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‘Who the hell are you, anyway? Where’ve you come from? Eh? Answer me.’
‘Now you listen to me,’ said Freddie calmly, looking Ian Tillerman in the eye. ‘I got a right and a reason to be here, and I don’t have to tell you who I am. Who are you, anyway?’
‘I’m Ian Tillerman. I own those racing stables, and this land.’
Freddie heard the name Ian Tillerman and no more after that. The rest of the diatribe hurtled past him as he remembered Kate’s letters.
‘And who is that on the other horse?’ he asked.
‘My fiancée,’ said Ian Tillerman pushing his chest out arrogantly. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours. And if anything happens to my Kate – you – you and your noisy bloody motorbike will end up facing MY lawyers in court.’
The shock burned into Freddie’s heart as if he’d been stung by a thousand wasps. His body wasn’t ready for it and neither was his mind. His heart took the full force of it and began to beat furiously in his cold body; the small velvet box with Kate’s ring shook in the secret silk of his pocket. Kate, his Kate. No wonder her letters had stopped. But why, why hadn’t she told him?
On automatic pilot, Freddie revved the motorbike, swung it round and roared back towards the ferry, a new blast of rain spattering his hunched form as he headed into the wind.
The motorbike which had carried him steadily all the way suddenly behaved like a demon, wrenching and twisting his angry body, skidding and flying over the ruts and potholes. Freddie pushed it faster and faster, no longer caring, hardly seeing where he was going, the wind howling in his ears, a searing pain deep in his chest.
Two miles further on, the rough road turned sharp left over a bridge that spa
Nobody came ru
Kate sat back in the saddle and pulled steadily at Little Foxy’s reins, talking to her constantly, trying to keep fear out of her voice. Ian had warned her that the young mare was frightened of motorbikes. But there hadn’t been time to take evasive action. This motorbike with its mud-plastered rider had come at them on the bend just as they were returning from the gallop. The horses were tired and steaming in the cold air, and Kate had relaxed and let Little Foxy plod along on a loose rein. She’d been in the middle of telling Ian a joke about a chicken when they’d heard the motorbike, and Little Foxy had whipped around and bolted, her head and tail high, her eyes wild. Kate heard Ian’s roar of rage and his voice shouting. She clung on, gradually regaining her grip, shortening the reins and trying to calm the panicking horse.
She steered Little Foxy through an open gateway into a ploughed field, knowing that the rough ground would slow her down, and it did. The mare soon came to a halt, her sides heaving. Kate got her feet free of the stirrups and swung herself down, quickly pulling the reins over Little Foxy’s head so that she had control.
‘Poor girl. It’s all right. I’m here,’ Kate said, her hand on the horse’s neck. She was surprised to find her own legs shaking. The incident had u
With her legs still trembling, Kate coaxed the horse out of the field and into the lane where they both stood listening. The sound of the motorbike was fading into the distance, and she waited until it had disappeared completely, leaving only the whine of the wind and the rain pattering. Kate took a deep breath. She wanted a little cry but didn’t allow it. She was all right, it was just a memory that haunted her, of that day when she had been thrown from the cart at Monterose station. She found herself thinking of Freddie, wishing it was his thoughtful blue eyes welcoming her now, not Ian’s demanding stare.
When Freddie’s letters had stopped coming, Kate had covered her disappointment with lots of laughing and chatting. Ignoring Ethie’s gleeful jibes had been hard, but she’d managed, and Sally had said, ‘Freddie’s a young man, Kate. He’s not going to wait around for a girl who’s far away. Forget about him. He’ll soon find someone else – and so will you.’ The brisk assumption had hurt Kate. For a while she kept writing to Freddie, hoping he would reply, but the weeks went by and no letters came. She was glad of her morning job with the horses, and flattered by Ian Tillerman’s attention.
Little Foxy lifted her head and whi
‘Damned infernal motorbikes,’ he stormed, ‘and you should have seen the state of him. Covered in mud and stinking of brandy. Bloody arrogant lout. I sent him packing. I told him he’d got no business down here. Bloody townies think they can go anywhere. No respect for horses. I mean, the way he came round that bend. Disgraceful hoodlum behaviour. And I told him if anything happened to that horse, I’d sue him. He soon turned tail and went, bloody lout. Good riddance too. By the way, are you all right?’
Kate opened her mouth to reply but Ian didn’t wait for an answer. He checked Little Foxy over. ‘Better get these horses back to the stables or they’ll catch a chill. Can you stay and rub her down, please? Come on, we’ll lead them back.’
He marched off briskly, leading his horse, and Kate followed, her eyes downcast. She didn’t want to work late today. She wanted some lunch and a warm fire, and time to be with her family, and time to recover.
When Freddie didn’t return that night, A
But as she settled down with her knitting, a sense of isolation spread itself around A
A