when he looked that way. She bit her lip, and wished she’d learn to keep her mouth shut.
‘As if I needed to explain.’ He pushed his hands into his pockets and stared at his feet. Then, as if realising his rudeness, he straightened. ‘Look, Sophie, I don’t need you any more. Pony club or not, it’ll still be a long day tomorrow. I can sort this lot out.’
She swallowed, feeling wretched and confused. Why did he assume she knew all about him? She knew nothing except the malicious gossip her father spouted on the rare occasions he let his politician’s mask slip.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘I know. You don’t have to apologise. It’s me. Screwed-up childhood. Kinda messes with your mind.’
‘Oh.’ She grinned at him, trying to ease him his discomfort. ‘Well, I suppose that makes two of us then.’
‘Shit, I can’t believe —’ He stopped and swallowed, his eyes full of the pity Sophie had long grown used to seeing in people’s faces when they remembered that her mother had died when Sophie was only twelve. ‘Christ, Sophie. I’m so sorry.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s okay.’
He eyed her for a moment, his mouth tight, as though to keep himself from speaking until he’d carefully weighed his words. ‘I remember her, you know.’
Sophie’s heart pulsed with longing. She loved hearing about her mother. It’d been ten years since Fiona Dixon’s suicide, and though Sophie tried to keep her memories vivid, time had turned them dull and fragmented. She chased any solid recollections she had through her mind, wanting to tattoo them to her brain for fear they’d be lost forever.
She tried to keep the hunger out of her voice. ‘What do you remember? Did you like her?’
‘Yes. She was sweet and very pretty. I didn’t see her often, just sometimes in town or when we bumped into each other out riding. She always stopped to talk, though, and ask how I was. Your mum was kind and caring.’ He stopped, swallowed and then continued. ‘When I was young, I used to wish she was my mum.’
Sophie turned away, blinking, and fondled Rowdy’s delicate muzzle. It was comforting to know someone else had been drawn to her, had wanted her for his own. Sophie always knew her mother was special.
‘Your mum’s suicide. Your old man keeps it quiet, doesn’t he?’
Sophie felt a flutter of panic. ‘You won’t spread it around, will you? I think Dad worries people will blame him for it.’
‘It wasn’t all his fault.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing.’ He stepped away from the post and scuffed a foot in the dirt, not looking at her. ‘Forget it.’
Aaron —’
Without warning, Rowdy sank his teeth into her hand.
‘Oh, you shit!’ She yanked her hand away and inspected it for damage. A neat line of teeth marks dented the ball of her thumb. Rowdy tossed his head up and down in the equivalent of an equine ‘gotcha’.
She grabbed his halter, pulling his head down until she could look him in the eye. ‘That’s one bad habit you’re going to unlearn, mister. I don’t care how bored you are, my horses don’t bite. Full stop. You understand?’
Rowdy stared at her dumbly.
‘Listen, Soph, about Rowdy,’ said Aaron.
Sophie glanced at him. There was something in his tone. ‘What?’
He made as if to speak, but then shook his head. ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Look, there’s not much point you hanging around. Why don’t you head off?’
Sophie hesitated and then nodded. It was getting late. She’d see Rowdy again soon enough and if all went as planned, the next time it would be as his proud new owner.
Six kilometres north-east from the centre of Harrington, a line of thick-trunked London plane trees marked Vanaheim’s southern boundary. Past branches decorated amber and russet with autumn leaves stretched two hundred and forty undulating hectares of varying shades of green, divided by well-maintained fences and newly established windbreaks of native trees and shrubs. In the paddocks near the road, red and white Poll Hereford cows and heifers with March drop calves at their feet chomped contentedly on pasture made rich by early autumn rains and good management. Though she’d seen it countless times, it was a sight that rarely failed to lift Sophie’s spirits.
At a break in the tree line, a burgundy-painted mail drum with Vanaheim stencilled on the side in white letters signalled the entrance. Sophie indicated and turned her Range Rover into the crushed-limestone lane, smiling when Chuck’s dark-brown head and then Buck’s lighter bay one sprang up at the sound of an approaching vehicle. She wound down the window to wave to them.
Chuck’s nostrils flared as he released a welcome-home whinny. The two horses trotted toward the post-and-rail fence, heads and tails up, rugs flapping. Sophie gave them a quick once-over, checking for any lameness or change in attitude that might indicate they weren’t feeling well. Both moved easily through the long ryegrass and clover of the front paddock – the smallest on the property and which, except for when she occasionally allowed a few cattle in for weed control, Sophie maintained exclusively for the horses.
Grinning at their joyous welcome, she blew them a kiss, and watched them cavort and snap playfully at one another as they followed the car down the lane.
Even bereft of leaves, the tree-lined lane was one of the things she loved most about Vanaheim. It reminded her of happy times, when she could still feel the all-encompassing love of her mother. Fiona Dixon had adored the drive as much as Sophie. In the summer, when the trees celebrated life with a spectacular display of verdancy, new growth stretched across the lane until it touched and tangled in the centre, like lovers reunited after a long, cold winter. The lane grew shadowed and cool against the hot sun and Sophie would run around the trunks playing hide and seek with her mother, laughing in the dappled light.
Sometimes, when Sophie had been good, Fiona would turn into the driveway, stop the car and look at her grinning daughter. Are you ready? she’d say, and Sophie would giggle and strain against her seatbelt, trying to reach the play button on the car’s stereo.
The distinctive opening bars of Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Tunnel of Love’ would fill Sophie’s head and heart. It was a romantic song, not really one for mother and daughter, but back then, Sophie was too young to draw much from the lyrics other than their literal meaning. Fiona would drive at ambling pace, prolonging their special time together. They’d sing to the music with smiles on their faces, Sophie convinced she had the best mother in the world.
At the lane’s end, they’d emerge blinking into the bright sunshine, and Fiona would lean across to Sophie, kiss her forehead and say, ‘The tunnel of love’s over now, my precious.’
Sophie smiled sadly at the memory. Her mother had been right, although Sophie didn’t understand that for a long time. The Tunnel of Love was over for Fiona Dixon, because at the end of that enchanted drive lay Vanaheim, and an existence consumed by a secret illness that eroded her happiness like acid until there was nothing left but a hollow, dismal shell and no hope for the future.
Vanaheim’s majestic lane opened to a wide, flat expanse of crushed limestone. To the right, following the line of the lane, stood a burgundy Colorbond multi-bay equipment shed housing the farm’s aging tractor and other assorted machinery Sophie’s horse float, the battered farm ute – when her aunt Tess remembered to replace it – and the farm’s latest acquisition, a state of the art pasture seed drill. Beyond the shed, on a stretch of laser-levelled ground and surrounded by a white timber fence, was Sophie’s all-weather riding arena. Next to it was a flat, grassy area containing a brightly coloured selection of showjumps, and a series of white, thirty-centimetre-high cavaletti, over which her mother had first taught Sophie and her stubborn pony Toby to jump.
Left of the drive, where the crushed limestone gave way to neat brick paving, stood Vanaheim’s pink dolomite and limestone bungalow, fronted by the pretty cottage garden Fiona Dixon had once expertly tended and Sophie less expertly tried to maintain. Opposite stood a simple stable complex, in the same steel as the equipment shed, with the three stables and concrete wash bay set back so the burgundy-painted timber half doors were sheltered by a verandah. From the eaves hung empty flower baskets. Summer would see these spilling over with pink and white impatiens, brightening the yard with happy colour.
A squat limestone building, once an exterior laundry and toilet block, took up the far side of the paved square, its wide door and two small window frames painted burgundy to match the stables and house. A heavy lock secured the door, while metal grilles covered the windows protecting the thousands of dollars worth of equestrian equipment, veterinary supplies and feed kept inside.
As Sophie drove in, her two incurably lazy Australian cattle dogs, Samson and Delilah, raised their heads for a moment before returning their chins to their paws, too comfortable on the back porch to move. A stranger wouldn’t fare so well. One step toward any of the buildings and the dogs would be standing to attention. Sammy and Del might be lazy, but they were fiercely protective of their mistress and home.
Sophie reversed the Range Rover toward the float and left the engine running as she hitched it and checked the brake and taillights worked. Satisfied, she towed it into the main yard ready for loading and went to bring the horses in for the night.
Chuck and Buck were waiting for her by the gate, jostling with one another to be the first to greet her, their heavy body and neck rugs making them look like cartoon medieval chargers. She unlatched the gate and kissed Chuck’s dark-brown nose, laughing as Buck bunted her back in annoyance at being ignored. Unlike Chuck, who was the sweetest-natured horse Sophie had ever encountered, Buck’s temper changed like the wind. At least he seemed in a good mood.
She led them both to their stables, Chuck, as always, rubbing his muzzle against her sleeve in welcome. He was such a gentleman. Sophie didn’t know what she’d do when she finally retired him. She’d miss his steady politeness and unwavering affection at events. Even when Buck was throwing one of his tantrums, Chuck always managed to cheer her, but perhaps in the future it would be Rowdy who gave her comfort.
Once the horses were settled, she loaded the float and Range Rover with all that she’d need for the following day. The process didn’t take long. Most of her competition gear was already packed in sturdy, lockable trunks. It was simply a matter of lifting them into the rear of the four-wheel drive. She would place the saddles – each costing almost as much as what Rowdy was worth – in the tack compartment of the float in the morning. Even with the dogs on guard, Sophie didn’t take chances with her saddles.
Although twilight was falling, she grabbed a thick coat and whistled for the dogs, and marched across the yard to the machinery shed and quad bike. With Sammy and Del perched on the back of the bike, she rode east into the dull sunset, past the old redgum stockyards, now silver with age, and her aunt Tess’s limestone cottage with its constantly drawn curtains and overgrown garden, to where the cows and heifers grazed. Calving was mostly complete but a few late-joined heifers had yet to drop, and though Tess had promised to inspect the cows regularly, Sophie liked to double check.
Another heifer had given birth that afternoon. The white-faced calf hung close, eyeing Sophie from beneath its mother’s belly and letting out a nervous cry. Both mother and baby looked fine, as did the remainder of the herd. She sighed and sat for a while, admiring them. Come the following January, the steers and those heifers she chose not to retain would be sent to Harrington’s annual weaner sales, where Sophie was trying to build a reputation for producing quality animals. Over the last couple of years Vanaheim’s weaners had brought home solid prices, but with a change to yard weaning she could earn more by producing feedlot-ready cattle. Without improvements to the old yards, however, like many ideas she had for Vanahaim, yard weaning remained something for the future.
Leaving the cattle, she motored back to the house, grinning at Sammy and Del as they leaned around her, ears pinned back, eyes squinting and jowls wobbling, enjoying the rush of wind as only dogs can.
After a last check and chat with the horses Sophie headed inside. She pulled her boots and jacket off in the laundry and placed them neatly away before padding down the bungalow’s tiled hall, grimacing at the cold seeping through her socks. Out of sheer habit, she paused at the entrance to the kitchen and glanced left toward the end of the hall, where the door to the main bedroom stood open. The room appeared as it always did, with the bed made up and well-dusted photos of Fiona Dixon arranged just so on the bedside table. No overnight bag rested on the floor and no coat had been tossed on the plain white spread. Ian Dixon hadn’t blessed her with one of his lightning visits – given their relationship these days that was hardly unusual.
Sophie looked quickly away, but the memories still crowded in. When she was in her early teens, he’d turn up once a fortnight and stay for a few days, sometimes even for the weekend. He’d always be busy – attending meetings, visiting businesses, talking to his constituents, dealing with those things on the farm her aunt Tess couldn’t. Leaving the house early in the morning and returning late at night, after she’d gone to bed. Sometimes, she’d wake in the night with her skin prickling and the sense he was in her room, but when she probed the darkness he was never there. Checking his room in the mornings, she’d find the bed hardly slept in, as though he’d laid rigid all night on the surface, staring at the ceiling.
Sophie hardly saw him, but he made a point of sharing breakfast with her, and while their conversations were often interrupted or centred on banal topics such as the weather, at least she had a sense of him trying to be a father. Now, bar a visit every few months, an occasional brief phone call or abbreviated email, he didn’t bother.
But she still kept the bedroom prepared. Just in case.
Her mobile phone sat on the hall table beside the house phone where she’d left it that morning. Sophie used it so rarely, most of the time she forgot its existence. As usual no one had called or texted, and the empty screen left her feeling hollow. She’d shot an email to her father’s personal account last week advising him of Sunday’s competition, but it seemed he’d forgotten to wish her luck again. Sometimes he called, mostly he didn’t bother, and though she was unsurprised, it still hurt.
Dumping the phone, Sophie padded into the kitchen looking for something to eat. Though the house was almost a hundred years old, Fiona Dixon had set about spending a small fortune modernising it once her father-in-law’s deteriorating health finally forced him into a nursing home. Where darkness once dominated, light and colour had taken over. Red and white tiles extended from the entrance to a glossy off-white kitchen with red granite benchtops and expensive stainless-steel appliances. She’d removed the wall separating the kitchen from the dining room, and divided the opened-up space with a breakfast bar. Past it, the red and white tiles gave way to lush cream carpet on which sat an oak eight-seat table with comfortable chairs upholstered in matching red fabric, and an oak sideboard filled with now rarely used white china.
Through a door on the left was the lounge, Sophie’s favourite room, and where she spent most nights snuggling in her mother’s old leather recliner next to a glowing gas log fire, reading horse magazines or agricultural journals, or watching television. Like every other room in the house, photographs featuring Fiona Dixon took pride of place, but the five arranged on the built-in shelves above the television were the ones Sophie loved the most. Each showed the Dixons as a family, grinning at the camera. Happy.
Sophie picked up a note from the bench. Aunt Tess wanted her to call when she came in. Given the stock and horses were fine, it could only be about her day with Aaron. She chewed at her nail, considering whether to call or not. This time of night Tess could be in any state, but avoiding her might make her angry, and Sophie was too tired to deal with that. With a sigh she put on the kettle and picked up the phone.
‘Well, did you get him?’ asked Tess, sounding surprisingly sober.
‘Pending a vet check, yes.’
‘Good. And how was your day with Aaron Laidlaw?’
Sophie thought before answering. Aaron blew so hot and cold, she wasn’t sure. ‘It was interesting.’
‘I’d say it’d be interesting, with him. I don’t suppose you caught him sticking speedballs up his horses’ bums, did you?’
‘I don’t think he’s like that, Tess.’
Her aunt sniffed. ‘You ask your father about the Laidlaws.’
‘What is it about Dad and the Laidlaws, anyway? Aaron looks at me like I’m the devil’s daughter sometimes.’
‘A long story and one I’m definitely not prepared to tell. Like I said, you’ll have to ask your father.’
Sophie picked at a loose thread on her jumper. More secrets. What was it about her family and bloody secrets? Even Aunt Tess had them. She hated Vanaheim, yet here she stayed, year after year in misery, drinking herself to death. And the excuse that she was there to look after Sophie no longer washed. Sophie was twenty-two, not twelve. Besides, these days Tess was barely capable of looking after herself.
Worried her aunt would snap if she sounded too desperate, Sophie took a moment to choose her next words.
‘Tess, do you know if Aaron would know anything about Mum’s death?’
‘Why? What did he say?’
‘Nothing, I was just wondering, that’s all. He mentioned in passing that he knew her.’
‘Don’t you listen to anything Aaron Laidlaw has to say about this family, and especially about your mother. He doesn’t know anything.’
‘But he knew her, Tess.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Your mother wouldn’t give a Laidlaw the time of day.’
‘But —’
‘Oh, don’t start, Sophie. If you’ve got issues, go and see that shrink of yours, or become an alcoholic or drug addict like a normal person. Just don’t bother me with them.’
Tears pricked Sophie’s eyes. She could never accustom herself to Tess’s dismissive nature, so different from her mother’s sensitivity. After years of counselling, she’d reconciled herself to the fact her mother committed suicide because of acute clinical depression. But she could rationalise all she liked – the niggling doubt that she was somehow to blame could never be talked away.
After her mother’s death, her father and Tess had hidden the truth from Sophie, using terms such as ‘tragedy’ and ‘accident’ to describe something indescribable. And then, when the word ‘suicide’ somehow slipped through the web of her family’s insularity, the horror of learning the truth was followed by years of thinking that her mother had committed that appalling act because of her. That she must have been a terrible child, that her mother hadn’t loved her. A belief reinforced by her father’s coldness and lack of affection toward his only child.
Sophie didn’t blame her father for her mother’s death. Her illness made her do what she did, but she still hadn’t forgiven him for treating a confused and grieving teenager like a monster. She never would.
‘Do you need a strapper tomorrow?’ asked Tess in a placatory tone, as if she knew she’d overstepped the mark.
‘No. I’m fine on my own. I’m only taking Buck. Will you be right to keep an eye on the heifers?’
‘Of course I will. I’m not completely useless, you know.’
But given her aunt’s problem, on that point, Sophie could never be too sure.
After the misery of Saturday’s weather, Sunday dawned frosty and sparkling before turning bright with the rising sun. Knowing Buck preferred Chuck’s company while travelling, Sophie unloaded the lone horse after the hour-long trip to Beachport with some trepidation, but his mood appeared as favourable as the day. To her astonishment and relief, he stood calmly next to the float and accepted her fussing with uncharacteristic equanimity.
His good mood continued through the dressage, as he pranced around the ring and completed the complex series of movements with look-at-me bounciness, leaving Sophie slapping his neck in delight and racing for the scoreboard to see how they’d fared. His performance placed them second behind long-time competitor Michelle Vickers and her talented up-and-coming mare, The Debutante. But to Sophie’s surprise, The Debutante floundered on the cross-country course, running-out when Michelle attempted to take a tight apex jump over its corner, adding twenty penalties to her score, and leaving the lead open for Buck.
He didn’t let Sophie down. Buck cruised around the cross-country course at speed, hurtling over the jumps as though they barely existed, and leaving Sophie ecstatic as he thundered through the finish line under time and with a penalty-free round behind him. Now all they had to do was complete the showjumping course clear and they’d win.
‘Bad luck about Deb,’ said Sophie as she joined Michelle while they waited for their turn in the showjumping.
Michelle shrugged her narrow shoulders, as philosophical as always. ‘My fault. It was a tight fence and I should have taken more care.’ She reached out a skinny arm to scratch Buck’s mane. Michelle was tall and model-thin, confounding Sophie as to how she had the strength to ride. Everything about her appeared angular, from her pointed nose to her bony hips, but she possessed a good-humoured personality that belied her sharp looks, and Sophie enjoyed her company. Out of all the riders she knew, Michelle was the closest thing she had to a friend.
‘Buck went well,’ said Michelle with a smile.
‘I know, but the day’s not over yet. I just hope he doesn’t do what he did to me at Naracoorte,’ Sophie replied, remembering the humiliation of her last event when Buck, irritated that Sophie had gone off with Chuck and left him with an empty water bucket, had descended into an equine sulk of epic proportions. Her confidence soaring after a clean cross-country round with Chuck, who was in second place, Sophie had mounted Buck and entered the showjumping ring unaware of his foul mood. She blithely saluted the judges, gathered up the reins and then proceeded to plough through every jump. She cantered through the finish flags red-faced and furious, only to have Buck live up to his name by dumping her neatly in front of the judges’ box, and then stand regarding her with a ‘that’ll teach you to be smug’ look on his face.
For appearance’s sake, Sophie had laughed it off, but inside she had seethed. If he did it to her again, she swore she’d sell him. But it was an empty threat. Vanaheim was like a horsey black hole. Once you went in, you never came out. No matter how badly her horses behaved, she couldn’t bear to part with them. A fact she sometimes suspected Buck knew.
Michelle regarded her with sympathy. ‘Yes, he definitely gets it over you sometimes but I can see why you stick with him. He’s got talent. So are you taking them both to Lake Ackerman?’ she asked, referring to a major one-day event held across the border in Victoria over the Anzac Day long weekend.
‘All going well.’ Sophie winced as in the ring a delicate-looking rose-grey horse skidded to a halt and brought a big oxer crashing down.
‘Apparently it’s Jamie Howard’s twenty-first birthday that weekend and he’s organised a bit of a party at the Commercial Hotel on the Saturday night. You should come.’
‘I haven’t been invited.’
‘You don’t need to be. It’s automatic.’ When Sophie didn’t answer, Michelle added, ‘They’re not all monsters, you know.’
Sophie looked at her in astonishment. ‘I never thought anyone was.’
‘So why not join in for once?’
She swallowed. Why not? She loved the horsey scene but when it came to socialising her scars ran deep, and her habit of keeping to herself was a difficult one to break. Even after all this time she found it hard to trust people, no matter how kind they were to her.
‘I’ll see.’
The look on Michelle’s face told her that she knew Sophie wouldn’t come.
With the competitors competing in reverse order, from last to first, Sophie had to wait for all the other riders to complete their rounds before she entered the ring. Despite her rattling nerves, Buck remained calm as she warmed him up, staying nicely on the bit and listening to her leg aids. As she rode toward the judges’ box she experienced a flurry of hope that her contrary horse would jump clear and win.
She saluted, gathered up the reins and eased Buck into a tight canter. ‘Come on, Buck, my boy. Let’s show them what you’re made of.’ And with that instruction she urged him through the start toward the first fence.
Buck leapt over the opening four jumps as easily as he had the cross-country course, approaching each with his ears pricked and head up. With space at a premium, the course designer had created a tight layout, with several twists and turns, requiring careful riding for the horse to keep its balance.
On landing, she let him take a stride to steady before shifting her weight and giving the aid to switch his leading leg. Eyes focused ahead, she directed him around a sharp turn and lined him up for a series of related fences running down the long side of the arena. A quick adjustment of his stride and he was placed for takeoff at the exact place she wanted, leaving him with a perfect four strides to the second spread fence and another three to the final pink and white gate. Buck cleared the first two fences without a rattle, and motored at pace toward the gate, five strides away. As soon as he landed, she gave another aid to change leg and direction before lowering her weight deep in the saddle and driving him toward a maximum height and width oxer. With a haughty shake of his head, he sailed over.
Two more simple fences followed, with neither posing a problem for Buck. Not letting her concentration lapse for a moment, Sophie held him collected through the last turn. Only a double, both elements maximum height and separated by two strides, stood between Buck, the finishing line and victory. Positioning the horse perfectly at the first upright fence was crucial. Take off too early and Buck would struggle to reach the second oxer comfortably, which would then put him at risk of a run-out or dropping a pole.
Sophie had walked the course with care, measuring strides between fences and working out where she’d need to tighten Buck or give him more rein. But as he came off the turn and saw the finish, Buck charged forward in excitement, his stride lengthening. Sophie checked him, expecting him to fight and put in at least another long stride, but to her dismay he came to hand immediately, muddling her split-second calculation. Though she tried to correct him, they approached the fence out of stride, forcing Buck to put in a little hop and take off close to the base. With a grunt he heaved himself up, Sophie urging him on with her seat and hands. He cleared the top rail and landed cleanly but came down so tight on the other side he was left no choice but to try and insert three short strides in a space designed for two.
As soon as took off, Sophie knew they were gone. They were simply too close. The front rail of the oxer fell with a clatter, the back rail falling almost immediately after. Buck cantered through the finish line snorting and tossing his head while Sophie shook her own in disappointment. In her heart, though, she couldn’t help but feel elated by his performance. Buck had done his best.
Things were looking up.
Hakea Lodge was quiet when Sophie pulled in on Monday morning. She sat in the Range Rover, peering through the windscreen and wondering where to find Aaron. Rugged horses hung their heads over the rails of their yards and stared at her with curiosity. Like Vanaheim, Hakea Lodge was arranged in a quadrangle, with a wide-verandahed limestone cottage set back from the road, utility and feed rooms at right angles, and two whitewashed stables opposite. Sand-filled open yards, fitted with three-sided corrugated iron shelters and backed by aging pines, extended from the stables to the east, ending with a lunging ring dug into a sandy slope. But where Vanaheim sparkled with colour and care, Hakea Lodge, though scrupulously clean, drooped with tiredness. An effort had been made here and there – a painted horseshoe on the feed-room door, a camellia planted in an old wine barrel by the stable – but overall, the yard had the melancholy appearance of a place doing it tough.
Sophie walked up the stairs to Aaron’s back door, excited at the prospect of taking Rowdy home. Before she could knock, the door opened.
‘Hi,’ said Aaron, stepping onto the verandah. ‘I’ve just made a cuppa. Do you want one?’
‘I’d love one, thanks. Knowing Justin, he’ll be late, ‘she said, referring to the vet she’d booked to inspect Rowdy and make sure he was sound. She waited for Aaron to wave her inside, but he remained where he was, looking grim. Unease slithered up her spine and spread across her neck in a rash of goosebumps.
‘Rowdy’s all right, isn’t he? Don’t tell me something’s happened to him? Oh, God. I knew I should’ve stayed.’
‘No, no, it’s nothing like that. Rowdy’s fine.’
‘Well, what then? Something’s up, I can tell by your face.’
‘Look, Soph, there’s been a change of plan. Rowdy’s not for sale.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry.’
Sophie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’
He shook his head.
‘But you promised. You specifically said that if he ran last, I could buy him. You can’t get much more last than falling.’
Aaron spoke with infuriating calm. ‘He would’ve won if it wasn’t for the fall.’
‘You don’t know that!’
‘Come on, Sophie. You saw him. He would’ve bolted home. That horse proved himself talented enough to win the Springbank Cup.’
Fury made Sophie tremble. She wanted to stamp on his foot, or kick him in the shins until he was left hopping on one leg from the pain. It had never occurred to her that he would renege on the deal.
‘I should’ve known you’d never keep your word. My father’s right. You Laidlaws are nothing but cheats.’ She glared at him and then stomped down the stairs and across the yard to her car, slapping her hand against the aluminium side of the horse float as she passed. At the sudden noise, the yard came alive with the snorts and clatter of startled horses.
‘Sophie!’
She ignored him and climbed into the Range Rover. He banged on the driver’s side window, yelling at her to open up. She started the engine, staring straight ahead, so angry her head felt like it was about to burst. Aaron opened the rear door and slid along the bench seat.
Sophie whipped around to glare at him. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Get out of my car.’
‘I’m not proud of what I’m doing, Soph, but the yard needs winners to keep going. That’s why I can’t sell him.’
‘Well, I wasn’t exactly taking him for free, was I?’ She pulled an envelope from her shirt pocket and waved it at him. ’Five grand’s hardly nothing.’
‘It’s not just the money,’ said Aaron softly. ‘Winners attract owners and quality horses, and I need more if Hakea Lodge is going to survive. And if there’s one thing I care about, it’s that. If that means I have to break our deal, then I’m sorry.’
Sophie felt her anger evaporate and resignation settle in its place. She’d have to look for another horse. Rowdy’s days as a steeplechaser weren’t over yet. ‘I just had my heart set on him, that’s all.’
He gripped her shoulder. ‘I know. There’ll be others. You’ll see.’
Sophie stared at her hands. She’d been so excited, and now she felt miserable. He was right, of course. There would be other horses, but not like Rowdy. He was special. He would have made her a champion. People would have noticed her, loved her even. Patted her on the back and told her how good she was, how talented, how proud they were.
‘I’d better call Justin,’ she said. She dug around in the console for her mobile phone. ‘How’s Danny?’
‘Not good. He’ll be out of action for a fair while.’ Aaron sighed heavily. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t afford to hire another stable jockey. It’ll cost a small fortune just to get one for trackwork.’
Sophie stopped scrolling through her list of contacts and twisted around in the seat to face him. ‘I can help. I can’t do trackwork, but I can do your fitness training.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t afford to pay you.’
‘You won’t have to. We’ll make a deal.’
He regarded her with suspicion. ‘What sort of deal?’
‘I’ll help you here, but at the end of the jumps season, you sell me Rowdy for the five thousand we originally agreed on.’
He didn’t say anything, just stared out over the yard.
‘Come on, Aaron. It’s a good deal. We both get what we want.’
He turned back to her. ‘What about your horses? ‘
‘You’ll only need me in the mornings. I can work them in the afternoons. The only time you’ll have to do without me is when there’s a competition, and I’m turning the horses out at the end of April, so I can’t see it being a problem.’
‘You trust me enough to sell you Rowdy at the end?’
Sophie grinned, knowing she had her deal. ‘Don’t be daft. This time, I’m going to get it in writing.’