Read Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) Online
Authors: Hannah Hooton
‘Did they do it?’ she croaked.
Doug shook his head, bewildered.
‘I–
I don’t know. I really don’t.’
She looked over at the rest of their party. Pippa looked traumatised, clinging to Jack, whose
jacket sleeve was torn at the shoulder. By the look on their faces, they didn’t know either. She squinted down to the course where, in the drizzle, Rhys was pulling up a thankful Peace Offering. He patted the horse, but was not celebrating.
Frankie felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. If anyone knew the result, it would be Rhys. She looked at Thar Farraige’s jockey. He wasn’t celebrating either. On the other hand, he was accepting an Irish flag from a supporter by the rails, ready to lift it high
above his shoulders should he be called into the winner’s enclosure.
The tanoy whin
ed, prompting the crowds to quieten, then Nick Stone’s voice rang out, true and clear.
‘First,
Number Seven, Peace Offering…’
The rest of his sentence was lost as the grandstands erupted into cheers.
Spinning hats and fluttering newspapers flew high. Down on the course, Rhys punched the air and a rare grin split his mud-spattered face. Pippa burst into tears and Frankie felt close to doing the same. Doug snatched her up in a bear hug, jostling her with his laughter.
For the briefest of moments, Frankie wondered about the “what ifs”. What if she had been the one riding? What if she’d kept the ride? Would she now have been a Grand National-winning jockey?
The first female jockey in history to win the Grand National?
She dismissed those questions.
Not only were they redundant, but something inside her told her no one other than Rhys could have ridden Peace Offering to victory like he had. Her eyes brimmed with tears at the sacrifice he had been prepared to make.
‘You
okay, Frankie?’ Her father’s voice was hoarse.
She nodded and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
‘Just feeling a bit…regretful,’ she sniffed.
‘Regretful that you weren’t the one riding or regretful about something else?’
‘Something else,’ she nodded.
Doug pinched her chin and gave her a sad smile.
‘Don’t make the same mistake I did, honey. Life’s too short to bear grudges.’
‘I’m
not bearing a grudge, Dad. It–it’s complicated.’
Doug nodded.
‘Then learn to forgive. It’s the bravest thing a person can do. Don’t be a coward like me.’
Frankie gulped. If only she had that courage.
*
‘And please put your hands together for winning jockey, Rhys Bradford!’
Aintree’s chairman said into his microphone. Stood to the side of the trophy presentation circle, Frankie swelled with pride as Rhys jogged forward, shaking hands and accepting people’s congratulations as he went. Skipping up onto the podium, he shook the sponsor’s hand and accepted his prize, a heavy bronze statue of two horses jumping Canal Turn. He lifted it high above his head and everyone cheered. He blinked as camera flashes burst in his face.
Just behind her, Frankie’s attention was caught by a television reporter doing an interview.
‘Alan Bradford, it’s been thirty years since your Grand National victory on Crowbar. Now your son, Rhys, has won it, how does it compare?’
Frankie froze. She felt Doug stiffen beside her. They exchanged wary
glances before turning around. Alan Bradford was holding court to a group of reporters.
Frankie looked at him in amazement. Sure, the photo she had seen of him had been about thirty years old, and if one looked closely, there was still a suggestion of his
former good looks. But a suggestion was as far as it went. Alan Bradford was enormous. Rolls of blubber packed around his neck and his stomach drooped low and heavy over his belt and braces. Taking little notice of his son receiving his prize, the man beamed at his audience.
‘Nothing quite compares to winning the National for
yourself, I’ll be honest, but sure I’m proud of Rhys. What father wouldn’t be? Mind you, the Grand National we watched today is not the same Grand National from thirty years ago. We didn’t have all those safety precautions you have now.’
Frankie curled her lip at him in disgust. How awful to have a father like that.
‘God, am I glad I’ve got you for a dad,’ she drawled.
Doug smiled and
looked smug.
Rhys, with Jack and Pippa behind him, stepp
ed off the podium with his trophy. The media immediately fell upon him like vultures on a fresh kill.
‘Rhys!’ Alan called
. ‘Rhys, over here!’
Hearing his father’s
voice, Rhys scanned the sea of heads, microphones and dictaphones. His eyes rested on Frankie for a moment before he caught sight of his father. The press, perhaps sensing the sudden tension, made a passage for him. Rhys stopped before his father, thought about it, then he walked on to Frankie and Doug. Alan Bradford’s mouth fell open. His jaw was cranked a notch wider when he saw whom he was being ignored in favour of.
Frankie’s heart hammered in her chest
as Rhys halted in front of them.
‘Mr Co
oper, I’d like you to have this—’ He paused and swallowed. ‘—To replace the one which should’ve been yours. The one which is now standing on my father’s shelf.’
Frankie caught her breath. The circle of reporters stopped fidgeting and talking.
Like tennis spectators, they transferred their shocked gazes from Rhys to Doug then finally to Alan. Doug reached out to run his hand over the bronze-work, now dotted with raindrops. His hand trembled then he pushed the trophy back to Rhys.
‘No, son.
You earned this. You keep it.’
Watching Rhys, Frankie’s heart ached with joy. So this was what love was. There was no doubting it. It was undisputed. Rhys’
s eyes sought redemption in hers.
‘I said I’d win it for you.’
Frankie threw her arms around him and, feeling the cold press of his nose against her cheek, she kissed him.
‘I love you,’ she whispered in his ear.
His grip around her tightened and his familiar breath was warm on her skin.
‘I love you too,’ he murmured.
The click of cameras and remembering that her father was standing right there, Frankie pulled back, suddenly self-conscious. Holding Rhys’s hand, she looked at Doug a little timidly for his reaction. A muscle jumped in Doug’s jaw. He looked like he was working very hard at controlling his emotions. At last he summoned a smile and nodded in approval. Frankie lurched out of Rhys’s embrace and flung her arms around her father and buried a kiss in his cheek.
‘
Thank you, Dad.’
‘
You’re welcome, honey,’ Doug said. ‘Now go on with you.’ He untangled her arms from around his neck and nodded to Rhys. ‘Go on, the both of you. Go celebrate.’
Rhys held out his hand and Frankie gladly took it. As they walked away, Alan’s blustering voice drifted over.
‘I don’t know what he’s talking about. I earned my National just like everyone else…’
The media stayed with Alan and Doug, leaving Rhys and Frank
ie to walk away relatively undisturbed.
‘So where do we go from here?’
she ventured.
Rhys looked at her from beneath heavy lids. His eyelashes clumped together in the fine rain. A teasing smile rerouted the raindrops dripping from his cheekbones.
‘Back to the beginning. And this time we’re going to do it right.’ He hesitated then took the signet ring he had been awarded and held it before her ring finger. ‘Frankie, will you marry me?’
Her
body trembled like an earthquake and rational thought evacuated.
‘Marry you?
M–marry me?’
He grinned.
‘Yes. I want to marry you. No ulterior motives. I just want to spend the rest of my life waking up next to you.’
Frankie paused, but it was only to savour the moment. She
pushed her finger through the ring. It was a winner’s ring. A ring to remind them of where they’d begun and a ring that promised a future full of hope.
THE END
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Read on for a sneak preview of Book 3 in the Aspen Valley series,
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, to be released in June 2014.
Share and Share Alike (release date June 2014)
I owe much of Giving Chase’s creation to the many people who gave up their generous time and knowledge to answer my often naive questions. Not only did the research of this novel introduce me to new friends, but it also opened my eyes to the strenuous but very brave lives that National Hunt jockeys lead.
Firstly, my thanks to my lovely editors Charlotte Dolby, Michelle Foster and Jackie Svatek. And, as always, I am forever grateful to the members of FictionPress for their feedback and support during the sometimes frustrating process of writing Giving Chase.
I am also indebted to the following people who have all contributed in one way or another to the completion of this novel:
Anglia Ruskin University Writers Workshop, Natalie Bell, Debbie Bowden, Jo Crawforth, Hannah Grissell, Diane Jackson, Peggy Kauffman, Diane Kelly, Annabel Kingston, Martin Pennington, Victoria Schlesinger, Dan Skelton, Karen Thacker and Tim Vaughan. I feel I should also credit jump jockeys Mick Fitzgerald, AP McCoy and Ruby Walsh who, although weren’t directly involved in my research, provided a much more in-depth and personal viewpoint on National Hunt racing in their autobiographies than I could have hoped to achieve in an interview.
And in conclusion, I would like to express my gratitude to friends and family who have always backed me up, especially when Giving Chase’s finish line never seemed to get any closer.
HANNAH HOOTON
Tessa thought buying into the dysfunctional Ta’ Qali racehorse syndicate would be the perfect distraction from a life best forgotten. Some are willing to distract her with words of woo, while others are able to distract her with just a nonchalant look.
But neither Hugh’s attentions nor Sin’s disregard compare to the all too distracting injury inflicted on their horse, Ta’ Qali. Someone close to the syndicate is responsible and with her family’s home and heritage on the line, Tessa must uncover the truth before all is lost. What she doesn’t expect to find is love.
Unlikely alliances are forged on this bumpy ride from the sleepy Welsh valleys of Chepstow to the fierce competition of Aintree and the Guiness-drenched racecourses of Ireland. At some point along the line Tessa is going to have to decide, once and for all, which disguise the devil really wears.
Tessa Hawkesbury-Loye was looking forward to the Aspen Valley Stables Open Day for no reason other than the change it brought to the monotony her life had become. Now that the nights were drawing in and the leaves, such as on the oak tree at the foot of the Aspen Valley gateway, had turned riotous shades of orange and yellow, it was cheering to know she wouldn’t die of hypothermic tedium over the coming months. Used to the Maltese sun and possessing a bonsai boredom threshold, it wouldn’t have taken much.
Straightening her tiger-print top, she made a beeline for Ta’ Qali’s stable at the far end of the stable block. The wholesome aroma of hay and horses mixed with the lingering perfumes of other owners perusing the yard. She smiled in passing, surprised by their lack of snobbishness, as they too smiled in greeting. It appeared jump racing, with its rural roots and mediocre prize money, was like the poor cousin to flat racing’s more flamboyant and money-swilling crowd.
Outside Ta’ Qali’s stable was Freya Markham, another syndicate member whom she’d met at trainer, Jack Carmichael’s wedding in the summer. Freya had been the florist that day. Today, she stood murmuring to their horse, a tall, almost black, gelding with a nobbly nose and long twitching ears.
‘Hello there,’ Tessa said, coming to a halt outside the stable. Freya jumped, in turn startling Ta’ Qali, who threw his head and withdrew into his box. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you both. I’m Tessa. We met at Jack and Pippa’s wedding, do you remember?’
‘Of course. Hello,’ Freya replied. She shook like a whippet, Tessa noticed. Whether from the autumnal breeze funnelling around the stable block, or from nerves, she couldn’t say.
Tessa called to Ta’ Qali, but the gelding, as nervy as Freya, stayed out of reach.
‘Here. Give him a Polo,’ Freya said, handing her a sweet.
Tessa held it out on her palm and Ta’ Qali at once forgave her intrusion and lipped it up, tickling her palm with his whiskers. ‘Have you met any of the other syndicate owners? Gus has been such a stubborn plonker, keeping it all a surprise.’
Freya shook her head. ‘The only ones I know are you, your husband and Eddie, my cousin.’
Tessa’s ears perked up at the unfamiliar word.
‘Husband? Do you know something I don’t?’
Freya fish-mouthed.
‘I meant Gus – isn’t he – I mean, I thought you two –’
Tessa threw her head back and laughed, dark blonde curls bouncing about her shoulders. Ta’ Qali looked at her in surprise.
‘Goodness, no! Gus is my brother. That’s just eurgh.’ She shuddered then, seeing Freya turning crimson, she stifled her laughter. ‘Sorry, you’re quite entitled to think we were a couple. We do, after all, share the same surname, and I was his date at the wedding. But only because that frightful wife of his hasn’t signed the divorce papers yet and he can’t be seen with another woman.’
Freya hid her embarrassment by turning to Ta’ Qali to stroke his nose. Ta’ Qali was having none of it though. He threw his head as if he’d been struck and Freya backed away.
‘Poor darling must have had a real time of it,’ Tessa said, shaking her head. Her brother, Gus, also the syndicate manager, had told her about Ta’ Qali’s quirky aversion to having his nose touched, even by a noseband.
‘Jack reckons that white marking on his nose is a scar from a curb chain pulled too tight.’
Freya nodded. ‘He does look like he’s had his nose broken, doesn’t he? I don’t understand how anyone could mistreat a horse. They’re such gentle giants.’
Tessa’s thoughts turned momentarily to Seamus, the pony she’d ridden in her boarding schooled youth. There’d been nothing gentle about him. After he’d bitten her once too often, she’d repaid the favour by biting him back on the ear. One of her classmates had witnessed the event and had told tales to their riding mistress. Tessa had been banned from the stables for a whole term.
‘On a positive note, Jack thinks he’s cracked him at least in his races by leaving the noseband off.’
Not even the lure of Polo treats would tempt Ta’ Qali back to his stable door again, and finally Tessa gave up. She cast a look around the stable block. Not a wisp of straw soiled the walkways and atop the traditional red-tiled roof of the opposite row, a fox weathervane pointed his toe west towards the hunched hill
that bore the main exercise Gallop. She knew that hidden beyond the hill was a grove of aspens, which in turn made up a small part of Aspen Court, a stately home. More significantly, it was Tessa’s childhood home. Her eye was caught by a flimsy table stood by the walkway to the next block where a stable lass was ladling hot drinks out of a steaming pot.
‘Shall we go find the rest of our party?’ she suggested.
Linking arms with a shrinking Freya, Tessa headed straight for the drinks table. Her instincts had been right. She grabbed two glasses of mulled wine as they passed, but Freya shook her head when she offered her one.
‘I’m driving.’
Tessa looked dubiously at the two drinks, shrugged and took a long sip of one. She sighed ecstatically as the warm spices twanged her taste buds.
‘So am I. I guess Gus will have to drive me home now.’
*
A
fter arriving at the entrance to the marquee at the far end of the yard, they both stood for a moment to take in the scene. The interior was set up with tables and chairs dotting the trodden lawn and a buffet table stretched the length of one side. Splashes of colour, by way of racing silks, hung from hooks on the canvas walls. Of the people mingling in and around the tent, Tessa’s eyes immediately found the familiar spiky golden head of her brother. Seeing them, Gus walked over. He gave Tessa an affectionate peck on the cheek then shook hands with Freya, placing a warming palm on her shoulder as he did so.
‘Good to see you both could make it. Come meet another of the Ta’ Qali clan,’ he said, ushering them inside. ‘Have you got a drink?’
Freya shook her head and Tessa held up her two mulled wines in reply.
‘They’re serving teas and coffees over there if you don’t fancy alcohol in your elevenses,’ Gus said to Freya, throwing Tessa a look.
Tessa ignored him.
He led them across the room to a table where two hovering cameramen and a sharp-suited woman wearing an equally sharp-cut bob were filming. Tessa guessed this was the
In the Running
crew, who were making a reality show on the syndicate to drum up public interest in racing. Her attention was diverted from the hulking black cameras and microphone boom to the table’s sole occupant. He sat still as stone, dark tousled hair flecked with grey at the temples. Broad shoulders matched strong arms and large hands. He reminded Tessa of a Spartan warrior, except without the helmet and leather skirt. Eyes, the colour of Irish clover, which had been moodily fixed on his coffee cup, flickered upward at their arrival. Tessa had to consciously keep her mouth from falling open. Maybe this racehorse ownership business really was worth the cost of a year’s gym membership.
‘Freya, Tess,’ Gus said. ‘This is Sin.
Sin, Freya and my sister, Tessa.’
Freya held out her hand.
‘How do you do, Sin?’
‘Wickedly, I imagine,’ drawled Tessa.
Sin stared at her. ‘Pardon?’
‘Sin and I went to Harrow together,’ intervened Gus. ‘You two get to know each other. Freya and I are just going to get a hot drink.’
With Gus chaperoning Freya away, Tessa sat down. She smiled briefly at the camera now pointed at her, idly wondering if her hair had withstood the blustery wind outside. She regarded Sin with a dubious pout. Things had been going so well... this–this sex god of a man obviously had gallons of potential – the cameraman was certainly smitten – but then Gus had to go and ruin it with those dreaded words.
‘So, you and Gus are old school friends then.’
‘Like he said.’
Tessa smothered another disappointed sigh. Since her return to the UK eighteen months ago, not a single man (nor a hitched one, for that matter) had prompted her to look twice, and now here he was, a head-turner to give contortionists neck ache, and yet... every silver lining has a cloud.
He was obviously a toff and above all else, Tessa Hawkesbury-Loye despised toffs.
*
Five minutes later, Gus and Freya were making no signs of returning to her rescue. The cameramen had become bored and were now filming a woman who had tripped over the guy ropes by the entrance. Tessa recrossed her legs and hazarded a sidelong look at Sin. He looked just as uneasy with their lack of conversation.
‘Sin is an unusual name. Is it short for something?’
Green eyes flitted back to her then away again.
‘Sinclair.’
‘Are you Scottish?’ she asked. What few clipped words he had spoken thus far hadn’t been enough for her to establish an accent.
‘No.’
Tessa nodded and looked around for something else to comment on. Only then did she notice the card in the centre of the table reading ‘Ta’ Qali Syndicate’ and a list of all their names.
‘Hmm, who’s Anne Munroe? Why does her name ring a bell?’ Sin didn’t bother answering. ‘Oh, I see
.’ She continued reading the card. ‘Sinclair’s your
surname
. What’s your first name? It only has F.D. on this.’
He looked at her levelly. ‘People call me Sin.’
‘Okay then,
Sin
. What do you do?’
‘I lecture in English l
iterature.’
Tessa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Not only was he a toff, but he was also an academic. Now all that was needed was his Tory backbench cushion and the package would be complete for her to
slap a sticker on and label it ‘TOSSER’.
‘I make bespoke jewellery,’ she confided when Sin didn’t return the question.
A shiver ran up her spine as Sin’s eyes languorously ran over her throat, ears and wrists, noting her craftwork but unashamedly taking in her figure as well.
‘Oh,’ he said.
Tessa tried again. ‘Have you met any of the other syndicate members yet?’
‘Some.’
Blimey, this was worse than speed-dating at a gobstopper convention. ‘And are they nice?’
‘I suppose so.’
Another silence fell with Sin not looking likely to embellish on his haughty reply.
‘You don’t say much, do you?’
Sin heaved a long-suffering sigh and regarded her with the patience of a father with an errant toddler. ‘I don’t feel the need to fill every moment with mindless chatter.’
Tessa looked at him in astonishment.
Why on earth would Gus invite this anti-socialite into such a social circle? And perhaps, more curiously, was why Sin had agreed. She couldn’t be bothered to philosophise on these questions. Hell, hadn’t she fallen asleep watching
300
, anyway? She downed the entire contents of Freya’s mulled wine and held up the empty glass.
‘Oh, look, I appear to have finished my drink. Excuse me.’
*
The room tilted as she walked away from the table. Maybe glugging that drink hadn’t been such a wise decision. Reaching the relative safety of one of the drinks tables, she asked the waitress for a glass of water.
‘I’m surprised you don’t want something stronger,’ a teasing voice murmured in her ear.
Tessa spun round to face a young man grinning mischievously at her. Short brown hair and designer stubble attempted to define a not particularly strong chin. There wasn’t Sin’s gobsmacking sex appeal, he was too slightly built for that, but he had nice features, Tessa decided.
She raised a coquettish eyebrow at him. ‘What makes you say that?’
He held out his hand; long well-groomed fingers folded around hers. ‘Hugh Lamb.’
‘Tessa Hawkesbury-Loye. I recognise your name from the card. Have you had the pleasure of meeting our fellow syndicate member F.D. Sinclair?’
‘I’m not sure either of us found it particularly pleasurable.’
They both looked over at Sin, who, seeing their teasing gazes, shifted uncomfortably in his chair then got up to walk outside. Tessa couldn’t stop herself taking in the length of leg and the pull of his pale blue shirt over hard muscle. She took a slug of water and spilled it.
‘Oh!’
Hugh laughed at her gracelessness and handed her a handkerchief to mop her chin.
‘So, Tessa, tell me about yourself.
Why the Ta’ Qali Syndicate?’
‘My accountant, Eddie Dixon, persuaded me to take a share. Have you met him yet? He’s also one of the gang.’
Hugh laughed heartily. ‘No, and I’m not sure I should. I don’t think my business would last very long if that’s the sort of financial advice he gives.’
‘Eddie’s a sweetheart, honestly. A complete raci
ng anorak, but quite adorable–’ A loud whine interrupted her and an unseen voice crackling from speakers around the tent asked everyone to make their way outside for the parade of the Aspen Valley horses. Tessa and Hugh joined the throng and headed outside. ‘Of course it helped that Gus is managing it,’ she continued. Then she paused. Nice as he appeared to be, Hugh was still a stranger. There were other deciding factors, but they would only prompt more questions.