Aaron eyed Sophie from the safety of the verandah as she said farewell to Rowdy. The urge to cross the yard and gather her to his chest was huge. Since her father’s visit, Sophie had been distant and quiet, and he didn’t know what that meant. She hadn’t even admitted to seeing Ian, which worried him even more. Her father could have told her any number of lies.
She still arrived each morning with a smile and laughed when the horses did something funny, but it lacked the joy he adored. And several times he’d caught her looking at him with a frown, as though she was trying to work out what was in his head.
But after his talk with Ian Dixon, there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d reveal that.
Aaron had been sitting on the verandah step with a cup of tea and the local paper, warming himself in the fading Tuesday afternoon sun, when Ian pulled in the drive. He’d stepped out and looked around with an expression that made Aaron ball his fists. Finally, when he’d made his disdain clear, Ian approached the house. Aaron placed his mug down carefully and stood.
‘What do you want?’
‘Your mother sends her love,’ replied Ian.
‘She wouldn’t know the meaning of it.’
Ian’s mouth thinned. ‘Still like your father, I see.’
Aaron said nothing, but he reached for the verandah post and wrapped his hand around the timber. Even after all this time, his loathing for Ian Dixon hadn’t faded.
‘I’m worried about Sophie,’ said Ian.
‘That’d be a first.’
Ian’s grey eyes, so like Sophie’s, narrowed. ‘I didn’t come here to argue. I came here to talk about my daughter.’
‘She’s fine.’
‘No, she’s not.’ He looked toward Vanaheim and shook his head, and to Aaron’s surprise he caught a glimpse of genuine worry on Ian’s face. ‘You have no idea how vulnerable she is. If she finds out about me and Carol …’
The sentence hung. Instinctively, Aaron followed Ian’s gaze to the west even though all they could see of Vanaheim from Hakea Lodge was a flush of green. Christ, he hoped Sophie was all right.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘if you’re worried about me telling her, forget it. Believe me, I’m not in any hurry to spill that dirty little secret, but you won’t be able to keep it from her forever. Better she hears it from you than anyone else.’
‘She won’t cope. It’ll be like before.’
‘Then you don’t know your daughter very well.’
Ian threw him a sharp glance. ‘And I suppose you think you do.’
‘I know her a damn sight better than you do.’
For a long moment, they regarded one another, anger festering. The yard moved with restless horses, attuned to the tension. In his box, Rowdy snorted and stomped. Psycho let out a whinny.
Ian opened his coat and reached into his jacket pocket. ‘I under-stand you and Sophie made some sort of a deal about a horse.’
‘Not that it’s any of your business.’
Ian flipped open a chequebook and clicked on a pen. ‘I’ll pay you double whatever the horse is worth.’
‘In exchange for what?’
‘In exchange for keeping away from Sophie.’
Though they burned, Aaron managed to say the words he didn’t mean. ‘Save your money. I’m not interested in Sophie.’
‘That’s not what Tess says.’
‘Tess is a drunk.’
Ian kept his hand poised over his chequebook, eyeing him.
‘Put it away, Ian. I’m not for sale. I made a deal with Sophie and I’ll keep it. As soon as Danny’s back I’ll have no need of her.’ Aaron held his gaze. ‘And that’s where this will end.’
Though Ian’s face betrayed his disbelief, he’d been left no choice but to retreat.
Yet now, as Aaron watched Sophie fondly tugging Rowdy’s ears, his heart aching, he wondered if it would ever end. Since Ian’s visit he’d stopped calling her at night, unable to kid himself any longer that he did it for altruistic reasons. When she asked, he made the excuse it was because he needed sleep, but without her comforting voice he found sleep near impossible. Instead, he lay awake in the darkness, racked with over-tiredness and torturing himself with visions of Sophie, of them together, enjoying a life where the past never existed.
Shoulders low, he walked back into the house. He’d get over it. He had to. For Sophie’s sake.
As if Aaron didn’t have enough to worry about, the following day the Land Cruiser chugged to a standstill and no amount of swearing, kicking or tinkering would make it go again. The timing was appalling. Not only did he have a pile of overdue bills sitting on the kitchen table, but Saturday was the Harrington Gold Cup. He had three runners in the lead-up races, including Costa Motza, and he desperately wanted to make Sophie’s first race as an owner special. To make matters worse, Rowdy, who’d been due to race in a hurdle the following week with good prospects of winning, had picked up a stone bruise during morning exercise and was likely to be out of work for several days.
The mechanic let out a whistle. ‘Expensive, mate.’
Aaron’s heart sank. ‘How expensive?’
Leaning against the front fender, the mechanic pulled a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one out and lit it, sucking smoke into his lungs. ‘A fair bit. Transmission’s gone.’
Aaron stared at Rowdy. The horse was hanging over the half door of the stable, his tongue dangling out like the village idiot. So much centred on him. Rowdy was good enough to win the major steeplechase of the season, the Springbank Cup, held every year in the first week of August and worth one hundred thousand dollars in prize money. One hundred thousand dollars would wipe out Hakea Lodge’s debts and allow him to make the improvements owners expected in a successful yard. But Rowdy winning was a dream, and dreams didn’t solve real-life problems.
The Land Cruiser would have to stay dead. He’d call in some favours, tap some of the old-timers who had known and loved his father, ring anyone who could lend him a suitable vehicle. He’d even phone his mother if it came to that. Pride could take second place. The yard had to keep going. The memory of his father demanded it.
‘Leave it,’ he said to the puffing mechanic. ‘I’ lI make do without.’
‘Yup, you can always use horsepower.’
The mechanic was still chuckling when he stepped into his van. Aaron wanted to punch the laughter straight back down his throat.
As the van left, Sophie pulled into the yard. He cast her a grim smile, then slammed the Land Cruiser’s bonnet down and leaned on it.
‘What’s the problem?’ she said, coming to stand next to him.
‘Apparently the transmission’s buggered.’
‘Oh. Anything I can do?’
‘No, it’s okay. I’ll work something out. You go and saddle up Costa Motza.’
She placed a warm hand over his and rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, grey eyes wide with concern. The gesture was so intimate, so loving, that he wanted to bury his face in her neck and cry hot tears of self-reproach.
‘Aaron, I know things are tough. I can help.’
He stared at their hands – hers fine and clean, his large and dirty with grease – and wished he could tangle them together forever.
Gently, he slid his fingers from beneath hers and, crossing his arms, turned to prop his bum against the car. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Sophie’s hurt expression before she quickly hid it. He jammed his hands hard into his armpits to stop himself from touching her.
‘You can borrow the farm ute,’ she said, and though she tried to sound normal the hollowness in her voice was unmistakable. ‘It’s not great, but it goes and and it’ll pull your float no worries. I can drop it off this afternoon.’
He stared at his worn boots, the frayed cuffs of his jeans. He knew she was only being kind but all her offer reminded him of was Ian and his chequebook. ‘I’m not a charity case,’ he said quietly.
‘It’s not charity, Aaron. It’s friendship. Just like you wanted. Anyway, you’ll be doing me a favour.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘Oh, yeah? How?’
She smiled, delighting him with a bit of her old Sophie spark. ‘By keeping it out of Tess’s reach. She nearly drove it through the back of the shed yesterday. Trust me, it’ll be much safer here than at Vanaheim.’
Harrington Racecourse sat adjacent to the showgrounds, three blocks off the main street, surrounded by a ring of aging pines that every year the council threatened to cut down yet never seemed to find the budget to do. The close proximity to the town meant that, unlike so many other provincial race clubs located on the outer edges or even further out of the townships, the club was positioned at the centre of Harrington social life. Even autumn and winter meetings attracted good crowds, who were well cared for with gas heaters to warm them against the cold, an undercover bookies’ ring and on-course tote, and, most importantly, a well-stocked bar.
Harrington Gold Cup day dawned glorious. May days in South Australia’s south-east didn’t come much better. The sun saturated the landscape with cheerful warmth, and a mild breeze from the north replaced the usual southerly, drying the soggy ground and bringing hope of a mild winter. The sunshine brought out the locals, especially those of the younger generation, who preferred a day dressed up at the races to football, and by the second race the lawns in front of the grandstand milled with people enjoying the party atmosphere.
The runners for the race were lining up for the barriers but still Sophie hadn’t arrived. Aaron stood by the winning post playing with a lead rope, clicking the spring clip with his thumb. He’d last seen Sophie the day before when she’d dropped the ute off and refused his offer of a lift home, saying instead she’d cut through the paddocks. Although Costa Motza’s race was still over two hours away, this was her first race as an owner and Aaron expected her to arrive early, overflowing with excitement for her horse’s big day.
Trying to ignore his unease at her continued absence, he raised his binoculars and focused once more on Casalinga.
‘Hello, Aaron.’
‘Thank Christ,’ he said, hearing Sophie’s voice at last. ‘I was starting to think you weren’t com—’ He couldn’t continue. In front of him stood Sophie, but not the Sophie he’d grown to adore. This was a Sophie he’d never seen before.
She gave him that same shy half smile he remembered from her first days at the yard, just a slight quirk of her mouth that made him want to kiss all her lipstick away and get to the pink flesh underneath. She tucked a strand of newly styled hair behind her ear but it immediately fell loose, as though with a life of its own.
She’d transformed from mousy, grey-eyed, borderline prettiness to blond-streaked, made-up, classy gorgeousness – and he hated it.
‘You look nice,’ he said, grudgingly.
The tannoy crackled as the caller readied himself. Aaron turned back to the track and lifted the binoculars to his eyes, but her disappointment wafted over him like the scent of her expensive perfume. He hated that too. He hated everything. All the things he wanted but couldn’t have, standing beside him in a clingy grey woollen dress and long black leather boots, radiating a beauty that dulled the day and made his insides curl with panic at the thought of losing her to someone else. Someone deserving.
All in … lights on … and theyre racing.
‘Did the ute go okay?’
He nodded, keeping his eyes on the field.
‘Hows Costa Motza?’
‘Dopey as usual.’
‘And Pollyanna?’
‘Fighting fit.’
At the eight hundred and Casalinga is starting to move on the outside. Torvina still in the lead followed by Grey Nurse, then a length to Passionpop with Casalinga close behind …
‘Push on, Todd,’ he muttered.
‘Will you need any help?’
‘Nope.’
Turning into the straight and we have Torvina and Grey Nurse neck and neck and Casalinga a length away. Passionpop is fading fast …
He dropped his binoculars. ‘Come on, Todd.’
The crowd chanted. The fall of hoofbeats sounded like thunder. The racecaller’s voice rose to a crescendo. Aaron beat his hand against the fence rail.
‘Go, Casa. Go, girl.’
And Casalinga and Grey Nurse are fighting for the lead …
‘Come on, Casa. Come on, girl.’
And it’s Grey Nurse to Casalinga, followed by Tittletattle, then two lengths to Torvino …
‘Shit!’ He slapped the rail. Casalinga should have won. He turned to ask Sophie what she’d thought of Todd’s ride, but she was gone. He stared into the crowd under the grandstand but couldn’t pick her out amongst the punters milling around the bookmakers’ stands. He didn’t have time to go chasing after her. Tony Johnstone, Casalinga’s owner, would need placating and Pollyanna had to be readied for her race.
‘What happened?’ he asked Todd in the mounting yard.
The jockey shrugged. ‘Ran out of legs, boss.’
That was rubbish and Todd knew it, but Aaron wasn’t about to argue with him when Tony was standing by his side. Casalinga was as fit as she could be. Todd hadn’t ridden her hard enough.
Tony slapped Aaron on the back. ‘She won’t lose next time.’
Aaron heard it for the warning it was. The message was clear. Next time Casalinga raced, Tony expected her to win. If not, it’d be goodbye owner. He couldn’t afford to lose Tony’s business even though the man was an obnoxious prick.
He stroked Casalinga’s nose, scrutinising the crowd while he waited for the all clear. He caught a glimpse of Sophie’s newly blond hair before it disappeared behind a pillar. She deserved an apology, but what could he say to defend himself? Sophie, I’m sorry but I can’t stand you looking so beautiful? Sophie, I’m scared someone better than me will fall in love with you? Sophie, I don’t want you to love anyone but me, even though I can’t love you back? Better he said nothing. Let her fall for someone else and find the happiness she so deserved.
At the stewards’ okay, he led Casalinga to the stalls and settled her next to Costa Motza. The white-socked chestnut whickered at him and Aaron stopped to give him a quick scratch.
‘So, are you going to win for your mistress today?’
He smiled. Costa Motza didn’t stand a chance in hell. Not only had Sophie insisted on nominating the horse for a two-thousand-metre race, she’d hired some unknown apprentice to ride him. Aaron had argued that she was wasting her time and money, but Sophie had stubbornly told him that Costa Motza was her horse, and she’d do what she liked. He’d almost told her to find another trainer but he needed the lucerne hay contra deal. And if Tony Johnstone walked, he’d need it even more.
As soon as Casalinga was settled, he started on Pollyanna. The filly was in fine form. She’d run brilliant times during her morning gallops and although the field was strong, Aaron knew Pollyanna had more class than the other runners. This was a step up from the race she’d won at Penola, but, given her form, he had to take the chance.
And seven thousand dollars in prize money wasn’t to be sniffed at.
Pollyanna danced at his side as he led her around the warm-up ring. A light sweat darkened her dapple-grey coat and Aaron wished he had Sophie’s ability to chat incessantly about nothing. The soothing monotony of her ramblings calmed the horses, or, as Sophie said, bored them into relaxation. He smiled and ruffled Pollyanna’s mane.
‘She’s one of a kind, our Soph, isn’t she, Polly?’
As he turned Pollyanna down the far side of the track, he saw her. She stood in front of Costa Motza stroking his nose, the soft woollen dress clinging to her hips, swinging as she moved. Aaron found it mesmerising.
She turned suddenly, and smiled. Limping toward her, wearing neat jeans over long, muscled legs, a blue-striped shirt open at the neck, and a navy jacket that made his broad shoulders appear even wider, was a dark-haired man possessing the sort of sculpted face normally seen in men’s shaver ads. He smiled back at her and pointed at Costa Motza with an eyebrow raised. Sophie nodded, and then laughed when the man said something. Aaron felt sick.
Ben Moore was the new agronomist at Harrington Rural Traders – the man Sophie had said was one of the few who realised she ran Vanaheim single-handed. Tall, disgustingly good-looking and, until a hamstring injury put him out for the season, touted as a certainty for the local football league’s best and fairest medal. Worst of all, he had a reputation as a genuinely nice guy. Ben Moore was everything Aaron wasn’t.
Seeing Sophie and Ben together was like watching his own heart break.
She blew a kiss to Costa Motza before leaving the stall. Ben placed a hand on the small of her back as they walked toward the grandstand. Aaron’s fist clenched around Pollyanna’s reins. Sophie glanced in his direction, said something to Ben and left him to walk to the warm-up ring. She wafted by the post-and-rail fence until Aaron brought Pollyanna to a halt in front of her.
‘I’m sorry Casalinga didn’t win,’ she said.
He shrugged.
Sophie picked at the rail with her bitten-down fingernails. ‘I just wanted to say good luck in the next race. I hope Pollyanna wins. And not just because I’ve got money on her either. I hope she wins for you.’
‘So do I. I’ll be able to get the Land Cruiser fixed, amongst other things.’ Aaron indicated Ben with his chin. ‘What’s Ben want?’
Sophie glanced at Ben and then back at him, her cheeks turning pink. ’I think he likes me.’
‘Anyone would like you in that dress.’
She smoothed the wool over her stomach. ‘So you approve, then?’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Only all right?’ For a brief moment her eyes swam with disappointment, then she took a deep breath and quirked her mouth into a wry smile. ‘Not quite the reaction I was hoping for. Anyway, I’ll see you.’
He watched her return to Ben’s side, feeling like a complete shit. He yanked on Pollyanna’s reins, but Pollyanna kept staring at Sophie, probably wondering why she hadn’t been given a kiss or a scratch like usual.
‘Sorry, Polly. My fault. Maybe one of these days I’ll learn not to put my big foot in it.’
But when it came to Sophie, somehow he doubted that was possible.
Aaron took his usual position by the finish post. Behind him, a group of delighted picnickers sat on the grass in front of the grandstand soaking up the rare sunshine, drinking beer out of plastic cups and digging cracker biscuits into a tub of French onion dip. They laughed among themselves – friends enjoying an autumn day at the races, couples comfortable in the company of others, unconcerned with rivalry, unaffected by the crippling jealousy that scratched Aaron’s soul with tiger’s claws.
The skin on the back of his neck kept prickling as though Sophie’s eyes were boring holes into it, but he didn’t turn around. He lifted the binoculars and watched Pollyanna circling behind the barrier. Behind him, the picnickers laughed as they compared bets. They’d all gone for long shots, hoping for easy money.
Like him.
An attendant took Pollyanna’s reins and led her into her barrier. The gates closed behind her. Aaron transferred his focus to the front of the barriers, waiting for the jump. Seven thousand dollars. The figure ran round in his mind, allocating itself to overdue bills, settling on the most important. Spent before it was won.
Ben Moore leaned on the fence beside him, Sophie with him. ’Sophie tells me your horse is a sure thing.’
Aaron’s stomach burned. He nodded, keeping the binoculars up but looking at Sophie out of the corner of his eye. She held a glass of red wine in one hand and a race book in the other. Her cheeks were flushed as though she’d been standing too close to a fire, and he had the irrational conviction that Ben had been touching her up in the top tier of the grandstand like a randy teenager. His jaw ached from clenching it. He made a concerted effort to relax but couldn’t, not with Ben beside him.
Another burst of laughter erupted from the picnickers and Aaron felt like it was directed at him. The lovesick fool who could do nothing but stand by as the girl he loved was seduced in front of him. He put a hand on the rail to steady himself. He could see Sophie watching him, alert to his mood but uncertain.
Lights on. They’re racing. Mister Magic jumped well followed by Pollyanna and Shindig, Rainbow Warrior, then Havabeerortwo …
‘She jumped well,’ said Sophie.
He smiled. ‘Yeah, she did.’
As they go towards the twelve-hundred-metre marker and still in the lead is Mister Magic from Shindig then a couple back to Pollyanna …
The crowd hushed, concentrating on the field as they galloped the turn. Aaron held his binoculars to his eyes, watching Pollyanna as she hung steady in third. The pace was slower than he’d expected but that didn’t trouble him. It would leave Pollyanna with more in her tank when she hit the straight.
Approaching the six-hundred-metre marker now and no change …
‘Steady, Todd. Not yet. Not yet,’ he muttered.
As they sprint for home three hundred metres out and it’s still Mister Magic with Pollyanna challenging hard on the outside, half a length to Shindig …
The crowd chanted, the picnickers stood up, Sophie and Ben leaned across the rail, the horses flew down the straight, necks stretched out, manes flying, jockeys’ silks flapping, whips flailing. Excitement surged and rolled like a breaker through the crowd, the thrill of a close finish bringing them to their feet. The sport of kings glorious in the glowing, autumn, sun-drenched heart of Harrington.
‘Go, Polly. Go!’
A hundred to go and it’s neck and neck …
‘Come on, Polly,’ screamed Sophie.
Please, prayed Aaron. Please, Polly.
Pollyanna, Mister Magic … and Pollyanna wins, a half head to Mister Magic, a length to Havabeerortwo …
Without thinking, Aaron grabbed Sophie and hugged her, holding her to his chest and burying his face into her neck.
‘She did it, Soph.’
‘Oh, God, Aaron. I’m so happy for you.’
When he let her go, Ben was watching them with a frown on his face, but Sophie’s smiling eyes remained focused on his. She looked so delighted all he wanted to do was kiss her. He took a step back, afraid he’d give into the urge.
‘Congratulations,’ said Ben, holding out his hand.
Aaron took it and had his fingers crushed. ‘Thanks.’ He glanced at Sophie. ‘Hopefully Pollyanna will give Costa Motza some tips.’ He looked toward the returning field, Pollyanna leading and cantering alongside the clerk of the course’s grey with flared nostrils and a coat made steel by sweat. If she kept this form up, Rowdy would find himself booted out of his stable and back in the yards.
‘I’d better go grab her,’ he said, and left them to it.
As he jogged toward the mounting ring, he wondered if Sophie realised the strength of Ben’s attraction. His handshake had said it all. Had their meeting been a chance occurrence or had Ben Moore been looking for a way to meet up with Sophie away from work? Opportunities to do so were rare – besides pony club and eventing competitions, the only places she regularly frequented were the local saddlery, her feed supplier and Harrington Rural Traders. Ben was unlikely to bump into her in the pub.
He glanced back at them and found his answer. Ben and Sophie were leaning on the rail studying Sophie’s race book together, but Ben’s hand was on the small of her back and his thumb was running circles in the soft fabric of her dress. Aaron swallowed and looked away.
Ignoring Aaron’s protest, Sophie insisted on walking Costa Motza before his race. He might be the trainer, she told him, but Costa Motza was her horse, and she’d do what she damn well wanted.
With a sigh, Aaron handed over the reins. ‘You’ll wreck your boots.’
‘I’ll buy a new pair with the winnings,’ she replied.
For something to do, he retreated to the stalls to fuss over Pollyanna and Casalinga. He wasn’t surprised when Ben came to join him. He would have done the same in his shoes.
Ben didn’t beat around the bush. ‘Look, I reckon Sophie’s a great girl but I don’t want to tread on any toes, so if there’s something going on between you two …’
‘There’s nothing between me and Soph.’
Ben’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Soph? You want to watch she doesn’t catch you calling her that. She hates being called Soph.'
Aaron blinked. Did she? She’d never said.
Ben scratched at his chin, assessing him. ‘You two looked pretty close before.’
‘We’re just friends.’
‘Good, because I’m hoping to become more than friends with Sophie.’
Aaron concentrated on stroking Pollyanna’s cheek while he took deep, even breaths. The conversation was killing him.
‘Just don’t hurt her,’ he said, when he’d calmed himself enough to speak.
‘Sophie? Not a chance.’ He looked toward the warm-up ring. ‘I’m more worried she’ll hurt me.’ He fixed brown eyes back on Aaron. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after her.’
When Ben had limped away, Aaron pressed his head against Polly’s and squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed with sadness. He’d always hoped that, over time, he’d be able to atone for the ruin he’d brought his father, for his cruelty to Sophie’s mother, for the lives he’d so blindly destroyed. That if he worked hard enough, if he made the yard a success, somehow he’d make the world right again. But now he realised there would never be atonement, only punishment.
And right now he was gaining an idea of just how bad that punishment could be.
He sighed and gave Polly’s ears a final scratch. No point stressing over it. He had a race day to get through.
Sophie was waiting for him by the fence, alone with Costa Motza. Ben must have headed back to the betting ring.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked when he approached.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you hated being called Soph?’
She shrugged. ‘Because it’s different when you do it.’
Delight snaked up his back as though Sophie had just run her bare fingers up his spine. Her response showed how much Ben knew. He looked at her but she wouldn’t meet his eye.
‘You better not tell your new boyfriend that.’
That got her attention. ‘Is that what he called himself?’
He shook his head. ‘No, but he wants to be.’
‘And what do you think, Aaron? Do you think he’d make a good boyfriend?’
‘You’re asking the wrong person, Soph.’
‘Yes,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘I suppose I am. Maybe I’ll just have to find out for myself.’
Aaron had to look away.
As they approached the mounting yard, Sophie stopped. ‘Aaron?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Will you do something for me?’
‘Depends what it is.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Just say yes.’
‘Not until I find out what it is.’
‘Aaron.’
‘Sophie.’ He nudged her, loving having her back to normal. Loving her teasing, loving the look she was giving him, loving her with every pathetic, agonised bit of his heart.
She nudged him back. ‘Say yes.’
‘Okay. Yes.’
Her grin told him he’d just been trapped.
‘If Costa Motza wins, will you kiss me?’