CHAPTER SEVEN #3
The twenty stables were set out in a horseshoe shape.
Rafe walked past each one, looking over the half doors to check all was well.
Most of the horses were standing up with their bottom lips hanging down, relaxed in sleep.
One was looking out, his big grey face so at odds with the elegant thoroughbred heads either side of him: Rafe’s mutt of a mixed-breed who he used as his hack.
Warhorse was a huge creature with hooves the size of side plates.
Rafe had found him tied to a stake on the side of the road outside Cambridge, abandoned by travellers.
The horse had been excruciatingly thin, clearly full of worms, his ribs sticking out like a toast rack.
He had been covered in rain scald and his hooves had desperately needed to be trimmed.
When Rafe had taken the little horsebox to collect him, it had been three hours before he could coax the big, terrified, starving horse into it.
He had obviously been badly mistreated and, as a result, was extremely head-shy.
Rafe had put a hand on his sweating neck in order to reassure him and the poor animal had flinched and pulled away, his emaciated body shaking all over with fear.
After six months of careful feeding and a constant, nurturing routine, he had slowly started to trust Rafe and was now, a year later, utterly devoted to him.
The stable lads were wary around him, as the horse still mistrusted them and could be handy with his teeth and hind legs.
In contrast, he was slavishly attached to Rafe, whom he would follow about like a puppy, with no need for a lead rope.
Rafe had been delighted to find that Warhorse was a terrific ride with a long, comfortable stride and that he also possessed a huge, scopey jump, which the trusting creature loved to use, taking on anything – however high or wide – that Rafe put him at.
Rafe ambled over and the horse let out a low, rumbling whicker of delight. Stretching up to pull one of his long, dark grey ears, Rafe leant against the door.
It was getting late but he had a lot to think about.
The Gardener, one of his father’s smartest colts, who had been bought for a considerable amount of money, had trotted up a fraction lame that morning.
Rafe had long-term, high hopes for him and was now mulling over the best course of action going forward.
He was tempted to turn him out in the field and rest him for a while but the chestnut colt had been difficult to back and repeating the whole process again, after a holiday, was not an enticing option.
He also had a proposition to think over from a man called Ian Johnson, the owner of a highly successful construction company.
Ian had marched into the yard just the day before and offered to send him eight horses to be trained immediately, stipulating that if things went well, he would then ask Rafe to buy five youngsters for him at the Tattersalls October Yearling Sale.
Rafe was uncertain: Ian came with a reputation for being a bully and for moving his horses out of a trainer’s care if his orders were not followed to the letter.
Rafe knew that he, himself, could be tricky and would not take instruction from any owner on how to train – but he was torn, as the extra horses would be financially extremely useful and one of them was a Group 1-winning colt that was being talked about as an Ascot Gold Cup prospect.
Rafe would love to have a horse of this calibre in his yard and it would be a real coup to pull off such a win in only his second year of training.
He let himself into the Gardener’s box and took off his bandages in order to check and re-wrap them.
The bad leg had no heat in it this evening, which was a good sign.
He straightened the chestnut colt’s rugs and patted him affectionately.
‘Good lad, Percy.’ Percy was the Gardener’s stable name and the one by which everyone referred to him at home. ‘Sleep well.’
He walked along the row of boxes, checking rugs and feeling legs as he went, and while he carried out this ingrained routine, his thoughts strayed to Sage.
He had never met such a captivating woman.
She had seemed completely unaware of her charm.
She was guileless and naive, yet obviously intelligent and well-educated at the same time.
Beautiful, but in an old-world kind of way that was so unusual these days, and while obviously fit and strong, she seemed curiously delicate.
He had lost track of the time, totally absorbed in her presence.
It was only when Hal appeared, the boy’s hair tousled, his light blue, brushed cotton pyjamas done up on the wrong buttons and his teddy bear trailing behind him, and Sage had disappeared upstairs, that he realized how much he had been enjoying her company.
Training was all-encompassing and Rafe was so immersed in racing that he had not had time to think much about dating.
Occasionally he would spend the night with a woman but had not wanted – nor had the energy for – anything more after an entanglement with a girl in America.
Dennis Seymour’s granddaughter, however, had slipped into his head this evening and got under his skin.
He had seen her riding out for her grandfather every morning that week, and she could really ride.
Pretty girls were ten a penny in Newmarket but Sage was something else entirely: she was mesmerizing.
He shook his head, as though to clear it.
She was also married, a mother and exactly the sort of complication he did not need in his already complex life.
As he whistled for the dogs and walked back to his welcoming red-brick cottage, he firmly pushed all thoughts of Sage away.